The Sentry and Other Stories/On the Edge of the World
ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
I
EARLY one evening, during the Christmas holidays, we were sitting at tea in the large blue drawing-room of the episcopal palace. There were seven guests; the eighth was our host, a very aged archbishop, who was both sickly and infirm. All were highly educated men, and the conversation turned on the subject of our faith and our scepticism, of the preaching in our churches, and of the enlightening labours of our missionaries in the East. One of the guests, a certain captain B., of the Navy, who was a very kind-hearted man, but a great antagonist of the Russian clergy, maintained that our missionaries were quite unfit for their work, and was delighted that the government had now permitted foreign evangelical pastors to labour in the propagation of the Gospel. B. asserted his firm conviction that these preachers would have great success, not only among the Jews, but everywhere, and would prove, as surely as two and two make four, the incapacity of the Russian clergy for missionary work.
Our respected host had remained profoundly silent during this conversation; he sat in his large arm-chair, with a plaid over his legs, and seemed to be thinking of quite other things, but when B. ceased speaking the old ecclesiastic sighed and said:
"It appears to me, gentlemen, that you are wrong in controverting the Captain's opinion. I think he is right: the foreign missionaries will certainly have great success here in Russia."
"I am very happy, Vladyko,[1] that you share my opinion," answered Captain B., and after paying several becoming and delicate compliments to the Archbishop on his well-known intelligence, culture, and nobility of character, he continued:
"Your Eminence knows better than I do the defects of the Russian Church; there are, of course, many wise and good men to be found among the clergy—I do not wish to contest this—but they scarcely understand Christ. Their position—and other reasons—obliges them to explain everything in too narrow a manner . . ."
The Archbishop looked at him, smiled and answered:
"Yes, Captain, my modesty would not be offended if I admit that perhaps I know the sorrows of the Church no less than you do, but justice would be offended if I decided to agree with you that in Russia our Lord Christ is understood less well than in Tübingen, London, or Geneva."
"About that, Vladyko, one can argue too."
The Archbishop smiled again and said:
"I see you are fond of arguing. What are we to do with you? We can talk, but avoid argument."
With these words he took from the table a large album, richly bound and ornamented with carved ivory, and opening it, said:
"Here is our Lord. Come and see. I have collected in this book many representations of His face. Here He is sitting at the well with the Woman of Samaria—the workmanship is wonderful; it is evident that the artist understood the face and the moment."
"Yes, Vladyko, I also think it is executed with understanding," answered B.
"But is there not here in this Godly face too much softness? Does it not appear to you, that He is too indifferent as to how many husbands this woman has had, and does not mind that her present husband is not her husband?"
All remained silent; the Archbishop noticed this and continued:
"I think that here a little more seriousness in the expression would not have been amiss."
"You are perhaps right, Vladyko."
"It is a very popular picture. I have seen it often, especially amongst ladies. Let us go on. Another great master. Here Christ is portrayed kissing Judas. What do you say to our Lord's face in this picture? What restraint and goodness! Is it not so? A beautiful picture!"
"A beautiful face."
"Still, is there not here too much effort at restraint? Look, the left cheek appears to me to tremble, and on the lips there seems disgust!"
"Certainly there is, Vladyko."
"Oh, yes, but Judas did not deserve it; he was a slave, and a flatterer—he could easily have produced such a feeling in everybody else—but certainly not in Christ, who was never fastidious, and was sorry for all. Well, we will pass on; this one does not quite satisfy us I think, although I know a great dignitary, who told me that he could not imagine a more successful representation of Christ than this picture. Here we have Christ again—and from the brush of a great master, too—Titian. The wily Pharisee with a denarius is standing before the Lord. Look what an artful old man, but Christ . . . Christ . . . Oh! I am afraid! Look, is there not disdain on His face?"
"There might have been at the moment, Vladyko."
"Yes—there might—I do not deny it; the old man is vile, but I, when I pray, do not imagine the Lord thus, and think it would be unseemly. Is it not so?"
We answered that it would and agreed that to imagine the face of Christ with such an expression would be unseemly, especially when addressing prayers to Him.
"I quite agree with you in this and it recalls to my memory a dispute I once had on this very subject with a certain diplomatist, who only liked this Christ; but of course the occasion was a diplomatic one. Let us go on. After this one you see, I have pictures of the Lord where He is alone without any neighbours. Here you have a reproduction of the beautiful head done by the sculptor Cauer. Good, very good. That cannot be denied. What do you think? And yet this academic head reminds me much less of Christ than of Plato. Here He is again, the sufferer. What a terrible expression Metsu has given him; I cannot understand why he has portrayed him beaten, thrashed and bleeding. It is certainly terrible! Swollen eye-lids, blood stains, bruises. . . . . It appears as if the very soul had been beaten out of Him, and to gaze only on a suffering body is too terrible. Let us turn the page quickly. He inspires sympathy and nothing more. Here we have Lafond, perhaps an insignificant artist, but much appreciated at present; as you see, he has understood Christ differently from all the preceding artists, and has represented Him differently, for himself and for us. The figure is well proportioned and attractive. The face is serene and dovelike. He looks out from under pure brows, and how easily the hair seems to stir; here are curls; there the locks seem to have fluttered and rested on the forehead. Beautiful, is it not? And in His hand there is a flaming heart, surrounded by a thorny wreath. This is the 'Sacré Cœur,' that the Jesuit Fathers preach about. Somebody told me it was they who had inspired M. Lafond to paint this image; however, it also pleases those who think they have nothing in common with the Jesuit Fathers. I remember once on a hard, frosty day, I happened to call on a Russian Prince in Petersburg, who showed me the wonders of his mansion, and it was there in his winter-garden—not quite in the right setting—that I saw this image of Christ for the first time. The picture in its frame stood on a table, before which the Princess was seated, lost in thought. The surroundings were beautiful: palms, arums, banana-plants, warbling and fluttering birds, and she was lost in thought. About what? She said to me she was seeking Christ. It was then that I was able to examine this portrait. Look how effectively He really stands out, or it would be better to say emerges from this darkness; there is nothing behind him: not even the conventional prophets who have wearied all by their importunity, and are running in their rags after the imperial chariot, and catching hold of it. There is nothing of this—only darkness . . . . a world of imagination. This lady—may God accord her health—was the first to unfold to me the secret of how to find Christ; after which I do not dispute with the Captain that the foreign preachers will not only show Him to the Jews, but to all who wish Him to come under the palms and banana plants to listen to the singing of canaries. But will He come there? May it not be some other who will come to them in His guise? I must own to you, I would willingly exchange this elegant Christ surrounded by canaries for this other Jewish head of Guercino's, although it too only has to me the appearance of a good and enthusiastic rabbi, according to the description of M. Renan, whom one could love and listen to with pleasure . . . . You see how many different ways there are of understanding and portraying Him, Who is our only need. Let us now close the book and turn to the corner behind your backs: there again we have the image of Christ—but this time it is indeed not a face but a real image. Here we have the typical Russian representation of our Lord: the gaze is straight and simple, the forehead is high, which, as you know, even according to Lavater's system, denotes the capacity for elevated worship of God; the face has expression, but no passion. How did our old masters attain such charm of representation? That has remained the secret, which died with them and their rejected art. Simplicity—nothing more simple could be wished for in art. The features are only slightly marked, but the effect is complete. He is somewhat rustic, certainly, but for all that inspires adoration. I do not know what others feel, but for me our simple old master understood better than all others, Whom he was painting. He is rustic, I repeat, and He will not be invited into the conservatory to listen to the singing of canaries, but what of that? In each land as He revealed Himself, so He will walk; to us He entered in the guise of a slave, and as such He walks among us, not finding where to lay His head, from Petersburg to Kamchatka. It is evident, in our country it pleases Him to accept disgrace from those who drink His blood, and at the same time shed it. And thus, in the same measure as our national art has understood how to portray the outward features of Christ more simply and successfully, so, to my mind, our national spirit has perhaps also attained nearer to the true understanding of His inner character. Would you like me to relate to you an experience which perhaps is not devoid of interest, bearing on this subject?"
"Ah, please relate it, Vladyko; we all beg you to do so."
"Ah, you beg me. Very well, then, I beg you to listen, and not to interrupt my story which I am going to tell somewhat in detail."
We cleared our throats, settled ourselves comfortably in our chairs, so as not to interrupt by moving, and the Archbishop began.
II
GENTLEMEN, we must transport ourselves in imagination many years back; it was at the time when I, still a comparatively young man, was appointed as bishop, to a very distant Siberian diocese. I was by nature of an ardent temperament, and loved to have much work to do; I was, therefore, not sorry but actually very pleased to receive this distant appointment. Thank God, I thought, that for the beginning I have not merely been nominated to cut the hair of the candidates for Holy Orders, or to settle the quarrels of drunken deacons, but have been given real live work to do, which can be accomplished with love. I meant by this our not very successful missionary labours, to which the Captain alluded this evening, at the commencement of our conversation. I journeyed to my new diocese with zealous enthusiasm, and with the most extensive plans, but all my ardour was suddenly cooled, and what is more important, my whole mission would have been rendered unsuccessful, if a marvellous event had not given me a salutary lesson.
"A marvellous event!" exclaimed one of his hearers, forgetting the Archbishop's request not to interrupt the narrative, but our indulgent host was not angered at this, but only answered:
"Yes, gentlemen, the word slipped from my lips, and I need not take it back; the thing that happened to me and which I am about to relate to you, was certainly marvellous, and the marvels began to show themselves to me almost from the first day of my sojourn in my half-savage diocese. The first thing a Russian bishop does on entering on the work of his new bishopric, wherever it may be, is, of course, to inspect the condition of the churches and to see how the services are conducted. I, too, did this. I gave orders that the extra books and crosses should be removed from the altars of all the churches—there are often so many, that the altars in our churches look more like exhibitions of church furniture in shops than altars. I ordered as many round carpets as were needed, and had them laid down in the proper places, so that they should not be whisked about before my nose, and thrown down under my feet when required. With difficulty, and after threatening them with fines and punishments, I at last stopped the deacons from seizing hold of my elbows while I was officiating, and from ascending the altar steps and standing beside me, and above all I made them cease cuffing and pinching the necks of the poor ordinands, who often suffered much pain in those regions, for more than a fortnight after receiving these blessings of the Holy Ghost. None of you will believe how much trouble all this occasioned me, and what an amount of vexation was caused to an impatient man, such as I was then, and to my shame, I must confess, am still. Having accomplished this, I had to begin the second episcopal task, a work of the greatest importance, to assure myself that the clergy knew how to read, if not written characters, at least printed books. This examination took a long time, and often caused me great annoyance, but sometimes also amusement. A deacon or sacristan who is illiterate, or one who could read but not write, is, perhaps, even still to be found in villages or in small provincial towns in the interior of Russia, as was proved some few years ago, when for the first time they had to give a receipt when their salaries were paid out to them; but in those days, especially in Siberia, it was a most common occurrence. I ordered them to be taught. They, of course, complained bitterly and said I was tyrannical; the parishoners complained that there were no lectors, and said the bishop was ruining the Church. What was to be done? I began to send, in place of such deacons, those who were able at least to read 'by heart'—and, good Lord!—what people I saw! Lame men, stutterers, men with squints, men who spoke through their noses; some were crazy and some were even possessed. There was one who instead of saying, "Come, let us bow down before the Lord, our God," shut his eyes like a quail and mumbled, "Co-do-be-lo-go, Co-do-be-lo-go," and was so engrossed in it, that it was difficult to stop him. Another—and this one was really possessed—became so absorbed by the rapidity of his own reading, that when he came to certain words, which brought to his mind an association of ideas, he seemed forced to succumb to it. Such words were among others, "in heaven." He would begin to read, "As it was in the beginning, in every hour, in heaven," and suddenly something would snap in his head and he continued, "hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come." No matter what trouble I gave myself with this blockhead it was all in vain. I ordered him to read what was in the book—he would read, "As it was in the beginning, in every hour in heaven," and then, suddenly shutting the book, would continue, "hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come," and mumble on to the end, till he pronounced in a loud voice, "but deliver us from the evil one." Only here he was able to stop; it turned out that he could not read at all. After seeing that the deacons were able to read, I had to look into the morals of the seminarists; here again I made marvellous discoveries. The seminary was greatly demoralized; the pupils were addicted to drink, and were so indecorous that, for example: one of the students of the faculty of philosophy finished the evening prayer in the presence of the inspector thus: "My hope is the Father, my refuge the Son, my protection the Holy Ghost: Holy Trinity—my compliments to you." In the faculty of theology this is what occurred. After dinner the student, who had to say grace, said: "As Thou hast satisfied me with the blessings of this earth, do not deprive me of the Heavenly Kingdom," and another called to him from among the crowd of students: "You pig, first you overeat yourself and then you ask to be taken into the Heavenly Kingdom."
It was necessary as soon as possible to find a suitable principal, who would act according to my ideas, who was also a tyrant like myself; the time was short, and the choice limited, but I found one at last: he proved to be tyrannical enough, but beyond that you could ask for nothing of him.
"I will take the whole matter up in a military manner, most reverend Father," said he, "so as at once . . . ."
"Very well," I answered," take the matter up in a military way."
And he did so. The first order he gave was: that the prayers were not to be read but sung in chorus, so as to avoid all mischievous tricks, and that the singing should be led by him. When he entered, all were silent and remained without uttering a sound until he gave the order, "prayer!" and began to sing. But all this he did in a manner that was almost too military. He would give the order, "pray-er!" Then the seminarists began singing: "Our eyes, O Lord, are turned to Thee." In the middle of a word he would shout "Stop," and call one of them to him.
"Frolov, come here!"
He approached.
"You are Bagréev?"
"No, sir, I am Frolov."
"Ah, ah! so you are Frolov? Why did I think that you were Bagréev?"
Then there was again laughter, and again complaints were made to me. No, I saw—this military system did not answer, and at last after much difficulty I found a civilian who, though not so tyrannical, acted with more wisdom: before the scholars he pretended to be the weakest of good-natured fellows, but always calumniated me, and related everywhere the horrors of my tyranny. I knew this, but noticing that this measure proved efficacious, did not object to his system.
I had hardly, by my tyranny, brought the seminary into subjection when miracles began to occur among the adults. One day I was informed that a load of hay had been driven into the inside of the Arch-presbyter of the Cathedral, and could not get out again. I sent to find out what had really happened. They said it was quite true. The Arch-priest was very corpulent; after the liturgy, he had gone to christen a child in a merchant's house, where he had filled himself plentifully with the good viands set before him, from which cause, or owing to another fruit—a wild one—he had found there, and partaken of not less plenteously; deep and stupid intoxication had resulted. This was not enough. He went home, lay down and slept for four hours, rose and drank a mug of kvass,[2] and lay down again with his breast to the window, to talk to somebody standing below—when suddenly a cart-load of hay drove into him. All this was so stupid that one could not help being disgusted, but when I heard the end of the story, I was, perhaps, even more disgusted. The next morning the lay-brother brought me my boots and said, "Thank God, the cart of hay has already been driven out of the Father Arch-presbyter."
"I am very pleased," I said, "to hear such good news, but tell me the story more fully."
It appeared that the Arch-priest, who owned a two-storeyed house, had lain down, when he came home at a window under which there was a gate-way, and at that very moment a cartload of hay had driven into it, and he, in his fuzzled sleepy state, imagined that it had driven into his inside. It is incredible, nevertheless it was so; "credo, quia absurdum."
How was this miracle-worker saved?
Also by a miracle—he would not consent to rise on any account, because he had a cartload of hay in his inside. The physician could find no remedy for this malady. Then a sorceress was called in. She twisted and turned about, tapped him here and there, and ordered a cart to be loaded with hay and driven out of the yard; the sick man imagined it had emerged from his inside, and recovered.
Well, after this you could do what you liked for him; but he had done for himself: he had amused the good people, he had summoned a sorceress and had profited by her idolatrous enchantments. Here such things could not be hidden under a bushel, but were proclaimed on the highways: "Those are fine priests—they are no good. They themselves send for our sorcerers to drive away shaytan.'"[3] There was no end to the nonsensical talk. For a time long I trimmed these smoking icon lamps, as well as I could, and my parochial duties were rendered unbearably wearisome to me by them, but at last the long awaited and long desired moment arrived, when I could devote myself entirely to the work of enlightening the wild sheep of my flock, that were grazing without a shepherd.
I collected all the documents relating to this question, and began to study them so diligently that I scarcely ever left my writing-table.
III
WHEN I became acquainted with all the accounts of the missionaries work, I was even more dissatisfied with their activity than I was with the work of my diocesan clergy; the converts to Christianity were extraordinarily few, and it was clear that the greater number of these were only paper converts. In reality most of those converted to Christianity had returned to their former faith—Lamaism or Shamanism, while others formed from all these faiths the strangest and most absurd mixture: they prayed to Christ and His Apostles; to Buddha and his Bodhisattvas; to warm boots, and felt bags containing Shamanistic charms. This double faith was not only practised by the nomad tribes, but was to be found almost everywhere in my flock, which was composed not of any single branch of one nationality but of scraps and fragments of different tribes. God only knows from whence and how they had been brought together. They were poor of speech and still poorer of understanding and imagination. Seeing that everything concerning the missionaries was in such a chaotic state, I conceived the very lowest opinion of my fellow workers, and treated them with harshness and impatience. Altogether I had become very irritable, and the title of "tyrant" that had been given me began to be appropriate. The poor monastery, which I had chosen for my abode, and where I wished to found a school for the natives, suffered most from my anger and impatience. When I made enquiries of the monks, I learned, that in the town almost everyone spoke Yakutsk, but of the monks there was only one who could speak the native dialect; he was a very old monk and priest, Father Kiriak, but he too was of no use for the work of preaching, and even if he had been of any good, "you might kill him, but he would not go to preach to the savages."
"What is the meaning of this disobedience?" I asked. "How dare he? He must be told that I do not like this, and will not allow it."
The Ecclesiarch answered me that he would convey him my message, but it was useless to expect obedience from Kiriak, because this was not the first time; two of my predecessors, who had succeeded each other quickly, had tried severity with him, but he was obstinate and only answered:
"I will willingly give my soul for my Saviour, but I will not go to baptize there (that is in the desert)." He even asked, they said, that he might be deprived of his office rather than be sent there. And for this disobedience for many years he had been forbidden to officiate in church, but even that did not trouble him; on the contrary he would do the most menial work with pleasure: sometimes he acted as watchman, at others as bell-ringer. He was beloved by all: by the brothers, by the laymen, and even by the heathen.
"What? I am astonished. Is it possible even by the heathen?"
"Yes, Vladyko, even some of the heathen come to see him."
"What about?"
"They respect him from the old days when he used to go and preach to them."
"What was he like then, in those old days?"
"He used to be the most successful missionary, and converted numbers of people."
"What has happened to him then? Why has he given up the work?"
"It is impossible to understand, Vladyko. Suddenly something happened to him; he returned from the desert, brought the chrismatory and the pyx, placed them on the altar and said: 'I place them here and will not take them again until the hour arrives.'"
"What hour is he awaiting? What does he mean by this?"
"I don't know, Vladyko."
"Is it possible that none of you have been able to find it out from him? O, faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I suffer you? How is it that this thing that concerns all does not interest you? Remember the Lord said He would spew out of His mouth those that were neither cold nor hot; then what do you deserve who are absolutely cold?"
But my Ecclesiarch tried to justify himself:
"We tried to find out in every way, Vladyko, but he always only answered: 'No, my dear children, this work is no joke—it is terrible. . . . . I can't look on it.'"
"But when I asked what was 'terrible,' the Ecclesiarch was unable to answer me; he could only say they thought Father Kiriak had had a revelation while he was preaching. That provoked me. I must confess I am not fond of these 'hearers of voices,' who perform miracles while still alive and boast of having direct revelations, and I have my reasons for not liking them. I therefore ordered this refractory monk Kiriak to come to me at once, and not satisfied with being already considered stern and tyrannical, I frowned terribly and was prepared to wreak my anger upon him as soon as he appeared. But when I saw before my eyes a quiet little monk, there seemed nothing for my angry glances to crush. He was clad in a faded cotton cassock, with a coarse cloth cowl; he was dark and sharp featured, but he entered boldly, without any appearance of fear, and he was the first to greet me:
"Good morning, Vladyko!"
I did not reply to his greeting, but said sternly:
"What are these tricks you are playing here, friend?"
"What, Vladyko?" he answered. "Forgive me, be gracious. I am a little hard of hearing—I did not hear all."
I repeated my words still louder:
"Now then you understand?"
"No," he answered, "I can understand nothing."
"Why do you not want to go to preach, and refuse to baptize the natives?"
"I went and baptized, Vladyko, until I had experience."
"Yes, but when you had experience you stopped."
"I stopped."
"What was the reason?"
He sighed and answered:
"The reason thereof is in my heart, Vladyko, and He to whom all hearts are opened sees that it is too hard and above my feeble strength. . . . . I can't."
And with these words he fell at my feet.
I raised him and said:
"Do not bow down to me but explain. Have you received a revelation? Is that it? Or have you conversed with God Himself?"
He answered with meek reproach:
"Do not laugh at me, Vladyko, I am not Moses, the chosen servant of God, that I should converse with the Almighty. It is a sin for you to think that."
I was ashamed of my anger, and relenting towards him said:
"What is it then? What is the matter?"
"The matter is evidently that I am not Moses, Vladyko, that I am timid and know the measure of my strength. Out of heathen Egypt I can lead them—but I will not be able to cleave the Red Sea, or lead them out of the wilderness and will only cause simple hearts to murmur to the great offence of the Holy Ghost."
Noticing the imagery of his animated speech, I began to think that he was himself one of the sectaries and asked him:
"What miracle has brought you into the bosom of the Church?"
"I have been in Her bosom from my infancy," he answered, "and will remain there till I die."
He then related to me the very simple and strange story of his life. His father had been a priest, who had early become a widower and was deprived of his post for having married a couple in an illegal manner, so that during the whole of his remaining life he was unable to find another, but became the chaplain of an old lady of high position, who passed her life in travelling from place to place and fearing to die without receiving the sacrament of penitence, kept this priest always with her. Whenever she drove out he sat on the back seat of her carriage; if she entered a house to pay a visit he had to wait for her in the antechamber with the lackeys. Can you imagine a man having to pass his whole life in that way? At the same time, as he had no church of his own, he was entirely dependent on the pyx, which he carried about with him in his breast pocket, and he was even able to beg some crumbs from this lady so as to send his boy to school. In this way they arrived in Siberia. The lady came to visit her daughter, who was the wife of the governor of some place in Siberia, and the priest with the pyx in his pocket travelled with her sitting on the front seat of her carriage. But as the way was long and the lady intended to remain some time with her daughter, the priest, who loved his little son, had refused to accompany her unless his boy could come too. The old lady reflected and hesitated long, but seeing that she could not overcome his affection for his son, at last consented to take the boy with her. So he had made the journey from Europe to Asia, having as his duty on the way to guard, by his presence, a portmanteau, that was attached to the foot-board behind the carriage, to which he himself was tied to prevent him from falling off if he dozed. It was there in Siberia that his mistress and his father had both died, and he, left alone, and unable, owing to his poverty, to finish his schooling, became a soldier and had to escort prisoners from one halting place to another. Having a good eye, he was ordered one day to fire at an escaped convict, and though he did not even take proper aim, he sent a bullet into him, and without intending to do so, to his great grief killed him. From that day he never ceased suffering, and was so tormented that he was unfit for military service and became a monk. His excellent behaviour was noticed, and his knowledge of the native language and his religious fervour caused him to be persuaded to become a missionary.
I listened to the old man's simple but touching story, and I became dreadfully sorry for him, so in order to change my tone towards him I said:
"So what you are suspected of is not true, You have not seen any miracles?"
But he answered:
"Why should it not be true, Vladyko?"
"How so? Then you have seen miracles?"
"Who has not seen miracles, Vladyko?"
"Yet . . . ."
"Why 'yet'? Wherever you look there are miracles—there is water in the clouds, the earth is borne up by the air like a feather; here we are, you and I—dust and ashes—but we move about and think; that is also a miracle to me; we shall die and turn to dust, but our soul will go to Him who has placed it in us. It is a miracle to me that it will go naked, without anything? Who will give it wings to fly away like a dove and rest there?"
"Well, we will leave that for others to discuss; but answer me quite plainly. Have you ever in your life had any unusual manifestations or anything else of that nature?"
"In a measure, I have."
"Well, what were they?"
"Vladyko," he replied, "from my childhood I have been greatly favoured by the grace of God and though unworthy, I was twice the object of wonderful interventions."
"H'm! Tell me about it."
"The first time, Vladyko, was in my early childhood. I was still in the third class at school, and I was longing to go for a walk in the fields. Three of us boys went to the games master to ask for permission but were unable to obtain it, and decided to tell a lie; I was the ringleader. 'Let us cheat them all,' I said. 'Come along and shout: They have let us off, they have let us off.' We did so, and at our word all the boys ran out of the class rooms, and rushed into the fields to bathe and fish. In the evening I became afraid and thought 'what will happen to me when we return home. The head master will flog us.' We got back and saw the rods were already prepared in a bowl. I ran away quickly and hid myself in the bath-house under a bench, and began to pray: 'Good Lord, though I know I must be flogged, please cause me not to be flogged.' In the ardour of my faith, I prayed so earnestly for it that I even perspired and grew weak; but suddenly a wonderful fresh coolness blew over me and something moved in my heart like a warm little dove, and I began to believe that the impossibility of being saved was possible, and felt calm and so daring that I was afraid of nothing; all seemed at an end. Then I fell asleep. When I awoke, I heard my school-fellows shouting gaily, Kiryusha, Kiryusha! Where are you? Come out quickly; they won't flog you. The inspector has come and we have been allowed to go out for a walk.'"
"Your miracle," I said, "is a very simple one."
"It is simple, Vladyko, as simple as the Trinity in Unity—a simple entity," he answered, and added with indiscribable joy in his eyes: "But, Vladyko, how I felt Him! How He came to me, O, my Father, the little Comforter! How He surprised and rejoiced me! You can judge for yourself. He who enfolds the whole universe, seeing the childish grief of a small boy, under the bench in the bath-house, crept up, bringing fresh coolness to his soul, and came to dwell in his little bosom."
I must confess to you, that above all the representations of the Deity, I love most this Russian God of ours Who creates for Himself a dwelling "in the little bosom." Yes—whatever those Greeks may say, and however much they may try to prove that it is to them we owe our knowledge of God, yet it was not they who revealed them to us, it was not in their magnificent Byzantinism or in the smoke of incense-burners that we discovered Him. But He is verily our own and He walks about everywhere quite simply in our own way, even under the benches of the bath-house; without frankincense He comes, entering into the soul with cool simplicity, and like a little dove takes refuge in the warm bosom."
"Continue, Father Kiriak," I said, "I am waiting for the story of the other miracle."
"I will tell you about the other at once, Vladyko. It happened when I was further from Him—of little faith—when I was on the way here, sitting at the back of the carriage. It had been necessary to take me out of the Russian school and bring me here just before the examinations. I did not mind this as I was always first in my class, and would have been accepted in the seminary even without an examination; but the head-master gave me a certificate in which he wrote: 'in every subject moderately good.' 'I give you this,' he said, 'on purpose; for our reputation, so that you should have to pass an examination there, and they might see what scholars we look upon as moderately good.' Both my father and I were terribly unhappy about it; and to add to this, though my father had ordered me to continue learning all the way, one day while sitting on the foot-board behind the carriage I had the misfortune to fall asleep and in crossing a river, at the ford, lost all my books. I cried bitterly at the loss, and my father gave me a severe flogging for it at the wayside inn; nevertheless before we reached Siberia I had forgotten all this and began again to pray like a little child: 'Lord, help me! Let me be accepted without an examination.' It was no good, however much I prayed to Him; they looked at my certificate and ordered me to go up for examination. I came up sad of heart, all the other boys were jolly, playing leap-frog, and jumping over each other—I alone was sad—I and another thin and miserable-looking boy who was sitting but not learning and told me it was from weakness—a fever had attacked him. I sat there looking into a book, and began in my mind to bid defiance to the Lord: well, what now, I thought, have I not prayed to Thee with all my might, and Thou hast done nothing for me. Then I rose in order to get a drink of water, when suddenly, somewhere in the middle of the room, something hit me on the back of my head and threw me to the ground. . . . I thought this is probably my punishment! God has not helped me in any way, and now He has given me a blow. Then I looked round; no; it was only that sick boy, who had tried to jump over me, but had not the strength and had fallen, and knocked me down too. The other boys said to me: 'Look, you new boy, your arm is hanging loose.' I felt it; the arm was broken. I was taken to the hospital and put to bed. My father came to see me there, and said: 'Don't grieve, Kiryusha, because of this you have been accepted without an examination.' Then I understood how God had settled all these things and began to cry. The examination was quite an easy one, so easy that it would have been child's play for me. It meant that I, little fool, did not know what I asked for but it had been nevertheless accomplished to make me wiser.
"Ah, Father Kiriak, Father Kiriak," said I, "you are an extraordinarily consoling man." I embraced him several times, dismissed him without asking him anything further, and ordered him to come to me from the next day to instruct me in in the Tangus and Yakut languages.
IV
THE sternness I had at first shown to Kiriak I now directed on the other monks of my little monastery, in whom, I confess, I did not find the simplicity of Kiriak, nor any good works useful to the faith; they lived, so to speak, as outposts of Christianity, in a heathen land, and yet the lazy beggars did nothing—there was not even one among them who had taken the trouble to learn the language of the natives.
I admonished them, I admonished them privately, and at last thundered at them from the pulpit the words Tzar Ivan addressed to the reverend Guri: "it is vain to call the monks angels—they cannot be compared with angels, nor have they any likeness to them, but they should resemble the Apostles, whom Christ sent to teach and baptize."
Kiriak came the next day to give me a lesson and fell at my feet.
"What is it? What is it?" I asked lifting him up, "worthy teacher it is not seemly that you should bow to the ground before your pupil."
"No, Vladyko, you have comforted me greatly, you have comforted me as I never hoped to be comforted in this world."
"In what way, man of God," I said, "have I pleased you so greatly?"
"In that you have ordered the monks to learn, and when they go forth, first to teach and then to baptize. You are right, Vladyko, to make this rule; Christ Himself ordered it, and His disciples say: 'Where the spirit has not been taught there can be no good.' They can all baptize but to teach the Word they are not able."
"Brother, you have understood me in a wider sense than I intended," said I; "according to you, children need not be baptized either."
"For Christian children it is different, Vladyko."
"Well, yes, but Prince Vladimir would not have baptized our forefathers at all if he had waited long for them to learn."
But he answered me:
"Ah, Vladyko, it might perhaps really have been better to have taught them first. You know well—you have read the chronicles—the brew was boiled too quickly—'inasmuch as His piety was joined with fear.' The metropolitan Platon said wisely: 'Vladimir was too hasty, and the Greeks were cunning, they baptized the ignorant—and unlearned.' Are we to imitate their haste and cunning? You know they are 'even flatterers to this day.' And thus we are baptized in the name of Christ, but we are not clothed in Christ. It is futile to baptize in this way, Vladyko."
"How is it futile, Father Kiriak?" I asked. "What is this that you preach, my friend?"
"Why not, Vladyko?" he answered. "Is it not written in the Holy Books that baptizm with water alone is not sufficient to ensure eternal life?"
I looked at him and answered seriously:
"Listen to me, Father Kiriak, you are talking heresy."
"No, I am not heretical," he replied. "I do but repeat the orthodox words of the holy Cyril of Jerusalem: Simon can wash the bodies of the magi with water in the font, but he cannot illuminate their hearts with the Spirit; the body can be anointed above and below, but the soul cannot be buried and rise again.' Although he had been baptized, although he had washed his body, he was no Christian. The Lord liveth and the soul liveth, Vladyko—remember is it not written there will be those that are baptized who will hear: Verily I say unto you, I know you not,' and the unbaptized, who for their deeds of righteousness will be saved and enter, because they observed righteousness and truth. Is it possible you deny this?"
Well, I thought, we could wait to talk about this, and said to him:
"Let us learn the heathen tongue, brother, and not the language of Jerusalem; begin to teach me, and be not angry if I am slow of comprehension."
"I am not angry, Vladyko," he answered—and in truth he was a wonderfully good-natured and open-hearted old man, and taught me admirably. He disclosed to me with quickness and intelligence all the secrets of acquiring this speech, which is so poor and possesses so few words that it can scarcely be called a language. It is certainly nothing more than the language of the animal life, and not of the intellectual life; nevertheless, it is difficult to master; the phraseology is laconic, and it has no periods; from this arises the difficulty of all attempts at translation into this speech of any text expressed according to the rules of a developed language, possessing complicated periods and subjunctive propositions, while poetical and figurative expressions are impossible to render; besides the meaning they convey would be quite unintelligible to this poor people. How could you explain to them the meaning of the following words: "Be as crafty as the serpent and as gentle as the dove," when they have never seen a serpent or a dove, and are even unable to form an idea of them. It is impossible to find words that they would understand to express martyr, baptist, forerunner, and if you translated the Holy Virgin into their language—"Shochmo Abya"—they would understand, not our Virgin Mary, but some sort of Shamonist female deity—in fact, a goddess. Of the merits of the Holy Blood, or of any other mysteries of our faith it is even more difficult to speak. You could not think of constructing for them any theological system, or of mentioning a child born of a Virgin—without a husband—they would either understand nothing, and that might be best, or else they would perhaps laugh in your face.
All this Kiriak communicated to me, and imparted it so admirably that when I had learned the spirit of the language, I could understand the whole spirit of this poor people; and what amused me more than anything about myself was that Kiriak had succeeded in the most imperceptible manner in removing all my assumed sternness: the pleasantest relations developed between us; they were so easy and so playful, that when I had finished my lessons, still retaining this playful tone, I ordered a pot of gruel to be prepared, placed upon it a silver rouble and a piece of black cloth for a cassock and, like a scholar, who has finished his studies, took it myself to Kiriak's cell.
He lived under the belfry in such a small cell, that when I entered there was no room for the two of us to turn round and the vaults seemed to press on the crowns of our heads; but everything looked tidy, and in the dim grated window there was even an aster growing in a broken cooking pot.
I found Kiriak at work; he was threading fish scales, and sewing them on to linen.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
"Little ornaments, Vladyko."
"What sort of little ornaments?"
"Ornaments for the little savage girls. They come to the fair and I give them ornaments."
"So that's how you give pleasure to the unbelieving heathen."
"Oh, Vladyko! Why do you always keep on saying the unbelieving, the unbelieving? All were created by one God, these poor blind people ought to be pitied."
"They must be enlightened, Father Kiriak."
"To enlighten?" he said. "It is a good thing Vladyko, to enlighten. Yes, enlighten, enlighten " and he murmured, "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works."
"I have come to you," I said, "to thank you for teaching me, and have brought you a pot of gruel."
"Excellent!" he said. "Sit down to the pot of gruel yourself, and be my guest."
He asked me to be seated on a block of wood, and himself sat down on another, and placing my gruel on a bench between us said:
"Well, Vladyko, won't you partake of it with me? It's your gift and I bow to the ground and thank you for it."
So we began to partake of the gruel, the old monk and I, and conversed the while.
V
I MUST confess I was greatly interested to know what it was that had induced Kiriak to give up his successful missionary work, and caused him now to regard it so strangely, and to behave so reprehensibly and even so criminally, according to the views I held at that time.
"Of what shall we converse? After so warm a welcome we must have a good talk. Tell me, don't you know how we are to teach the Faith to these natives, whom you always take under your protection?"
"We must teach them, Vladyko, we must teach them, and show them a good example by good living."
"But how are we to teach them, you and I?"
"I do not know, Vladyko; one ought to go to them and teach them."
"That's just what is wanted."
"Yes, they must be taught, Vladyko; in the morning the seed must be sown, and in the evening, likewise, you must not give your hand any rest—you must sow the whole time."
"You talk very well—why don't you do so?"
"Excuse me, Vladyko, do not ask me."
"No, you must tell me."
"If you require me to tell you, then explain to me why I should go there?"
"To teach and baptize."
"To teach? I am incapable of teaching, Vladyko!"
"Why? Is it the devil who won't allow you?"
"No, no! What is the devil? What danger is he to a Christian? You have but to make the sign of the cross with one finger, and he will disappear, but the little devils interfere; that's the trouble."
"What little devils?"
"The wearers of epaulets, the philanthropists, the pettifoggers, the officials with all their red tape."
"These seem to be stronger than Satan himself."
"Of course; you know, this is a race that nothing will exorcise, not even prayer and fasting."
"Well, then, you must simply baptize, as all baptize."
"Baptize?" Kiriak repeated after me—and suddenly was silent and smiled.
"What is it? Go on."
The smile faded from Kiriak's lips, and he continued, with a serious, almost stern look:
"No, I don't want to do this in a hurry, Vladyko."
"What?"
"I don't want to do it in this way, Vladyko," he said with firmness, and again smiled.
"What are you laughing at?" I said. "And if I order you to baptize."
"I will not obey you," he answered, smiling good-naturedly, and slapping me familiarly on the knee continued:
"Listen, Vladyko, I don't know if you have read it. In the Lives of the Saints there is a fine story"
But I interrupted him and said:
"Spare me the Lives, I beg you; here it is a question of the Word of God and not of the traditions of man. You, monks know, that you can find all sorts of things in the Lives and therefore love to quote them."
"Vladyko, let me finish," he answered. "I may find, even in the Lives, something appropriate."
And he told me an old story, from the first centuries of Christianity, about two friends—one a Christian, the other a heathen. The first often talked to the latter about Christianity and annoyed him with it so much, that though at first he had been indifferent, he suddenly began to abuse it, and at the moment he was showering the greatest blasphemy on Christ and Christianity, his horse kicked and killed him. His friend, the Christian, saw in this a miracle and was appalled that his friend, the heathen, had departed this life in such a spirit of enmity towards Christ. The Christian in his distress wept bitterly and said: 'It had been better had I never spoken to him about Christ—he would then not have been provoked and would not have answered as he did.' But to his consolation, he was informed spiritually that his friend had been accepted by Christ, because, though the heathen had been provoked, by such insistent talk, he had inwardly reflected about Christ and had called to Him with his last breath.
"And He was in his heart," Kiriak added. "He embraced him and gave him a refuge."
"So I suppose this brings us again to 'in his little bosom.'"
"Yes, 'in his little bosom.'"
"Well, Father Kiriak," I said, "this is just your trouble, you rely too much on the 'little bosom.'"
"Oh, Vladyko, how am I not to rely on it; great mysteries go on there—all blessings come from it: mother's milk that nourishes the little children, and love and faith dwell therein. Believe it, Vladyko, it is so. It is there, it is all there, it is only from the heart it proceeds, and not from the reason. With reason you cannot construct it—but can only destroy: reason gives birth to doubt, Vladyko; faith gives peace, gives happiness. This, I tell you, consoles me greatly; you see how things are going and are angry, but I always rejoice."
"Why do you rejoice?"
"Because all is very good."
"What do you mean—'all is good'?"
"All, Vladyko, that is revealed to us, and all that is hidden from us. I think, Vladyko, that we are all going to a feast."
"Please be clearer; do you simply set aside the baptism with water? It that so?"
"Well, I never. I set it aside. Oh, Vladyko, Vladyko! How many years I have been pining, always waiting for a man with whom I could converse freely about spiritual things—soul to soul—and when I knew you, I thought, this is the man I am waiting for, and now you are splitting hairs like a lawyer! What do you want? All words are vain, and I too. There is nothing I set aside. Consider what various blessings come to me—and from love, but not from hate. Have patience listen to me!"
"Very well," I answered, "I will listen; what do you want to preach?"
"Well, we are both baptized, so that is very good—that is like a ticket given us for a feast; we go to it, and know that we are invited, because we have a ticket."
"Yes."
"Well, and then we see that alongside of us another man is wandering thither, but without a ticket. We think, what a fool! It is useless for him to go—he will not be allowed to enter! When he arrives the door keeper will turn him out. We come there and see the door-keeper wants to turn him out, as he has no ticket, but if the master sees him, perhaps he will allow him to enter—he will say: It does not matter that he has no ticket—I know him even without a ticket; you may enter—and he leads him in and behold, he shows him more honour than to many another who comes with a ticket."
"Is that what you instil into them?"
"No, why should I instil this into them? It is only to myself I argue thus, of Christ's goodness and wisdom."
"Yes, but do you understand his wisdom?"
"Vladyko, how can we understand it? It can't be understood, but . . . . I only say what my heart feels. Whenever I have anything I ought to do, I ask myself: Can I do this to the glory of Christ? If I can, then I do it, if I cannot,—then I do not do it."
"Then is this the chief principle of your teaching?"
"This, Vladyko, is my chief and only principle; all is in it; for simple hearts, Vladyko, this is so easy; it is so simple. You can't drink vodka for the glory of Christ, you can't fight or steal for the glory of Christ, you can't abandon a man without help . . . . The savages soon understand this, and approve of it. 'He is good, your little Christ,' they say. He is just—that is how they understand it.' "
"After all, they may be right."
"Yes, Vladyko, it is possible, but this is what I don't find right, that the newly baptized come to the town, and see what all the Christians do and ask: 'Can this be done for the glory of Christ?' What can we answer them, Vladyko? Are the people Christians or not Christians? One is ashamed to say they are not Christians, and to call them Christians would be a sin."
"How do you answer them?"
Kiriak only made a movement with his hand and murmured:
"I say nothing . . . . I only weep . . . ."
I understood that his religious morality had come into collision with a species of politics. He had read Tertullian "On Public Spectacles," and concluded that "for the glory of Christ" it was impossible to go to the theatre, or to dance, or to play at cards, or to do many other things which our contemporary, outwardly seeming Christians, could not do without. He was in some ways an innovator, and seeing this antiquated world, was ashamed of it, and hoped for a new one full of spirit and truth.
When I suggested this to him he at once agreed with me.
"Yes," he said, "these people are of the flesh; why show the flesh?—it must be hidden so that the name of Christ should not be brought to contempt by the hypocrites."
"How is it that people say the natives still come to you?"
"They trust me, and they come."
"So it appears, but why?"
"When they have a dispute or a quarrel they come to me. 'Settle this matter,' they say, 'according to your little Christ.'"
"And you settle it?
"Yes, I know their customs; I apply the wisdom of Christ, and settle the matter."
"They accept it?"
"Yes, they accept it—they like His justice. At other times the sick come, and the possessed—they ask me to pray for them."
"How do you cure the possessed? Do you heal them by saying prayers?"
"No, Vladyko; I pray for them, and then I comfort them."
"Their sorcerers are said to be skilled in that."
"It is so, Vladyko—the sorcerers are not all alike; some really know many of the secret powers of nature—some of the sorcerers are not so bad. . . . They know me and even send some of their people to me."
"How is it you are on friendly terms with the Shamanists?"
"This is how it happened; The Buddhist lamas made a descent on them, and our officials took many of these Shamanists and put them to prison—the wild man is dull in prison—God only knows what happened to some of them! So I, poor sinner, used to go to the prison and took them buns, that I had begged from the merchants, and comforted them with words."
"Well, and what then?"
"They were grateful, they took them in Christ's name and praised Him; they said He was good—and kind. Yes, Vladyko, hold your peace, they themselves did not know that they were touching the hem of His garment."
"Yes, but how do they touch it?" I said. "All this has no meaning."
"Ah, Vladyko, why do you want to have everything at once. God's work goes its own way, without bustle. Were there not six water pots at the wedding of Cana, and they were certainly not all filled at the same time, but one after the other. Why Father, even Christ, great wonderworker that he was, first spat on the blind Jew's eyes, and then opened them; but these people are more blind than the Jews. How can we demand much from them all at once? Let them touch the hem of His garment—His goodness is felt, and He will entice them to Himself."
"Come, now, entice?"
"And why not?"
"What improper words you use!"
"In what way are they improper, Vladyko?—the word is quite a simple one. He is our benefactor, and is also not of boyard stock. He is not judged for His simplicity. Who knows His descent? But He went about with shepherds, He consorted with sinners, He had no aversion for a scabby sheep, but when He found one He would take it on His holy back, just as it was, and bear it to the Father. Well, and He—what was He to do? Not wishing to grieve His much suffering Son, He admitted the defiled one into His sheep-fold."
"Very good," I said, "as a catechist, you won't do at all, brother Kiriak, but as a baptizer, though you talk somewhat heretically, you can be of use, and notwithstanding your wishes I will send you to baptize."
Kiriak became frightfully agitated and perturbed.
"Good gracious, Vladyko, why do you wish to force me? Christ will forbid it. Nothing will come of it, nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"Why should it be so?"
"It is so, because the door is closed to us."
"Who closed it?"
"He who has the Key of David: 'he that openeth and no man shutteth, and shutteth and no man openeth.' Or have you forgotten the Apocalypse?"
"Kiriak, too many books will make you foolish."
"No, Vladyko, I am not foolish, but if you do not listen to me, you will wrong many people and give offence to the Holy Ghost, and the ecclesiastical office will rejoice that in their reports they will be able to boast and tell more lies."
I ceased listening to him, but did not renounce the idea of being able to overcome his whim, and send him after all. But what do you think happened? It was not only the simple-hearted Amos of the Old Testament who suddenly began to prophesy, while picking berries—my friend Kiriak had also prophesied and his words, "Christ will forbid it," began to be fulfilled. At that very time, as if on purpose, I received a notification from Petersburg that authority had graciously been given to increase greatly the number of Buddhist temples, and that the lists of lamas permitted in Siberia had been doubled. Although I was born in Russia, and had been taught not to be surprised at anything unexpected, still, I must confess, this condition contra jus et fas astonished me, and what was much worse, it quite confused the poor people, who had been recently baptized, and even to a greater degree the unfortunate missionaries. The news of these joyful events, to the detriment of Christianity, and to the advantage of Buddhism, spread over the whole district like a whirlwind. To carry the report horses galloped, reindeer bounded, and dogs raced on every side, and Siberia was informed that the all-overcoming and all-renouncing god Fo had also overcome and cast away the little Christ in Petersburg. The triumphant lamas asserted that our rulers and even our Dalai Lama, that is the Metropolitan, had accepted the Buddhistic faith. The missionaries were alarmed when they heard this news; they did not know what to do. Some of them, I think, even began to doubt. Was it not perhaps possible that in Petersburg things had swung round to the lama's side in the same way as things had turned in those artful and intriguing times towards Roman Catholicism, and are now, in these foolish days that are so full of fancies, turning towards spiritualism? Only, of course, it is being accomplished more quietly, because now, although the chosen idol is but a puny one, nobody wants to overthrow it. But then such cold-blooded tolerance was wanting in many, and I, poor sinner, was among that number. I could not look with indifference on my poor baptizers, who came wandering on foot out of the deserts, back to me for protection. In the whole district there was not one old nag for them, not one reindeer, not a single dog, and God only knows how they had crawled back on foot through the snow drifts. They arrived dirty and in tatters—certainly not like the priests of God Almighty, but more like real wandering cripples. The officials and the whole of the ordinary administration protected the lamas without the slightest pricks of conscience. I had almost to fight the Governor in order to persuade that Christian boyard to check his assistants from quite openly providing for Buddhism. The Governor, as usual, was offended, and we had a violent quarrel. I complained to him about his officials; he wrote to me, that nobody interfered with my missionaries, but that they were idle and unskilful. My deserter-missionaries in their turn whined that, although their mouths had not actually been gagged, they could not get a horse or a reindeer anywhere, because everywhere in the desert the people were afraid of the lamas.
The lamas, they said, were rich—they gave money to the officials, but we have nothing to give.
What could I say to comfort them? I might have promised to propose to the Synod, that the monasteries and convents which had "much money" should share it with us who were poor, and give us a certain sum to bribe the officials, but I was afraid that in the vast halls of the Synod this request might be found out of place, and, having prayed to God, they might refuse me assistance for the purpose of bribery. At the same time, even if such means were in our hands, this might also be uncertain: my apostles had disclosed to me so much weakness in themselves, which in conjunction with the circumstances, had a very grave significance.
"We feel compassion for the savages," they said, "They will lose the little sense they have from all this worry; to-day we baptize them, tomorrow the lamas convert them and order them to deny Christ, and as a penalty take anything they can find belonging to them. The poor people are beggared of their cattle and their scanty understanding—all the religions become muddled for them, they limp on both legs, and complain to us."
This contest greatly interested Kiriak, and taking advantage of my favour he often stopped me with the question:
"Vladyko, what has the enemy written to you?" or:
"Vladyko, what have you written to the enemy?"
He once even came to me with a request.
"Vladyko, consult with me, when you write to the enemy."
This was on the occasion when the governor had informed me that in the neighbouring diocese where the conditions were exactly the same as where I was stationed, preaching and baptizing were progressing successfully, and at the same time pointed out to me a certain missionary named Peter, a Zyryan, who baptized great numbers of the natives.
These circumstances disturbed me, and I asked the neighbouring bishop if it was so.
He answered it was quite true he had a Zyryan priest Peter, who had twice gone out to preach and the first time had baptized so many, that he had "no crosses left," and the second time had taken double the number of crosses, and had still not had enough, and had been obliged to take them from one neck to hang them on another.
When Kiriak heard this he began to weep.
"My God," he said, "from whence has this crafty worker come to add to all our trouble. He will drown Christ in His Church in His own blood! Oh, what a misfortune! Have pity, Vladyko,—hasten to ask the bishop to restrain his too faithful servant—to leave something to the Church even if only power for sowing."
"Father Kiriak," I said, "you are talking nonsense, How can I attempt to restrain a man from such praiseworthy zeal?"
"Oh, no, Vladyko," he implored me, "beg him; this is incomprehensible to you, but I understand what is now being done in the desert. All this is not for Christ's sake; but the work done there serves His enemies. He will be drowned. They will drown Him, the little Dove, with blood, and for a hundred years more the people will be frightened away from Him."
Of course, I did not listen to Kiriak, but on the contrary wrote to the neighbouring bishop, asking him to give me his Zyryan to help me, or as the Siberian aristocrats say in French: "au proka."[4] At that time my neighbour had just been rescued from his Siberian penance, and as he was to be recalled to Russia he did not insist on retaining his adroit baptizer. The Zyryan was sent to me: he was large, bearded, and loquacious, an oily man. I sent him at once to the desert and already two weeks later received joyful news: he informed me that he had baptized the people everywhere. There was only one thing he feared: would he have sufficient crosses, though he had taken a very fair sized boxful with him. From this I did not fail to conclude that the draught caught in the net of this successful fisherman was very considerable.
I thought: "Now at last I have found the right man for this work!" I was very glad of it. Very glad indeed. I will tell you frankly—from quite an official point of view—because, gentlemen, a bishop is also a man, and he becomes wearied, when one authority tells him, "Baptize," and another says "Let it alone." A plague on them all, I thought. It is best to settle it in one way or the other, and as I have come across a skilful baptizer, let him baptize the whole lot of them together; perhaps people will be quieter then.
But Kiriak did not share my opinion; and one evening when I was crossing the yard from the bath-house we met; he stopped and greeted me:
"Good evening, Vladyko,"
"Good evening, Father Kiriak," I answered.
"Have you had a good wash?"
"Yes, I've had a good wash."
"Have you washed away the Zyryan?"
I grew angry.
"What is this nonsense?" I said.
But he again began to talk about the Zyryan.
"He is pitiless," he said. "He is now baptizing here as he baptized in the Transbaikal. Those he baptizes are only tormented by it and they complain of Christ. It is a sin for all, and for you more than for any, Vladyko."
I considered Kiriak rude, but nevertheless his words entered my soul. What could it be? He was a sagacious old man—he would not chatter to the empty air. What was the secret of all this? How did this adroit Zyryan taken by me "au proka" really baptize. I knew something about the religiosity of the Zyryans. They are especially known as temple builders—their churches, wherever they are found, are fine and even rich, but of all the sects in this world that call themselves Christians, one must confess they are the most superficial. To none, so well as to them can the definition be applied: "God is only in their icons, but not in their souls." But surely this Zyryan did not burn the savages to make them become Christians. That could not be. What was at the bottom of this business? Why did this Zyryan have success and the Russians have none? And why did I know nothing about it?
Then the thought came to me: "It is because you, Vladyko, and those like you are egoistic and pretentious. You collect much money, and only go about, within the sound of the church bells. You think nothing about the distant parts of your diocese, and only judge of them by hearsay. You complain of your impotence in your own country, while all the time you are trying to snatch at the stars and are asking: 'What will you give me, and I will deliver Him unto you?' Take care, brother, that you do not become like that too."
That evening I paced up and down my dull and empty room thinking, and I walked about until this thought came into my head: Why should I myself not travel through the desert?
In this manner I hoped to be able to elucidate myself, if not all, at any rate, very much; and I must confess to you, I also wanted freshening up a little.
To accomplish such a journey, owing to my own inexperience, I required a companion, who would know the native language well; and what better companion could I wish for than Kiriak? Being impatient, I did not delay long, but sent at once for Kiriak, informed him of my plan, and ordered him to get ready.
He did not gainsay me; on the contrary, he seemed to be very pleased and smiling, kept on repeating
"May God help! May God help!"
There was no reason to delay our departure, so already the next morning after having assisted at very early matins, we dressed ourselves like the natives, and set out, taking the road straight to the North, where my Zyryan was carrying on his apostolic mission.
VI
THE first day we drove rapidly along in a good troika. I conversed all the time with Father Kiriak. The dear old man related to me interesting stories of the native religious traditions. The story that interested me most was about the five hundred travellers who, under the guidance of an "Obushy," which means in their language a "book-man," started to journey in the world at the time when the god Shigemuny having "conquered all the demoniac powers and repulsed all weakness," feasted in Shirvas "on viands such as had never been touched before." This legend is specially interesting because it shows the whole form and spirit of the religious imagination of this people. Five hundred travellers conducted by the Obushy met a spirit, who, in order to frighten them, appeared in the most terrible and disgusting forms, and asked them: "Have you ever seen such monsters?" "We have more dreadful ones," answered the Obushy. "Who are they?" "All who are envious, greedy, lying, and revengful; after death they become monsters, much more terrible and disgusting than these." The spirit hid himself and changed into such a lean and gaunt man that the veins stuck to his bones, and then appeared again to the travellers and said: "Have you such people?" "Of course," answered the Obushy, "there are even much thinner people than you are—they are all those who aspire to honours."
"H'm!" I interrupted Kiriak, "take care; does the moral not refer to us bishops?"
"God knows, Vladyko," and he continued: "After some time the spirit appeared in the form of a handsome youth and said: "Have you such as these?" "Of course," answered the Obushy. "Among men there are some incomparably handsomer than you—they are those who possess keen understanding and having purified their hearts, revere the three beatitudes: God, Faith and Holiness. These are so much more handsome than you are, that you would not even be found worthy to be compared with them." The spirit was enraged at this and began to test the Obushy in another way. He scooped up a handful of water. "Where is there more water," he asked, "in the sea or in my hand?" "There is more in your hand," answered the Obushy. "Prove it." "Well, I will prove it. If you judge by appearance, there certainly seems to be more water in the sea than in your hand, but when the time comes for the world to be destroyed, and out of the present sun another emerges discharging fire, then it will dry up all the waters in the world, both the large and the small ones, and the seas, and the rivers, and the streams, and even Atlas will crumble away, but whoever in his lifetime has given the thirsty to drink from his hand, or whoever has washed the wounds of the beggars with his hand, even seven suns will not dry up his handful of water, but on the contrary they will multiply and increase it."
"Well, gentlemen, what do you truly think of this? It is not so very stupid?" asked the narrator, pausing for a moment. "Eh? No, really, what do you think of it?"
"It is not at all stupid, Vladyko, not at all stupid."
I must own, to me too, it seems more intelligent than many a lengthy sermon about justification. Well, it was not only of this we talked. After that we had long discussions about the best method to convert the heathen to Christianity. Kiriak was of the opinion that for them it was best to have the least possible amount of ceremony, because otherwise they would even surpass Kirika himself with questions like, "Can one administer the Communion to one who taps his teeth with an egg?" One must also not dogmatize too much, he said, because their weak understanding grows weary of following any abstraction or syllogism, but one must simply tell them about the life and miracles of Christ, so that it should appear to them in the most lifelike manner, and in a way that their poor imagination could grasp. But the most important, and on this he continued to insist, is that "he who is wise and skilful must show them goodness by his life; then they will understand Christ"; otherwise, he said, our work would go badly, and our true faith, although we may proclaim it among them, will remain inferior to their own untrue faith. Ours will be nominal, the other active. What good is there in it, Vladyko? Judge for yourself: Will this be for the triumph of the Christian faith or for its degradation? It will be still more bitter if they take something from us, and who knows what they may make of it? There is no use hastening to proclaim it, we must sow; others will come and water it, and God Himself will make it grow. . . . . Is it not in this way, Vladyko, that the Apostle teaches? Eh? Remember Him; it must be thus. Otherwise, if we hasten, see that we do not make people laugh, and cause Satan to rejoice."
I must confess in my soul I agreed with him, on many questions, and in these simple and peaceful conversations, I did not notice how the whole day passed away; the evening brought us to the end of our journey with horses.
We passed the night near the fire in a nomad tent, and the next morning started in reindeer sledges.
The weather was beautiful, and the drive with reindeers interested me very much, though it did not come up to my expectations. In my childhood I often liked to look at a picture representing a Laplander in a reindeer sledge. But the reindeers in the picture were slight, light-limbed creatures that flew along like the wind of the desert, throwing back their heads and branching antlers, and I always thought: "Could I but drive like that, if only once. How delightfully rapid that pace must be." However, in reality it was quite different. I had before me not those flying antlered whirlwinds, but shaggy, heavy limbed animals that plodded on with hanging heads and fleshy straddling legs. They ran at an uneven, uncertain pace with bent heads and such heavy breathing that anyone not used to seeing them would have been sorry for them, especially when their nostrils became frozen and they opened their mouths wide. They breathed so heavily that their breath formed clouds and hung like a streak in the frozen air. This means of travel and the desolate monotonous country that revealed itself to us, made such a tedious wearisome impression that one did not even feel inclined to talk, and Kiriak and I hardly conversed at all, during the two days we travelled in reindeer sledges.
On the evening of the third day this mode of travelling ceased; the snow became less compact, and we exchanged the unwieldy reindeer for dogs. They were gay, shaggy, and sharp-eared dogs, that looked like wolves, and even yelped almost like wolves. They are harnessed in great numbers, as many as fifteen to the sledge, and for an honoured traveller perhaps even more are attached, but the sledges are so narrow that two cannot sit abreast, so that Father Kiriak and I were obliged to separate. I and a driver had to go in one sledge, and Kiriak with another driver in another. The drivers seemed to be much the same in skill, and their countenances were so much alike, you could not distinguish one from the other, especially when they were wrapped up in their reindeer fur coats that looked like soap-suds: both were equally beautiful. But Kiriak discovered a difference in them and insisted upon seating me in the sledge of the one he considered most trustworthy, but wherein he discovered this trustworthiness he did not explain.
"It is so, Vladyko," he said; "you are less experienced than I am in this country, so go with this man." But I would not listen to him, and sat down in the other sledge. Our baggage we divided. I took a bundle of linen and books at my feet, and Kiriak hung the chrismatory and the pyx round his neck and placed at his feet a wallet with oatmeal, dried fish and the remainder of our modest provisions for this campaign.
We settled ourselves in the sledges, well wrapped up in reindeer fur coats, with reindeer skin-covers fastened over our legs, and recommenced our journey.
We proceeded much faster than with the reindeer, but it was so uncomfortable to sit in the sledge, that before an hour had passed my back began to ache terribly. I looked at Kiriak—he sat as straight as a post that had been stuck into the sledge, while I swayed from side to side—I always wanted to keep the balance, and owing to these gymnastics, I was even unable to speak to my driver. I only found out that he had been baptized and baptized quite recently by my Zyryan, but I had not time to examine him. By evening I was so exhausted that I was unable to bear it any longer and complained to Kiriak:
"I'm feeling bad; from the very beginning something seemed to shake me."
"That's because you did not listen to me—you would not go with the driver I wanted you to go with. This one drives better, much quieter. Please change sledges to-morrow."
"Very well," I said, "I'll do as you wish," and the next day I got into the other sledge and we set out again.
I do not know if, during the previous day, I had become accustomed to sitting on this sort of peasant's sledge, or if it was really that this driver managed his long stick better, but it was much more comfortable, and I was even able to converse with him.
I asked him if he was baptized or not.
"No, Bachka,[5] me no baptized, me happy!"
"In what way are you happy?"
"Happy, Bachka; Dzol-Dzayagachy have give me Bachka. She take care me."
Dzol-Dzayagachy is a goddess of the Shamanists, who gives children, and who looks after the happiness and the health of those children who have been born, thanks to prayers addressed to her.
"That's all very well," I said, "but why don't you get baptized."
"She would not allow me to be baptized, Bachka."
"Who? Dzol-Dzayagachy?"
"Yes, Bachka, she won't allow."
"Ah! It is well that you told me this."
"Of course, Bachka, it is well."
"Yes, but just for that, in spite of your Dzol-Dzayagachy, I will order you to be baptized."
"What do you mean, Bachka? Why anger Dzol-Dzayagachy? She will be enraged—she will beat me!"
"What do I care for her, your Dzol-Dzayagachy? You shall be baptized—that is enough."
"No, Bachka, she won't allow me to be wronged."
"How can that wrong you, you stupid fellow?"
"Why, Bachka, you baptize me? It do me much wrong, Bachka. Zaysan comes; he beat me because baptized. Shaman comes, again beat. Lama comes—also beat and drive away reindeer. Bachka, great wrong to me."
"They won't dare to do it."
"How, Bachka, they won't dare? They dare Bachka, they take all, they ruined my uncle, Bachka. . . . Yes, Bachka, they ruined my brother Bachka, ruined . . . ."
"Have you a brother, who has been baptized?"
"Of course, Bachka, I have a brother, Bachka. I have one."
"And he has been baptized?"
"Yes, Bachka, twice baptized."
"What do you mean? Twice baptized? As if one is baptized twice?"
"Indeed, Bachka, they baptized twice."
"You lie."
"No, Bachka, it's true. He was baptized once for himself, and once for me."
"How for you? What nonsense you are talking."
"What nonsense, Bachka? No nonsense. I hid myself from priest, Bachka, and he baptized my brother instead of me."
"Why did you cheat in that way?"
"Because, Bachka, he is kind."
"Who is kind? Is your brother kind?"
"Yes, Bachka, my brother. He said: 'It's all the same, I am lost—baptized; hide—I will be baptized again'—so I hid."
"Where is your brother now?"
"He is gone to be baptized again."
"Where is this idle fellow off to now?"
"There, Bachka, where one hears a hard priest is travelling."
"Ho, ho! What has he got to do with this priest?"
"Our people are there, Bachka, our people live there, indeed good people, Bachka. He is sorry. Bachka . . . . sorry for them, Bachka—he has hurried to be baptized for them."
"What sort of a 'Shaytan' is this brother of yours? How dare he do such a thing?"
"Why not, Bachka, it's nothing; for him it's all the same, Bachka, but for them, Bachka, the Zaysan won't beat them, and the lamas won't drive their reindeer away."
"H'm! Still, I must keep an eye on your idle brother. Tell me his name?"
"Kuz'ka-Demyak, Bachka."
"Kuz'ma or Demyan?"[6]
"No, Bachka, Kuz'ka-Demyak."
"Yes, it's easier for you—Kuz'ka-Demyak, or a copper pyatak[7]—but they are two names."
"No, Bachka, one."
"I tell you they are two."
"No, Bachka, one."
"Get along, you evidently know this better than me, too."
"Of course, Bachka, I know it better."
"Did they give him the names of Kuz'ma and Demyan at the first or second baptism?"
He looked fixedly at me but did not understand; but when I repeated my question he thought and answered:
"That is so, Bachka; when he had been baptized for me, then they began to mock him as Kyz'ka-Demyak."
"And after his first baptism, how did they mock him?"
"I don't know, Bachka—I have forgot."
"But possibly he knows it."
"No, Bachka, he has also forgot it."
"It is impossible," I said.
"No, Bachka—it's true he has forgot it."
"Well, I will have him found and will ask him."
"You may have him found, Bachka, you may have him found; but he will say he has forgot it."
"Yes, but when I find him, brother, I will give him up to the Zaysan."
"It doesn't matter, Bachka, nothing matters to him now, Bachka—he is already lost."
"In what way is he lost? Is it because he has been baptized? Is it that?"
"Yes, Bachka; the Shaman drives him away, the Lama has carried off his reindeer, none of his people trust him."
"What do you mean, you foolish savage? You lie. Why can't the baptized be trusted? Is the baptized man worse than you idolaters?"
"Why worse, Bachka?—he's also a man."
"Now you yourself agree he is not worse."
"I don't know, Bachka—you say he is not worse, and I say so; but he can't be trusted."
"Why can't he be trusted?"
"Because the priest forgives him his sins, Bachka."
"Well, and what is there wrong in that? What, is it better to remain without forgiveness?"
"How can one remain without forgiveness, Bachka? That's impossible, Bachka, one must ask forgiveness."
"Well, then, I don't understand you; what are you talking about?"
"This is what I say, Bachka: a baptized man will steal, and tell the priest, and the priest, Bachka, will forgive him; and therefore people won't trust him, Bachka."
"What nonsense you are talking! And this, of course, you think is not right."
"This, we think, doesn't do for us, Bachka."
"How ought it to be to your thinking?"
"In this way, Bachka, if you have stolen from anybody, take the thing back to him, and ask for forgiveness; if the man forgives, God forgives too."
"Yes, but the priest is a man also, why can't he forgive?"
"Why should he not forgive, Bachka? The priest can also forgive. If he had stolen from the priest, Bachka, the priest can forgive."
"But if he had stolen from another, then he can't forgive?"
"How can he, Bachka? He can't, Bachka: it will be untrue, Bachka, the faithless man, Bachka, will go everywhere."
So, so, you unwashed booby, I thought to myself, what fine arguments you have built up for yourself! and I continued to question him.
"And have you heard anything about our Lord Jesus Christ?"
"Certainly, Bachka—I have heard."
"What have you heard about Him?"
"He walked on the water, Bachka."
"H'm. Very well, He walked on the water; and what else?"
"He drowned the swine in the sea, Bachka."
"And more than that?"
"Nothing, Bachka. He was kind and compassionate, Bachka."
"Well, how was He compassionate? What did He do?"
"He spat in the blind man's eyes, Bachka—and the blind man saw; He fed the people with bread and fishes."
"I see, brother, you know much."
"Certainly, Bachka, I know much."
"Who told you all this?"
"People, Bachka, the people told me."
"Your people?"
"The people? Of course, Bachka—our people, our people."
"And from whom have they heard it?"
"I don't know, Bachka."
"Well, and don't you know why Christ came here upon earth?"
He thought a long time, but did not answer.
"Don't you know?" I asked.
"I don't know."
I told him all about the Orthodox faith, and I was not sure if he listened or not; all the time he was whooping at the dogs or brandishing his long stick.
"Well, have you understood what I have been telling you?" I asked.
"Of course, Bachka, I've understood: He drowned the swine in the sea, he spat in the blind man's eyes—the blind man saw again; He gave bread and fishes to the people."
They had stuck in his head these swine in the sea, the blind man, and the fishes, and nothing more could penetrate there. . . . I remembered Kiriak's words, about their poor understanding, and how they themselves did not notice how they touched the hem of His garment. What then? This one too had possibly touched the hem, but certainly only just touched it—hardly touched it—only felt it with the tip of his finger: how could he be taught to catch hold of it more firmly? So I tried to converse with him in the most simple manner about the blessings of Christ's example and the object of His sufferings; but my listener continued imperturbably to brandish his long stick in the same way. It was difficult to deceive myself. I saw that he did not understand anything.
"You have understood nothing?" I asked.
"Nothing, Bachka—you making lies of truth; I am sorry for Him. He was good, the little Christ."
"Good?"
"He was good, Bachka, He must not be wronged."
"You ought to love Him?"
"How could one not love Him, Bachka?"
"What You could love Him?"
"How could I not, Bachka—I always loved Him, Bachka."
"That's right, my good lad."
"Thank you, Bachka."
"Now it only remains for you to be baptized. He will save you, too."
The savage was silent.
"What is it, friend?" I said. "Why are you silent?"
"No, Bachka."
"What do you mean by 'No, Bachka.'"
"He won't save me, Bachka; for Him the Zaysan beats, the Shaman beats, the Lama drives away reindeer."
"So that's the chief misfortune!"
"Yes, Bachka."
"You must bear the misfortune for Christ's sake."
"Why, Bachka—He is compassionate, Bachka. When I die, He Himself will be sorry for me. Why should we wrong Him?"
I wanted to tell him, that if he believed Christ would have compassion on him, he ought also to believe that He could save him too—but refrained so as not to hear again about the Zaysan and the Lama. It was evident that for this man Christ was one of his kind deities, perhaps even his kindest, but not one of the strong ones; kind, but not strong—not protective. He would not defend him from the Zaysan, nor from the Lama. What was to be done in this case? How was I to persuade the savage of this when on Christ's side there was no one to support Him, and on the other side there was much defence. A Roman Catholic priest, in the same circumstances, would have used cunning, as they had used cunning in China; he would have placed a small cross at the feet of Buddha and he would have bowed down before it assimilating Christ and Buddha, and he would have been proud of his success; and another innovation would have explained such a Christ, that nothing would remain to believe in—only think of Him becomingly and—you will be good. But even that was difficult in this case: how was my fine fellow to commence thinking, when all his thinking powers were frozen into a lump, and he could not thaw them again.
I remembered how Karl von Eckartshausen with the simplest comparisons was able admirably to convey to simple people the greatness of Christ's sacrifice in coming to earth, by making the comparison of a free man who, through his love for criminal prisoners, went to dwell with them in prison so as to share their sinful nature. Very simple and good; but my hearer, thanks to circumstances, knew no greater villains than those from whom he was running away to prevent them from baptizing him; he knew no other place, that might have produced on him greater horror, to compare with the terrible place he always inhabited. . . . Nothing could be done for him—either with Massillon or Bourdalone, or Eckartshausen. There he was poking his stick into the snow or cracking it—his face like a lump of soapsuds—there was no expression in his peep-holes (it would be a shame to call them eyes); there was not a spark of the soul's fire; even the sound of the words that issued from his throat seemed somehow dead: in grief or in joy there was always the same intonation—slow and passionless—half the words were swallowed in his gullet, half were squeezed by his teeth. How was he with these means to seek for abstract truths, and what could he do with them? They would be a burden to him: he must only die out with his whole race as the Aztecs have died, or the Red Indians are dying.—A terrible law! What happiness that he does not know it.—He only knows how to thrust his stick into the snow—first he sticks it in on the right side then he sticks it in on the left side; he does not know where he is driving me, why he is driving me, or why, like a child with a simple heart, he is unfolding to me, for his own harm, his most sacred secrets. . . . His whole talent is small, and it is a blessing for him that little will be asked of him. He was being carried on into the boundless distance, flourishing his long stick, which waving before my eyes, began to have the effect of a pendulum on me. These regular flourishes, like the passes of a mesmerist, caught me in their somnolent meshes; drowsiness crept over my brain and I fell asleep quietly and sweetly—I fell asleep only to awaken in a position, in which, God forbid, any living soul should find himself.
VII
I SLEPT soundly and probably long, but suddenly it seemed that something jostled me and I found myself sitting up bent on one side. Still half asleep, I wanted to right myself, but noticed that something shoved me back. There was howling all around—what had happened? I wanted to see, but I had nothing to see with, for my eyes would not open. I called to my savage.
"Hi, you, friend! Where are you?"
He shouted into my very ear:
"Wake up, Bachka, wake up quickly! You'll freeze."
"What has happened? I can't open my eyes."
"Directly, Bachka, you'll open them."
And with these words—what do you think he did? He spat in my eyes and then rubbed them with the sleeve of his reindeer coat.
"What are you about?"
"Rubbing your eyes, Bachka."
"Get along, you fool. . . ."
"No, wait a moment, Bachka—I'm not a fool. You'll soon see again."
It was quite true, when he rubbed my face with his fur coat sleeve, my frozen eyelashes thawed and my eyelids opened. But on what? What was to be seen? I do not know if it can be even more terrible in hell: all around there was profound impenetrable darkness—and it seemed alive, it trembled and cracked like a monster whose body was a compact mass of frozen dust and whose breath was life-destroying cold. Yes, it was death in one of its most awful shapes, and meeting it face to face, I was terrified.
The only thing I was able to say was to ask about Kiriak, Where was he? But it was so difficult to speak that the savage did not hear me. Then I noticed that when he spoke to me, he bent down and shouted under the lappets of my fur cap, straight into my ear, and I also shouted under his fur cap:
"Where is the other sledge?"
"Don't know, Bachka, we have been separated."
"How separated?"
"Separated, Bachka."
I did not want to believe this; I wanted to look round, but I could not see anything in any direction; all around us was hell, dark and terrible. Under my side and close to the sledge something moved like a ball, but it was impossible to see what it was. I asked the savage what it could be, and he answered:
"The dogs, Bachka, have lost their way and are trying to warm themselves."
Shortly after he made a movement in the darkness and said:
"Fall down, Bachka."
"Fall down where?"
"Here, Bachka—fall into the snow."
"Wait," I said.
I could not yet believe that I had lost my Kiriak, and wanted to stand up in the sledge and call to him, but at the same moment I felt smothered, as if I had been choked with all this frozen dust, and I fell down into the snow, giving my head a somewhat severe blow on the edge of the sledge. I had no strength to rise again, and even if I had had the strength, my savage would not have allowed me to do so. He held me fast and said:
"Lie still, Bachka, lie quiet; you will not die. The snow will cover us up, it will be warm. Otherwise you will perish. Lie still."
There was nothing else to be done. I had to obey him, and he pulled the reindeer skins off the sledge, threw them over me, and then crawled under them too.
"Now, Bachka, it'll be nice."
But this "nice" was so nasty, that I instantly had to turn away as far as possible from my neighbour, because his presence at a short distance was unbearable. The corpse of Lazarus, that had lain four days in the grave of Bethany, could not have stunk more than this live man did. It was worse than the stench of a corpse; it was a mixture of the fetid smell of the reindeer skins, the strong odour of human sweat, smoke, damp rottenness, dried fish, fish fat and dirt. . . . "O, God," I cried, "what a miserable man am I! How loathsome this brother, created after Thine image, is to me." Oh, how gladly would I have escaped from this stinking grave, in which he had placed me next to himself; if I had only had strength and power to stand in this hellish drifting chaos! But nothing resembling such a possibility could be expected—and I had to submit.
My savage noticed that I had turned away, and said:
"Stop, Bachka, you have turned your snout the wrong way—put your snout here—we will blow together—it will soon get warmer."
Even to hear this seemed terrible.
I pretended not to hear him, but suddenly he hopped on to me, like a bug, rolled over me, lay down with his nose touching mine, and began to breathe into my face with terrible sniffs and stench. He blew extraordinarily loud, like a blacksmith's bellows. I could not bear it, and tried to make him stop.
"Breathe in a quieter way," I said.
"Why? It does not matter, Bachka, I'm not tired; I can warm your snout, Bachka."
Of course his having said "snout" did not offend me, because I had no ambition at that moment, and I repeat that for the expression of useless niceties such as making a distinction between an animal's snout and a man's face, no separate words existed in their language. Everything was snout; he himself had a snout, his wife had a snout, his reindeer had a snout, his god Shigemony had a snout. Why should a bishop not have a snout too? My grace could put up with this easily, but the difficulty was to endure his breath, the stink of dried fish, and some other disgusting odour—probably the stench of his own stomach—I could not stand it.
"It's enough," I said. "Stop, you have warmed me; now, don't blow any more."
"No, Bachka, we must blow, it will be warmer."
"No, please don't; you've bored me enough with it—I don't want it."
"Well, Bachka, if you don't want it, we needn't. Now we can go to sleep."
"Go to sleep."
"And you, Bachka, go to sleep."
A second after he had said this, like a well-trained horse, that at once starts at a gallop, he instantly fell asleep, and began to snore. Yes, how the rascal snored! I must confess to you, that from my childhood I have been a great enemy of all who snore in their sleep, and if even one snoring man is in the room I am a martyr, and it is impossible for me to get to sleep. As we had many snorers in the seminary and the academy, I often could not help listening to them attentively, and I am not joking when I tell you that I worked out a theory about snoring. By his snores, I assure you, I can judge of a man's character and temperament as well as you can by his voice, or his walk. I assure you, it is so; a passionate man snores passionately just as if even in his sleep he was in a rage. I had a comrade in the academy who was gay and a dandy, so he snored in a dandified way.—so gaily, with a sort of whistle, just as if he were going to the cathedral of his own town for the first time in a new gown. It often happened that they came from the other dormitories to listen to him and admire his art. But now my savage neighbour started such music as I had never heard before, nor had I ever observed or heard such an extensive diapason, nor such rapid time; it was just as if a large swarm of bees was humming and knocking gently on the sides of a dry, resonant, bee-hive. Beautifully, gravely, rhythmically, and in time thus: ou-ou-ou-ou—bum-bum-bum, ou-ou-ou-ou—bum, bum-bum. According to my observations, I could have concluded that this was produced by a punctual and reliable man, but unfortunately I could make no observations: that brigand quite overpowered me with his noise. I suffered, I suffered long,—at last could bear it no more, and poked him in the ribs.
"Don't snore," I said.
"Why, Bachka? Why shouldn't I snore?"
"You snore horribly, you don't let me sleep."
"You ought to snore too."
"I don't know how to snore."
"And I know how to, Bachka," and he instantly started droning at full speed.
What could you do with such an artist? How could you argue with such a man, who in every way was your superior; he knew more about baptism than I did, and how many times one could be baptized, he was learned in names, and knew how to snore, and I did not know how to—in everything he had the advantage—he must be given all due honour and precedence.
I drew back from him as far as I could, and a little to the side, and with difficulty getting my hand under my cassock, pressed my repeater; the watch struck only three and three-quarters. That meant it was still day; the blizzard, would, of course, last the whole night, perhaps even longer. . . . Siberian blizzards are of long duration. You can imagine what it was to have all this before one. In the meantime my position became more and more terrible; we had certainly been well covered up with snow, and in our lair it was, not only warm, but stuffy; but, on the other hand, the horrible sickening exhalations became more dense—my breath was taken away by this suffocating stench, and it was a pity it had not finished me quite, because I would then not have experienced a hundredth part of those sufferings which I felt, when I remembered that with Father Kiriak not only my bottle with brandy and water, but all our provisions had been lost. I clearly saw that if I was not suffocated here as in the Black Hole, I was certainly threatened with the most terrible, the most painful of all deaths—the death from starvation and thirst, which had already begun its torments on me. Oh, how I regretted that I had not remained above to freeze, but had crawled into this snowy coffin, where we two were lying so close together and under such a weight, that all my efforts to raise myself and get up were quite useless.
With the greatest trouble I was able to get from under my shoulder some small pieces of snow, and greedily swallowed them, one after the other, but—alas! this did not alleviate my sufferings at all—on the contrary, it only aroused in me nausea and an unbearable burning in the throat and stomach, and especially near the heart; my head was ready to split: I had ringing in the ears and my eyes burnt, and stood out of their sockets. While all the time the tiresome swarm of bees hummed louder and louder, and knocked more sonorously on the sides of the hive. This horrible condition lasted until my repeater struck seven—after which I don't remember anything more, as I lost consciousness.
This was the greatest good luck, that could have befallen me in this disastrous position. I do not know if I rested physically during that time, but in any case I did not suffer from the thoughts of what I had before me, the horrors of which must in reality greatly exceed all the representations that an alarmed fantasy could conjure up.
VIII
WHEN I regained consciousness, the swarm of bees had flown away, and I found myself at the bottom of a deep hole under the snow; I was lying at the very bottom of it with outstretched arms and legs, and I felt nothing; neither cold, nor hunger, nor thirst. No, nothing at all. Only my head was so confused and dull that it caused me some trouble to recall to my memory all that had happened to me, and in what position I then was. But of course all this became clear at last, and the first thought that entered my mind at the time was that my savage had woken up before me, and had run off alone, leaving me to my fate.
Indeed, looking at it from an impartial point of view, he should have done so, especially after my threats of yesterday to have him baptized, and to have search made for his brother Kuz'ma-Demyan; but he in his heathen manner acted differently. I had scarcely moved my stiffened limbs and sat up on the bottom of my hollowed grave, when I saw him about thirty paces from me. He was standing under a large rime-covered tree, and was making strange movements, and above him on a long branch a dog was hanging, from whose ripped up belly the still warm intestines were hanging out.
I understood that he was making a sacrifice, or, as they say, performing a mystery, and to speak the truth, I was not sorry that this sacrifice had detained him until I was awake, and could prevent him from abandoning me. For I was firmly persuaded that the heathen must certainly have the unchristian intention of doing so, and I envied Father Kiriak, who was now, though suffering the same misfortunes, at least in the company of a Christian, who would doubtless be more reliable than my heathen. It may have been caused by my own difficult position, that a suspicion was born in me that perhaps Father Kiriak, who was able to foresee, better than I could, all the accidents of Siberian travel, had, under the guise of benevolence, cunningly managed to pass on to me the heathen, while he took the Christian for himself. Of course this was not at all like Father Kiriak, and even now, when it recurs to my memory, I feel ashamed of these suspicions; but what was I to do when they crossed my mind?
I crawled out of the snow heap and began to approach my savage; he heard the snow creak under my feet, and turned round, but at once resumed the performance of his mysteries.
"Well, have you not bowed enough?" I said, after standing beside him for about a minute.
"Enough, Bachka"—and returning at once to the sledge, he began to reharness the remaining dogs. When they were harnessed we started.
"To whom were you making that sacrifice?" I asked him, pointing back.
"I don't know, Bachka."
"But you sacrificed the dog to some one?—to God or to the devil?—to Shaytan?
"To Shaytan, Bachka, of course, to Shaytan."
"Why did you make him this gift?"
"Because he did not freeze us, Bachka; it was for that I gave him the dog for him grub."
"H'm! yes, for him grub—he won't burst, but I'm sorry for the dog."
"Why, Bachka, why are you sorry? The dog was a bad one, it would soon have died; it does not matter—let him have it—let him grub?"
"So that's how you reckon? You gave him a dog that was half dead."
"Of course, Bachka."
"Please tell me, where are you driving now?"
"Don't know, Bachka, we're looking for the track."
"But where is my priest—my companion?"
"Don't know, Bachka."
"How are we to find him?"
"Don't know, Bachka."
"Perhaps he has been frozen."
"Why should he be frozen? There's snow, he won't freeze."
I remembered that Kiriak had the bottle with warming drink, and the basket of provisions, and was reassured. I had nothing of the sort with me, and now I would gladly have eaten even the dogs' dried fish; but I was afraid to ask for it, because I was not sure if we had any.
All day long we seemed to be going round and round at random; I saw it, if not by the passionless face of my driver, by the restless, irregular and troubled movements of his dogs, which seemed to be jumping about, fidgeting, and always throwing themselves from side to side. My savage had much trouble with them, but his unchanging passionless indifference did not desert him for a moment; he only seemed to work with his long stick with greater attention, without which on this day we should have been thrown out at least a hundred times, and left either in the middle of the wilderness or else by the woods which we were constantly skirting.
Suddenly one of the dogs stuck its muzzle into the snow, twitched with its hind legs, and fell. My savage knew better than I did what this meant, and what new misfortune was threatening us, but he neither showed alarm nor agitation; now as always he planted his stick into the snow with a firm, steady hand, and gave me this anchor of safety to hold, while he quickly sprang out of the sledge, extracted the exhausted dog from its harness, and dragged it to the back of the sledge. I thought he was going to dispatch it and throw it away, but when I looked back I saw that this dog was also suspended from a tree with its body ripped open and its bloody intestines hanging out. It was a horrible sight.
"What's this again?" I shouted to him.
"It's for Shaytan, Bachka."
"Come, brother, that's enough for your Shaytan. It's too much for him to eat two dogs a day."
"Never mind, Bachka, let him grub."
"No, it's not 'never mind,'" I said. "But if you go on killing them at this rate, you will soon have killed them all for Shaytan."
"Bachka, I only give him those that die."
"You had better feed them."
"There's no food, Bachka."
"So!" This only proved what I had feared.
The short day was already sinking into evening, and it was evident that the remaining dogs were quite exhausted; their strength was gone, and from time to time they began to gasp wildly and to sit down. Suddenly another fell, while all the rest, as if by agreement, sat down on their haunches and began to howl, as if they were celebrating a requiem for it.
My savage arose, and was about to hang up the third dog for Shaytan, but this time I strictly forbade it. I was so tired of seeing the ceremony, and this abomination seemed only to increase the horror of our situation.
"Stop!" I said, "don't touch it; let it die a natural death."
He did not dispute it, but with his usual imperturbable calmness, did the most unexpected thing. He silently stuck his long stick into the snow in front of our sledge, and began to unharness the dogs one after the other, and let them go free. The hungry animals seemed to forget their weariness; they whined, began to yelp and suddenly rushed off in a pack in the same direction, and in a moment they were lost to sight in the wood beyond the distant fallow land. All this happened so quickly that it reminded me of the story of "Il'ià Murometz": "All saw Il'ià mount his horse, but none saw him ride away." Our motive power had left us; we would have to walk. Of the ten dogs which so lately had been strong and healthy, only one remained with us, and it lay at our feet in its harness dying.
My savage stood by with the same apathy, resting on his stick, and looking at his feet.
"Why did you do that?" I cried.
"I've let them go, Bachka."
"I see you have; but will they come back?"
"No, Bachka, they won't; they'll become wild."
"Why did you let them loose?"
"They want to grub, Bachka, let them catch an animal—they'll grub."
"But what shall we grub?"
"Nothing, Bachka."
"Ah! you monster!"
He evidently did not understand, and did not answer, but stuck his stick into the snow, and went away. Nobody would have guessed why he went away from me. I shouted after him, called him back, but he only gazed at me with his dull eyes and growled, "Hold your tongue, Bachka," and went further. He also soon disappeared in the skirts of the forest, and I remained quite alone.
Is it necessary for me to dwell on the terrible position in which I found myself, or perhaps you will better understand all its horrors, when I tell you I could think of nothing but that I was hungry, that I wanted to eat not in the human sense of the wish for food, but to devour as a famished wolf would devour its prey. I took my watch out of my pocket, pressed the spring, and was staggered by a new surprise: my watch had stopped—a thing that had never happened before. With trembling hands I tried to wind it up, and convinced myself it had stopped only because it had run down; it could go for nearly two days. This proved to me that when we passed the night under the snow, we had lain for more than twenty-four hours in our icy grave! How long had it been? Perhaps twenty-four hours, perhaps thrice that time. I no longer was surprised that I was suffering so acutely from hunger. This proved that at the very least I had not eaten for three days, and when I realized it I felt the torments of hunger all the sharper.
If I could only eat—eat anything! a dirty, a nasty thing—only eat something! That was all I could understand, as I cast my eyes in unbearable suffering despairingly around me.
IX
WE were on a flat elevation, behind us lay an enormous limitless waste, before us its endless continuation, to the right a hollow filled with snow-drifts bounded by rising ground, while beyond, at a great distance, the blue line of the forest, into which our dogs had disappeared, showed dimly on the horizon. To the left stretched the skirts of another wood, along which we had driven until our team had been dispersed, and we ourselves were standing at the foot of a huge snowdrift, that had been blown over a small hillock covered with tall pines and firs, that seemed to reach to the sky. Sitting on the edge of the sledge, exhausted by hunger and numb with cold, I could not pay any attention to what was around me, nor did I notice when my savage appeared beside me. I neither saw how he approached, nor how he silently seated himself near me, and now at last when I noticed him he was sitting, with his long stick across his knees, and his hands hidden in the breast of his fur coat. Not a feature of his face had changed, not a muscle had moved, and his eyes had no expression beyond a dull calm submission.
I looked at him, but did not speak to him, and he as was his wont, never spoke first; this time he remained silent too. We understood each other, and we sat thus, side by side, through the endless dark night without exchanging a single word.
But as soon as the grey dawn began to show itself in the sky, the savage silently rose from the sledge, stuck his hands deeper into the bosom of his fur coat, and again began to wander about, and, constantly stopping, he would examine the trees long, very long, and then walk on. At last he disappeared from my sight, and then in the same quick passionless way returned, and at once dived under the sledge and began to arrange or to disarrange something.
"What are you doing there?" I asked—and in speaking made the unpleasant discovery that my voice had become weak and had even quite changed its tone, while my savage spoke now as before, biting off his words jerkily.
"Getting my snow-shoes, Bachka."
"Snow-shoes!" I cried in horror, and it was now that I understood for the first time the meaning of "sharpening one's snow-shoes."[8] "Why are you getting your snow-shoes?"
"I shall run away at once."
"Ah, you villain!" I thought. "Where are you going?"
"I shall run to the right, Bachka."
"Why will you run that way?"
"To bring you grub."
"You lie!" I said. "You want to desert me."
But without the slightest confusion he answered;
"No, I shall bring you grub."
"Where will you find grub?"
"Don't know, Bachka."
"You don't know then where you are running?"
"To the right."
"Who is there to the right?"
"Don't know, Bachka."
"If you don't know, why are you running away?"
"Have found a sign—there's a tent."
"You lie, my dear fellow," I said. "You want to leave me here alone."
"No, I will bring grub."
"Well, go, only it's better not to lie, go where you like."
"Why lie, Bachka, not good lie."
"It's not at all good, brother, but you are lying."
"No, Bachka, I don't lie; come with me. I show you sign."
He caught up the snow-shoes, and his stick, and dragging them after him, took me by the hand, led me up to a certain tree, and asked:
"Bachka, do you see?"
"What is there to see?" I answered. "I see a tree and nothing more."
"But there on the large branch, twig on twig, do you see?"
"Well, and what of that? There is a twig, and probably the wind blew it there."
"No wind, Bachka; it's not wind, but kind man put it there—on that side there's a tent."
It was very evident he was either deceiving me, or was himself deceived, but what was I to do? I could not keep him by force from going and what would be the use of preventing him? Was it not all the same to die from starvation and cold—alone, or for two to die together? Let him run away and save himself if he could do so, and I said to him as the monks do: "Save thyself, brother."
He answered quietly: "Thank you, Bachka," and with these words fixed his snow-shoes firmly on his feet took his stick over his shoulder, scraped first with one foot and then with the other, and ran away. In a minute he was lost to sight, and I remained quite alone in the midst of snow and frost, and now quite exhausted by the acute cravings of hunger.
X
I PASSED the short Siberian day strolling about, near the sledge, now sitting down on it, then again rising, when the cold overcame the unbearable tortures of hunger. Of course, I only walked slowly, as I had not much strength left, and also because one sooner gets tired from rapid motion, and then one feels the cold more.
Wandering about near the spot where my savage had deserted me, several times I approached the tree on which he had pointed out the broken twig. I examined it carefully and was the more convinced that it was only a twig that had been torn from another tree, and blown there by the wind.
"He has cheated me," I said to myself. "He has cheated me, and it can't be counted as a sin. Why should he perish with me when it could do me no good."
Need I tell you how hard and terribly long the short winter day appeared to me? I did not believe in any possibility of salvation, and awaited death, but where was it? Why did it delay? And when would it come? What tortures would I have to endure before it caressed me and soothed my sufferings? . . . Soon I began to observe that from time to time my sight failed me. Suddenly all the objects before me seemed to flow together and disappear into a kind of grey darkness, then suddenly and unexpectedly they would become clear again. . . . I thought this was caused simply by fatigue, but I do not know what part the changes of the light played in it; whenever the light changed slightly, things became visible again, and even very distinctly visible, and I could see very far and then again they became misty. The sun that showed itself for an hour behind the distant hillocks shed a wonderful pink light on the snow, that covered these mounds; this occurs before evening, then the sun suddenly disappears and the rose-coloured light changes to an exquisite blue. It was so now: everything near and around me turned blue, as if sprinkled with sapphire dust, wherever there was a rut, or the mark of a footstep, or even where a stick, had been stuck into the snow, a bluish mist curled in clouds, and after a short time this play of light was also extinguished: the wilderness, as if covered with an overturned bowl, became dark and then . . . . grew grey. With this last change, when the wonderful blue colour disappeared, and momentary gloom spread over everything, the marvellous tricks of the wilderness began to show themselves, before my tired eyes, in the grey darkness. Every object assumed extraordinary and huge proportions and outlines; our little sledge looked like the hull of a ship, the frost-covered carcass of the dead dog looked like a sleeping white bear; while the trees appeared to have come to life and were moving about from place to place. . . . All this was so life-like and interesting, that notwithstanding my sad position, I would have been ready to examine it with curiosity if a strange occurrence had not frightened me away from my observations and awakened in me a new fear, arousing at the same time the instinct of self-preservation. I saw, in the twilight, something flitting in the distance, like a dark arrow, then another, and a third, and immediately after the air was filled with a long doleful howl.
In an instant I understood that it must be either wolves or our liberated dogs, who had probably found nothing to eat, not being able to catch any animal, and, quite exhausted by hunger, had remembered their dead friend, and wanted to profit by his body. In any case, if they were either famished dogs or wolves, they were not likely to give any quarter to my worshipful self, and although reason told me it would be better to be torn to pieces in a moment, than to have to suffer the long agonies of hunger, the instinct of self-preservation took the upper hand and notwithstanding my heavy clothes, I was able to climb to the very top of the tree, with the agility and quickness of a squirrel, that, I must confess, I did not know I possessed, nor had ever dreamed of, and only stopped when I could go no higher. Below me an immensity of snow was spread out, and above me a dark sky like thin scum, on which out of the distant impenetrable gloom, the rayless stars shone with a reddish light. While I was casting my eyes around, down below, almost at the roots of my tree, a fierce fight took place. There were groans and howls, tearing and struggling, once more groans, and then silent flittings through the darkness in different directions, and again all was quiet, as if nothing had occurred. Such undisturbed silence succeeded that I could hear the beatings of the pulses in my body and my breathing appeared to make a noise like the rustling of hay, and when I breathed heavily, it was like an electric spark, that quietly crackled in the unbearably rarefied frosty air; it was so dry and cold, that even the hairs of my beard were frozen, and pricked like wire and broke to the touch. I even now feel a chill go through me at the remembrance, which my frost-bitten legs help to keep alive ever since that time. It may have been a little warmer below, perhaps not, but in any case I was not sure, that the attack of the beasts of prey would not be repeated, and decided not to descend from the tree till morning. It was not more terrible than to be buried under the snow with my malodorous companion, and on the whole what could be more terrible than my present position? I just chose a widely spreading bough and sank down on it as in a fairly comfortable arm chair, in such a way that even if I had dozed, I should not have fallen off; but for greater security I put my arms firmly round a branch, and then stuck them deeper into the pockets of my fur coat. The position was well chosen and well constructed. I sat there like a frozen old owl, which I probably resembled in reality. My watch had long since stopped, but from my position I had an admirable view of Orion and the Pleiades—those heavenly clocks, by which I could now calculate the hours of my torture. I occupied myself with this: at first I calculated the exact time, and then I looked long, very long at these strange stars shining on a black sky, until they grew fainter, changed from gold to copper, and at last became quite dim and were extinguished.
The morning approached, equally grey and joyless. My watch, that I had set by the position of the Pleiades, showed it was nine o'clock. My hunger increased and tormented me past all belief. I no longer felt the oppressive scent of viands, nor the recollection of the taste of food. I only had a hungry pain. My empty stomach was dried up, twisted like a cord, and caused me the most unbearable sufferings.
Without any hope of finding something eatable, I climbed down the tree and began to wander about. At one place I picked up from the snow a fir cone. I thought at first it might be a cedar cone, and would contain nuts, but it proved to be a simple fir cone. I broke it, found a seed, which I swallowed, but the resinous smell was so unpleasant that my empty stomach refused to receive it, and my pains were only increased. At this time I noticed that all round our abandoned sledge there were numberless fresh tracks going in all directions, and that our dead dog had disappeared.
My corpse would evidently be the next to go, and the same wolves would prey on it and divide it among themselves in the same way. But when would it be? Was it possible in another day? It might even be more. No! I remembered one fanatical faster, who starved himself for the honour of Christ. He had the courage to note the days of his anguish and counted nine. . . . How terrible! But he fasted in the warmth, while I was exposed to the bitterest cold—of course that must make a difference. My strength had quite deserted me—I could no longer warm myself by motion, and sat down on the edge of the sledge. Even the consciousness of my fate seemed to abandon me. On my eyelids I felt the shadow of death, and was only troubled it was so long in leading me away to the path from which there was no returning. You must understand how earnestly I wished to depart from this frozen wilderness to the house of reunion of all mortals, and in no way regretted, that I would have to make my bed here in this frozen darkness. The chain of my thoughts was severed, the pitcher was broken, and the wheel had fallen into the well. Neither in my thoughts nor in the most ordinary form of words could I turn towards heaven. I was unable to draw comfort in any way, in any form. I realized this and sighed.
Our Father! I cannot offer Thee, even penance for my sins, but Thou Thyself hast removed my light from its place. Thou wilt answer for me before Thyself.
This was the only prayer I was able to summon to my mind, after that I can remember nothing, nor how that day passed away. I can but affirm with certainty, it was the same as the previous one. It only appeared to me, I saw during that day, somewhere far away from me, two living creatures, and they looked like some sort of birds; they seemed to be of the size of magpies and in appearance they resembled magpies, but with dirty rough feathers like owls. Just before sunset they flew down from the trees, walked about on the snow, and flew away again. But perhaps I only imagined this in my hallucinations before death; in any case it appeared to me so vividly, that I followed their flight with my eyes, and saw them disappear in the distance as if they had melted away. My tired eyes having reached this point, rested there and became fixed. But what do you think? Suddenly I began to notice in this direction a strange spot, that I think had not been there before. Then it seemed to move—though the movement was so imperceptible that it could only be distinguished by the inner sense rather than by the eyes, yet I was certain that it moved.
The hope of being saved stirred within me, and all my sufferings were not able to silence or stifle it. The spot continued to grow, and became more distinct, and was more clearly visible on that wonderful faintly pink background. Was it a mirage?—which was so likely in this desolate place, in such capricious light—or was it really something alive that was hurrying towards me? In any case it was flying straight towards me, and it was really not walking but flying. At last I saw its outlines; I could distinguish its figure; I could see its legs—I saw how they stretched out one after the other . . . and immediately after I fell rapidly from joy into despair. Yes: this was no mirage—I saw it too clearly—but it was also no man, nor was it a wild beast. On the whole earth there was no creature made of flesh and blood, that resembled this enchanted, fantastic apparition, approaching towards me as if it were condensing, forming, or, as our modern spiritualists say—materializing out of the playful tints of the frozen air. Either my sight and my imagination were deceiving me, or could it be a spirit? What spirit? Who are you?
Can it be Father Kiriak, hastening to meet me from the Kingdom of the dead? . . . But perhaps we were both already there . . . is it possible I have already finished crossing the bar. . . . How wonderful! How curious this spirit is, it is my co-inhabitant in this new life. I will describe him to you as well as I can: a gigantic winged figure floated towards me, clad from head to heels in a chiton of silver brocade, which sparkled all over; on its head it had a head-dress that seemed to be seven feet high and glittered as if it were covered all over with diamonds, or, more precisely, as if it were a whole diamond mitre. . . . It was like a richly ornamented Indian idol, and to complete this resemblance with an idol and its fantastic appearance, from under the feet of my wonderful visitor sparks of silver dust spurted out on all sides, and he seemed to float upon them as on a light cloud, looking at the very least like the legendary Hermes.
While I was examining him he—this wonderful spirit—came nearer and nearer and at last was quite close to me, a moment more and he had covered me with snow dust, stuck his fairy wand into the snow and exclaimed:
"How do you do, Bachka?"
I could not believe either my eyes or my ears; this wonderful spirit was, of course, my savage. Now it was no longer possible to make a mistake: the same snow-shoes were under his feet, on which he had run away—on his back he had others; before me, stuck in the snow, was his long staff, and in his arms there was a whole bear's ham, fur and all, with its paw and claws. But in what was he clad—how was he transfigured?
Without waiting for any reply to his greeting, he thrust this bear's meat into my face and roared:
"Grub, Bachka," and he himself sat down on the snow and began to take off his snow-shoes.
XI
I FELL upon the bear's ham and began gnawing and sucking the raw flesh, trying to appease my torturing hunger, and at the same time looked at my deliverer.
What had he on his head that looked the whole time like a wonderful sparkling ornament—I was unable to make out what it was and asked him.
"What have you on your head?"
"That is because you did not give me any money," he answered.
I must admit I did not quite understand what he wanted to say, but continuing to look at him more attentively I discovered that his high diamond head gear was nothing more nor less than his own long hair. His hair was filled through and through with snowflakes, and had been blown about while he ran so that it had streamed out on all sides like wisps and become frozen.
"Where is your fur cap?"
"Thrown it away."
"Why?"
"Because you gave me no money."
"Well," I said, "I forgot to give you money; that was wrong of me, but what a cruel man that master must be, who would not trust you, and took away your cap in this frost."
"Nobody took away my cap."
"What happened then."
"I myself threw it down."
He told me that he had walked all day following the signs and had at last come to a hut; in the but the carcass of a bear was lying, but the master was not there.
"Well?"
"I thought it would be long for you to wait, Bachka; you'd die."
"Well?"
"I cut off the bear's leg and ran back again, but I left him my cap."
"Why?"
"That he should not think badly, Bachka."
"But this master does not know you."
"This one does not know me, Bachka, but the Other knows me."
"What other?"
"That Master, Who looks from above."
"Hm! Who looks from above?"
"Yes, Bachka, of course, He sees everything, Bachka."
"He sees all, brother, He sees all."
"Of course, Bachka, He does not like those who do wrong, Bachka."
The reasoning was very much the same as that used by Saint Sirin, when seduced by a temptress, who tried to entice him into her house, but he invited her to sin with him before all the people in the market place, and she said: "We can't there, the people will see us," but he answered: "I don't pay much attention to the people, but what if God should see us? It is better we separate!"
"Well, brother," I thought, "you, too, are not walking far from the heavenly kingdom." During my short reflections he had fallen down in the snow.
"Good night, Bachka; you grub. I want to sleep."
And he began to snore in his own mighty fashion.
It was already dark: again the black sky was stretched over us, and on it again like sparks on pitch the rayless stars appeared.
By that time I began to revive, having swallowed a few small pieces of raw meat, and I stood with the bear's ham in my hands, looking at the sleeping savage, and thinking:
"What an enigma is the journey of this pure, exalted soul in such a clumsy body, and in this terrible wilderness? Why is he incarnated here and not in lands more blessed by nature? Why is his understanding so limited that he is unable to have a broader and clearer conception of his Creator? Why, O God, is he deprived of the possibility of thanking Thee for enlightening him with Thy Holy Gospel? Why have not I the means in my hands to regenerate him with a new and solemn birth in Thy Son Christ? All this must be in accordance with Thy Will; if in his miserable condition Thou wishest to enlighten him with some divine light from above, then, I believe, that this enlightenment of his mind will be Thy gift. O Lord, how am I to understand it: let me not displease Thee by what I do; nor injure this Thy simple-hearted servant?"
Lost in these reflections, I did not notice the brightness that suddenly flamed up in the sky and bathed us in an enchanted light; again everything took on huge fantastic dimensions, and my sleeping savage appeared to me like a powerful enchanted fairy knight. I bent over him and began to examine him as if I had never seen him before, and what do you think?—he appeared to be beautiful. I imagined that this was he "in whose neck remained strength, he whose mortal foot never trod the path which no fowl knoweth, he before whom the horror fleeth," which had reduced me to impotence, and had caught me as in a noose, in my own projects. His speech is poor—therefore he cannot console a sorrowful heart with his lips, but his words are as sparks from the beatings of his heart. How eloquent is his virtue, and who would consent to grieve him? Certainly not I. No, as the Lord liveth, Who has grieved my soul for His sake, I will not do it. May my shoulder fall off from my back, and my arm break off from the elbow, if I lift it against this poor man, and against his poor race. Pardon me, holy Augustin, even before I differed from thee, and now also I do not agree with thee that "even the virtues of the heathen are only hidden vices." No, this saviour of my life acted from no other impulse than virtue, the most self-denying compassion, and magnanimity: he, not knowing the Apostle Peter's words, "took courage for me, his enemy, and committed his soul to works of charity." He threw away his fur cap and ran a day and a night in that frozen head-gear, being moved, of course, not only by the natural feeling of sympathy for me, but having also "religio," prizing the reunion with that master "Who looks from above." What can I do for him now? Am I to take from him this religion and destroy it, when I lack the means of giving him another and a sweeter one, "as long as words confuse the reason of mortals," and it is impossible to show him works that could captivate him. Is it possible that I will force him by fear, or seduce him with the benefits of security. He will never be like Hamor and Shechem, who let themselves be circumcized for the sake of Jacob's daughters and herds. Those who acquire faith for daughters and herds, acquire not faith, but only daughters and herds, and the offering from their hands will be for Thee like the blood of swine. But where are my means of educating, of enlightening him, when these means do not exist, and when it seems as if it had been decreed that they should not be in my hands? No, my Kiriak, is right: a seal is here and the hand that is not liberated will not be able to break it, and I remembered the words of the prophet Habakkuk: "Though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come, it will not tarry." Come, Christ, come Thyself into this pure heart; come to this simple soul for as long as Thou tarriest none can force it. . . . Let these snow-covered clods of His valleys be dear to him, and when his day comes let him cease to exist, let him cast off his life as a vine sheds its ripe fruit, as a wild olive tree sheds its blossoms. . . . It is not for me to put his feet in the stocks nor to track his footsteps, when He Who Is has written with His finger the law of love in his heart and has led him aside from evil paths. Our Father, show Thyself to him who loves Thee and does not tempt Thee, and Thou shalt be praised for evermore as Thou hast always been praised, and through Thy mercy permit me and him and every one to fulfil Thy will, each as he can. There is no more confusion in my heart: I believe that Thou hast revealed Thyself to him as much as he requires it, and he knows Thee as all know Thee.
"Largior hic campos aether et lumene vestit
Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norunt!"
My memory recalled these words of Virgil—and bowing my head low beside my sleeping savage, I fell on my knees and blessed him, and covering his frozen head with the skirts of my cassock, I slept next to him, as I would have slept embracing the angel of the desert.
XII
SHALL I relate to you the end? It was not less wonderful than the beginning.
When we awoke the savage arranged the snow shoes he had brought under my feet, cut me a staff, placed it in my hands and taught me how to use it, then he bound a rope round me and taking the end in his hand drew me after him.
You ask whither? First of all, to pay our debt for the bear's meat. We hoped to find dogs there and to proceed further. But we did not go where my inexperienced plans had at first attracted me. In the smoky hut of our creditor another lesson awaited me, which had a most important influence on all my subsequent activity. The fact is, that the master for whom my savage had left his fur cap, had not been out shooting at the time that my deliverer had got there, but had been rescuing my friend Kiriak, whom he had found in the midst of the desert, abandoned by his Christian driver. Yes, gentlemen, here in this hut, lying near a dim stinking fire, I found my honest old monk, and in what a terrible heartrending condition! He had been quite frozen; he had been smeared with something and he was still alive, but the terrible stench that reached me when I approached him, told me that the soul that guarded this abode was leaving it. I raised the reindeer skin with which he was covered, and was horrified: gangrene had removed all the flesh from the bones of his legs, but he could still see and speak. Recognizing me, he whispered:
"Good day, Vladyko!"
With indescribable horror I looked at him, and could find no words.
"I was waiting for you, and now you have come. Thank God! You have seen the desert! What do you think of it? Never mind, you are alive, you have gained experience."
"Forgive me, Father Kiriak, for having brought you here."
"Enough, Vladyko! Your coming here will be blessed. You have gained experience, and can live. Shrive me quickly!"
"Very well," I said, "directly. Where have you placed the Holy Elements? Were they not with you?"
"They were with me," he announced, "but I have them no more."
"Where are they?"
"The savage ate them."
"What do you mean?"
"Yes, he ate them. . . . Well, what of it?" he said. "He is an ignorant man. . . . His His mind is confused. . . . I could not prevent him. . . . He said: 'I shall meet a priest—he will forgive me.' What is the use of speaking—his mind was quite confused."
"Surely he did not eat the Chrism?"
"He ate everything, even the sponge, and carried off the pyx and deserted me. . . . He believes that the priest will forgive him—what does it matter. His mind is confused. Let us forgive him, Vladyko—may Christ only forgive us. Promise me not to look for him—poor fellow—or, if you find him . . . ."
"To forgive him?"
"Yes, I ask it for Christ's sake . . . . and when you come home, see that you say nothing about it to the little enemies, or perhaps the cunning people will wreak their zeal on the poor fellow. Please do not tell them."
I gave him my word, and kneeling down near the dying man confessed him. At the same moment a gaily dressed sorceress rushed into the tent, which was now crowded with people, and began beating her tambourine; others followed her example, playing on wooden pitch-pipes and on another incomprehensible instrument of the type used in ancient times when the various tribes and races fell prone on their faces to the sound of pipes and other sorts of music before the idol of the Valley of Death—and a barbarous ceremony began.
These prayers were for us, and for our deliverance, though it might perhaps have been better if they had prayed for their own deliverance from us; and I, a bishop, had to be present at these supplications, while Father Kiriak was giving up his spirit to God, and was not exactly praying, nor exactly expostulating with Him like the prophet Jeremiah, or communing with Him like a true evangelical swine-herd, not in words but in inarticulate sighs:
"Have pity," he whispered. "Take me now as one of your hired labourers. The hour has arrived . . . . restore me to my former likeness and inheritence . . . . do not let me be a wicked devil in hell—drown my sins in Christ's blood, send me to Him. . . . I want to lie at His feet. Say 'So be it.'"
He breathed heavily and continued:
"O goodness—O simplicity—O love—O my joy! Jesus . . . . I am running to Thee like Nicodemus through the night. . . . Turn towards me—open the door . . . let me hear God moving and speaking. . . . Now Thy garment is already in my hands. . . . Thou mayest shatter my thigh .... but I will not release Thee . . . . before Thou dost bless everybody with me."
I love this Russian prayer, as in the twelfth century it poured from the lips of our Cyril Zlatoust[9] in Turov, and he bequeathed it to us. We must not only pray for ourselves, but for others, and not only for Christians but for the heathen, so that they too may be turned to God. My dear old Kiriak prayed in this way, he pleaded for all, and said: "Bless all or I will not release Thee." What can you do with such an old original?
With these words he stretched himself—as if he were clinging to Christ's garments—and flew away. It appears to me that he is still grasping and clinging to Him as He ascends, and still begging: "Bless all, or else I will not desist." The insolent old man will, perhaps, get his way; and He, from goodness, will at the last not refuse him. All this we do, treating Christ in a homely way, in sancta simplicitate. Whether we understand Him, or not, of that you may argue as you like, but that we live with Him quite simply I think cannot be denied. And he loves simplicity greatly.
XIII
I BURIED Kiriak under the clods of earth on the banks of a frozen river, and here it was that I learned from the savages the abominable news that my successful Zyryan baptized—I am ashamed to say it—simply by treating them to vodka. To my mind this whole business was a shameful one. I did not want to see this baptizer or hear anything more about him, but returned to the town firmly resolved to sit down in my monastery to my books, without which a monk, having idle thoughts, is utterly lost, and in the meantime I would quietly cut the hair of the ordinants, or settle the quarrels between the deacons and their wives. As for Holy Work, which, to be done in holiness cannot be done carelessly, it were better to leave it undone—so as not to offer foolishness to God.
I acted thus, and returned to the monastery, wiser for the experience, and knowing that my much suffering missionaries were good men, and I thanked God that they were so, and not different.
Now I saw clearly that good weakness is more pardonable than foolish zeal in a work where there are no means of applying intelligent zeal. That this is impossible was proved to me by a paper, I found waiting for me at the monastery, in which I was requested "to take note" that in Siberia besides the 580 Buddhist lamas, who were on the staffs of thirty four temples, a number of supernumerary lamas were permitted. What of that? I was not a Kanyushkevich or an Arseni Matsievich—I was a bishop of the new school and did not want to sit in Reval with a gag in my mouth, as Arseni sat; there was no profit in that. I "took note" of the information concerning the increase of the lamas, ordered my Zyryan to return from the desert as soon as possible, and conferring on him an epigonation—the spiritual sword—kept him in the town attached to the cathedral in the capacity of sacristan and superviser of the re-gilding of the iconostasis, but I called my own lazy missionaries together and bowing down to their girdles said:
"Pardon me, fathers and brothers, that I did not understand your goodness."
They answered, "God will forgive."
"I thank, you for your graciousness; be gracious from now always and everywhere, and the God of Mercy will prosper your works."
From that time, during the remainder of my prolonged stay in Siberia, I never troubled if the quiet labours of my missionaries did not produce the spectacular results so well loved by the impatient members of fashionable religious society. While there were no such sudden effects I felt assured that the water jars were being filled one after another, but when it chanced that one or other of my missionaries produced a large number of proselytes . . . . I must confess, I was troubled. . . . . I remembered my Zyryan, or the baptizer of the Guards Ushakov; or the Councillor Yartzev, who were still more successful because in their case as in the days of Vladimir, "piety was allied to fear," and even before the arrival of these missionaries the natives begged to be baptized. Yes, but what was the result of all their nimbleness and piety allied with fear? The abomination of desolation was produced in the holy places, where these fleet baptizers had their fonts and . . . . all was confusion—in the mind, in the heart, in the understanding of the people, and I, a bad bishop, could do nothing for it, and a good bishop could not have done more before—before, so to speak, we begin seriously to occupy ourselves with faith, and not merely take pride in it for pleasure's sake like Pharisees. That, gentlemen, is the position in which we Russian baptizers find ourselves; not, as it may appear, because we do not understand Christ, but because we really understand Him and do not want His name to be blasphemed by the heathen. So I lived on, not showing tyranny with the same readiness as before, but patiently, one may almost say, lazily, stumbling under the crosses sent down to me both by Christ and not by Christ, of which the most remarkable one was that I, who began to study Buddhism with zeal, was sedulously reported by my Zyryan to be myself secretly a Buddhist. And this reputation clung to me, although I did not restrain the zeal of my Zyryan and allowed him to act according to the well tested and successful methods of Prince Andrei Bogolyubsky, which were thus proclaimed over his grave by his follower Kus'ma: "If a heathen comes, order him to be taken to the sacristy—let him look upon our true Christianity. And I allowed the Zyryan to take anybody he chose to the sacristy and display to them with care all that our people and he had collected there of "true Christianity." All this was good and fairly efficacious: they praised our "true Christianity," but no doubt my Zyryan found it was dull to baptize only two or three at a time—and it certainly was "dull." Here we have a real Russian expression. Yes, gentlemen, it was dull then to struggle against the self-satisfied ignorance that tolerated the Faith only as a political means. But now, perhaps, it is even duller to struggle against the indifference of those who instead of enlightening others have as that same Matsievich very happily expressed it, "themselves hardly any faith." Well, I suppose, you clever modern men think: "Oh! our diocesan bishops are bad! What do they do? Our bishops do nothing! Now, I do not want to defend them all; many of us have certainly become very feeble; they stumble under the crosses and fall; and not only do influential personages, but even some "popa mitratus" become authorities for them, and all this is of course, because of "What will ye give me?" Well, supposing I were to ask you: What has brought them to this? Is it not really because they, your diocesan bishops, have been converted into administrators and are unable to do anything vital now? And mark: Perhaps you owe them much gratitude for doing nothing in these times. Otherwise they might have strapped with the official thong such an unbearable load on your back, that God knows, if your back bone would not have been shattered to splinters, or the thong have been torn in two; but we are conservatives, and defend liberty as well as we can; liberty, may Christ free us thereby from such co-operation. Gentlemen, that is why we act and co-operate weakly. Do not throw up at us the former hierarchies, such as those of St. Guri and others. It is true St. Guri knew how to enlighten, but for that purpose he went into savage lands well armed with orders and powers to "attract the people with caresses, with food, with defences from the authorities, with support against the Voevods and the judges;" he was obliged to take part in the councils of the government, but your bishop of to-day is not even allowed to take counsel with a neighbouring bishop about the business of his diocese; in a word, he must think of nothing. There is somebody who thinks for him. All he has to do is to "take note of" what is ordered. What do you require of him, when now he can never act for himself? Lord, Thy will be done . . . What can be done is somehow done by itself. This I saw towards the end of my stay in Siberia. One day a missionary came to me and said that he had come upon a camp of a nomad tribe at the spot where I had buried my old Kiriak, and there on the banks of the stream, he had baptized whole crowds in the name of Kiriak's God, as formerly a man had been baptized in the name of Justinian's God. Near the bones of the good old Monk the good people learned to love and understand God, who had created this pious soul, and they themselves wished to serve the God who had brought into existence such spiritual beauty.
In consequence of this I ordered such a large solid oaken cross to be placed over Kiriak's grave that even the Galician prince Vladimirko, who thought it unworthy to kiss small crosses, would not have been able to resist it; so we erected to Kiriak a cross that was twice the size of the Zyryan—and this was the last order I gave in my Siberian pastorate.
I do not know who will cut down this cross or who has already cut it down—whether it was the Buddhist lamas or the Russian officials—besides, what does it matter?
Now my tale is finished. Judge us all from what you see—I will not try to justify myself, but I will only say this: My simple Kiriak certainly understood Christ not less well than your foreign preachers, who jingle like a tinkling cymbal in your drawing-rooms and winter-gardens. Let them preach there surrounded by the wives of Lot, who, whatever words they may hear, will none of them go to Zoar, but, after shuffling about before God, while existence is dull for them, at the least change in their lives will look back at their Sodom and become columns of salt. This will be the only result of this drawing-room Christianity. What have we to do with these miracle workers? They do not want to walk on the earth, but desire to fly in the sky, and having but small wings and a large body like grasshoppers, they cannot fly far, nor can they pour the light of faith or the sweets of consolation into the fogs of our native land, where, from wooded dale to wooded dale, our Christ wanders, so blessed, so kind, and above all so patient, that He has taught even the worst of His servants to look submissively on the destruction of His work by those who ought to fear it most. We have become used to submit to everything, because this is not the first snow to fall on our heads. There was a time when "Our Book of Faith" was hidden, and a hammer of German workmanship was placed in our hands; they wanted to cut our hair, shave us and transform us into little abbés. One benefactor, Golitzin, ordered us to preach his crazy divinity; another, Protasov, shook his finger under our very noses; while a third, Chebyshev, excelled all the others and openly uttered "corrupt words" in the market place as well as in the Synod, affirming that there is no God, and to talk of Him is stupid. It is impossible to guess whom we shall meet next, and how some new cock or other may yet crow to us. The one consolation is that all these zealots of the Russian Church will not injure her, because theirs is an unequal struggle: the Church is indestructible like the apostolic edifice; the spirit will pass from these singers, and their place shall know them no more. But, gentlemen, what I think, especially tactless—is that some of these highly placed or broad-minded personages, as it is now the fashion to call them, do not notice our modesty, nor do they value it. Verily, this is ingratitude; they have no right to reproach us with being patient and quiet. . . . If we were more impatient, God knows, many would not be sorry for it, more especially those who do not consider work, nor admit of man's wounds, but having waxed fat, reason idly as to what they ought to begin to believe, in order to have something to reason about. Gentlemen, reverence at least the holy modesty of the Orthodox Church, and understand that she has truly maintained the spirit of Christ, if she suffers all that God wills her to suffer. Truly her humility is worthy of praise; and we must wonder at her vitality and bless God for it.
We all involuntarily answered:
"Amen."
THE END.
- ↑ Vladyko is the form of address for bishops and other dignitaries of the church.
- ↑ A sort of light beer.
- ↑ Satan.
- ↑ A mixture of French and Russian, meaning "on loan."
- ↑ Bachka is the savages' corruption of Batyushka (reverend father used in addressing priests.
- ↑ In the orthodox church only one name is given at baptism.
- ↑ Pyatak: a copper five copeck piece. A popular jingle.
- ↑ A popular expression meaning: to take to one's heels.
- ↑ The Golden-mouthed.
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This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929. The longest-living author of this work died in 1934, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 89 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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