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Title: Tales of Muscovy and the Ukraine
Author: George Bernard Hamilton Bishop
Release date: October 26, 2026 [eBook #79866]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Society of SS. Peter & Paul, 1916
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79866
Credits: Tim Lindell, Paul Fatula and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF MUSCOVY AND THE UKRAINE ***
TALES OF
MUSCOVY
AND THE
UKRAINE
TO BORIS BORISOVICH
IN REMEMBRANCE OF UKRAINIAN DAYS
[Illustration: EASTER.]
TALES OF
MUSCOVY
AND THE
UKRAINE
+By+ G. B. H. BISHOP
VICAR OF CARDINGTON
[Illustration: (Decorative divider)]
LONDON: SOCIETY OF SS. PETER
& PAUL, 32 GEORGE ST., HANOVER
SQ., & 302 REGENT ST., W. MCMXVI
CONTENTS
+Page.+
INTRODUCTION 7
THE IKON NOT MADE WITH HANDS 9
THE PILGRIM’S IKON 23
THE LIVING IKON OF ZHARAIMA 31
PAX DEI 39
THE HERMIT 45
THE WITCH 55
THE SEER 65
THE VEILED CHRIST 71
_PRINTED AT_
_THE_
_GARDEN CITY_
_PRESS_
ILLUSTRATIONS.
EASTER FRONTISPIECE.
THE IKON NOT MADE WITH HANDS _facing page_ 9
A GROUP OF PEASANTS „ „ 24
“AN OLD MAN WAS PRAYING” „ „ 31
THE EASTER MASS „ „ 43
A PEASANT GIRL OF THE UKRAINE „ „ 55
THE ANGRY SUN „ „ 65
A NORTHERN MONASTERY „ „ 71
INTRODUCTION
The kindly reception given to his sketch of _The Religion of Russia_
emboldened the author to embark upon an enterprise which for some
little while had occupied his thoughts, namely, the publication of
a series of short stories which should exhibit the characteristic
features of Russian Christianity in a guise more attractive to the
general reader. However, the design proved easier to conceive than to
execute. It was difficult to avoid, on the one hand, the sentiment
and sensationalism of a novelette, and, on the other hand, the
aggressive piety of a penny tract. In the end, therefore, the project
was abandoned, and four of the tales in this collection represent the
scanty results achieved.
It is, perhaps, desirable to say something about the Ukraine, the
pleasant land of the Little Russians, since it forms the background of
most of these narratives. It is a geographical rather than a political
entity, comprising the rolling plains which cover the greater part of
Southern Russia. Owing to its inexhaustible fertility the Ukraine is
the most valuable tract of land in the whole empire. If the rich black
soil were properly worked, sufficient grain could be produced to
meet the needs of half the countries in Europe. Its climate, although
naturally less temperate than our own, is nevertheless far more equable
than that of Great Russia. In summer time the heat is usually so
intense as to make labour a burden. Under the circumstances it is not
surprising to find that the peasants differ considerably in disposition
and manner of living from their northern compatriots. Mentally they
are more alert and self-reliant; physically, less diligent and
enterprising. Before the advent of machinery they displayed much
artistic taste in the adornment of their homes and persons, and in the
manufacture of utensils. Their cottages are far more comfortable and
picturesque, their music, poetry, and dances more attractive than those
of the north; but they lack the determination and patient endurance of
the Great Russian, and it is on the broad shoulders of the latter that
the stability of the empire depends.
It only remains to say that the people of the Ukraine have a political
grievance of their own, and have long agitated for a fuller recognition
of their dialect and local institutions than they have yet secured.
To avoid anachronism the capital of Russia retains its old name in most
of these tales.
[Illustration: THE IKON NOT MADE WITH HANDS.
_From a modern copy in gold and enamel._]
THE IKON NOT MADE WITH HANDS
In a quiet little street branching off from the Tverskaia Oulitsa in
a western suburb of Moscow stands a house known to certain members
of smart society--and to the police--as the Golden Net. You might
suppose, if you were fresh from the country, that this romantic title
was derived from the yellow paint which adorned its plaster façade,
though why the house should be a net, golden or otherwise, you would
be at a loss to surmise. If you were not only very innocent but also
very rich, the probabilities were that before you had been long in
Moscow you would be in a position to explain more accurately how this
very ordinary place came by its very unusual name. The fact is that
the Golden Net exists (or existed) for the purpose of relieving the
Muscovite gilded youths of their superfluous roubles. Many a lad, fresh
from his mother’s apron strings, who had entered its undistinguished
portals with a well-filled purse, had been compelled on leaving to
borrow the money with which to pay the cab-fare back to his quarters.
And Herr Müller, the genial proprietor, was always willing to lend
money to his friends, whether for cab-fares or for other purposes;
such, for example, as a little game of cards, or an elegant present for
one of his extraordinarily numerous, charming, and guileless nieces.
Needless to say the Golden Net had many habitués. Its large gilded
salon, deserted and a little tawdry by day, presented quite a
brilliant appearance towards midnight when spangled with the uniforms
of smart officials, and the vivid toilettes of the ladies. You would
fancy yourself in very distinguished circles, if it were not for the
occasional quarrels among the gamesters, or the loud coarse laughter
of Herr Müller’s gentle nieces. There were people, jealous interfering
prigs, of course, who wondered why the police allowed the establishment
to exist, and hinted that the salaries of certain officials were not
infrequently augmented by handsome presents. At any rate, the Golden
Net not only existed, but flourished exceedingly.
It was, perhaps, in answer to the prigs that Herr Müller was wont to
mark the great winter festivals of the Church by providing additional
attractions on those days at the Golden Net. On Christmas Eve a troupe
of gipsies entertained an unusually large and brilliant assembly with
their barbaric songs and dances. A censored play, cards, and unlimited
choice wines, were among the minor attractions, and the fun waxed
faster and more furious until the dawn, when the revellers suddenly
vanished like those strange and glittering beings who, in popular
belief, haunt the Russian woodlands by night.
Among the last to depart was Alexis Koslevin, one of the most regular
members. On the doorstep of the Club he hailed a droshky, and was
driven swiftly and silently through the falling snow to his flat, a
comfortably furnished suite of rooms in one of the best streets in
Moscow. The door was opened by the svitsar, who smothered a yawn behind
his large hand, scowling the while at the disturber of his dreams.
Koslevin slowly ascended the white marble staircase to his quarters on
the third floor. His man had timed his arrival accurately. A little
samovar[1] was boiling on a tray, and near it was a teapot with a glass
and a sliced lemon. Koslevin made himself some tea, and then, lighting
a cigarette, sat down to consider his affairs.
[1] Samovar: hot-water urn.
To judge from the gloomy expression of his countenance, his meditations
afforded him small cause for satisfaction. He had lost about fifteen
hundred roubles during the night’s play. On reckoning up his total
assets he found that after paying this debt he would possess exactly
one hundred and eighty-five roubles--about eighteen pounds ten
shillings in hard cash. In addition to this sum there was the furniture
of the flat, worth, perhaps, a couple of thousand roubles, and an
estate in the Poltavsky Government, the last of four properties left
him by his father. To sell the estate was out of the question. It was
the home of his childhood, and now sheltered his mother, the one being
for whom he felt any affection. At the moment, therefore, he was worth
little more than two thousand roubles in cash and saleable properties,
not an impressive sum to one who had scattered the price of three
fine estates in gambling saloons, and other unsavoury resorts. It was
necessary, then, to come to a decision. He felt tired of everything,
himself most of all.
Few young men had had a more promising start in life. The son of a
wealthy and distinguished general officer, endowed with good looks
and more than ordinary ability, he had without difficulty obtained a
commission in his father’s old regiment, the chevaliers-gardes. He
found himself associated with a set of young blades whose principal
aim appeared to be to get the most out of life with a minimum of
inconvenience to themselves. Koslevin at once took his place among the
leaders of the clique. He was no worse than the others, but his lack
of caution often led him into difficulties which cooler men escaped.
On several occasions he was reprimanded by his colonel, but he took
such matters lightly, and plunged at once into some new folly. The
crash came when he had been in the regiment for about a year. There was
a peculiarly unpleasant little society scandal with which Koslevin’s
name was associated. He received a hint that the resignation of his
commission would be acceptable in exalted quarters, and accordingly
sent in his papers.
Finding himself a social failure after this occurrence, he left
Petersburg and took up his abode at Moscow, where he flung himself
into the whirlpool of fast society circling round the Golden Net.
But there was a difference in his gaiety. At Petersburg his were the
high spirits of a thoughtless lad; at Moscow, the feverish attempts
at enjoyment of a disappointed man of the world. Here he had helped
to pluck the rich young fools of his circle; and now he was plucked
himself. Well, it could not go on any longer. There was nothing to do
but go to the country, he told himself--go home and “be a vegetable.”
He smiled sarcastically as he pictured himself acting the prodigal
son. Happily he could reckon on the fatted calf. His face softened as
he thought of the little grey mother who would so willingly pardon all
if he returned. It was to his credit that he never dreamt of selling
the house and property where she lived.
On a bureau near the window lay some letters, and a registered parcel
containing, apparently, a large book of some kind. He glanced at the
letters. One was addressed in his mother’s handwriting. He opened it
and read her affectionate Christmas greetings, and how the estate was
prospering. The letter closed with a disquieting account of her health,
and a loving appeal for his return: she was so lonely.
Koslevin was more moved than he had thought possible. He laid down
the letter and took up the parcel. This, too, was from his mother. He
removed the outer wrapper, wondering what the gift could be. A little
card fell out. On it was written, “A small gift for Christmas, with my
love.” When the remaining cover was off, Koslevin saw that the gift was
a fine old ikon, one of the sacred pictures of the Orthodox Church. It
was that known as the “Ikon not made with hands,” called in the West
_Saint Veronica’s Handkerchief_. The handkerchief was engraved upon a
thin sheet of gold, and was fantastically and richly ornamented with
seed pearls and small rubies. But it was the face of the Redeemer,
painted upon the wood beneath, which rendered the ikon remarkable. It
was the work of some unknown artist, a veritable master of his craft.
While adhering strictly to the Byzantine traditions of his school,
he had contrived to produce a portrait--it could be called nothing
else--of the most wondrous beauty and realism. A strange feature
of this painting was that none could say exactly what expression
the artist intended the Divine Countenance to wear. Looking upon It
intently, one felt the mysterious Eyes piercing through to the soul
and beholding all manner of imperfections there. The most worldly
of connoisseurs experienced a sense of discomfort to which they had
long been strangers, and hastily transferred their attention to other
matters. Only young children, mourners, and penitents could endure that
steadfast gaze, and to them it seemed aglow with divine charity.
To Koslevin the ikon made a double appeal. It had been a cherished
possession of his mother ever since he could remember, and he had
learnt to say his first prayers kneeling before it in her private
room. As he stood now regarding it, the shame and guilt of his life
seemed almost unendurable. He crossed the room and placed it on a
sideboard near the door, as far as possible from the bureau where he
had been standing. Then he returned and read the other letters, with an
occasional uneasy glance behind him.
Most of the letters were uninteresting enough. The last was directed in
an unfamiliar hand. He tore it open, and found it was a communication
from a young lad, one whom he had helped to fleece a few nights
earlier. A cheque for thirteen hundred roubles was enclosed. The
writer apologized for not having paid this “debt of honour” earlier.
It had been difficult to raise the sum as he had reached the limit of
his allowance. Thanks, however, to Herr Müller he was now able to pay
in full. He hoped to have the pleasure--and so on. The cheque seemed
to burn Koslevin’s fingers. He dared not look towards the ikon, but
seizing pen and paper he wrote to the lad saying that he could not take
his money, and urged him to end his visits to the Golden Net. This done
he felt easier in his mind. He sealed the envelope and left it on his
desk, intending to post it after he had had some sleep.
On his way to the bedroom he passed the ikon. It seemed to him that the
Eyes were fixed on him with a look of kindness and encouragement. He
was so relieved at this that he fell asleep almost at once.
It was evening when he awoke. The bells of the Kremlin were pealing
forth their sonorous melodies, calling the faithful to Vespers.
Koslevin was much refreshed by his sleep, and, as he dressed, wondered
a little at his sentiments earlier in the day. There was that cheque
now. Was he really going to return it? He had won it fairly. True
the lad was the merest novice at cards, but it was all the more his
own fault if he ventured to play with experienced gamblers. “Well,”
Koslevin thought, “I shall decide this little matter later. Meanwhile I
will have something to eat.”
During the meal he heard the door bell ring. A minute later a visitor
was announced. It was Belinsky, one of his boon companions at the
Golden Net. Belinsky was the last person Koslevin wished to see just
then. Handsome, clever, and amusing, he was a greater favourite with
women than men, most of whom secretly feared him for his sarcastic wit,
often exercised at their expense. At the Golden Net Belinsky’s word was
final, none caring to oppose him.
With his entrance Koslevin knew that his course of action was settled.
Forgetting that he had already practically decided to retain the cheque
which had recently disquieted him, he felt annoyed with Belinsky
for forcing his hand. To refuse to accompany him to the Club never
seriously occurred to Koslevin. To go without money was absurd. He
went to his desk, opened the letter he had written, and transferred
the cheque to his pocket book. Ten minutes later they set out for the
Golden Net.
That evening festivities began with a dinner, an unusual feature in
Herr Müller’s arrangements. While eating the zakouska[2] Koslevin found
himself face to face with the lad whose money was in his pocket. All
the shame and misgivings of the early morning returned as he noted the
anxiety underlying the boy’s assumed good humour. With an effort he
turned away and addressed himself to his neighbour, a brilliant young
woman named Anna Loubova, with whom he had long been very intimate.
Anna was more than usually vivacious and charming. Under the spell of
her companionship Koslevin rapidly regained his sang-froid, and before
the company rose he had jotted his initials against half a dozen items
on her dance programme.
[2] Zakouska: hors d’œuvres eaten standing at a side table.
Dancing, however, was not to commence before eleven o’clock. Until that
hour arrived, Koslevin proposed to amuse himself in the card-room. He
had arranged to play against Belinsky whom he found waiting with their
partners. Belinsky was rather annoyed at the slight delay, and greeted
him with a cynical smile. “You are a little behindhand, my friend,”
he said; “but who expects a comrade of Anna Loubova to remember an
appointment elsewhere? A nice little pigeon, eh, Koslevin?”
Koslevin flushed with annoyance, but made no reply. He sat down and
began to play; but his thoughts wandered, and he was not able to attend
to the game. Opportunities of scoring passed unnoticed, and there was a
constant flow of notes and gold into the pockets of his opponent.
Belinsky’s humour had improved with his good fortune, and he advised
Koslevin to stop playing. “You are in a bad mood to-night. If you are
to go on playing like this, you might as well hand over your money now.”
Koslevin looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes to eleven, and he
still had nearly one hundred and fifty roubles.
“Thanks,” he said; “I will play until eleven.”
Belinsky shrugged his shoulders, and the game went on. At eleven
o’clock, when Herr Müller came to rally the dancers, Koslevin’s total
possessions amounted to five or six silver pieces. He remained seated,
tired and restless, some minutes after the others had gone. All sorts
of irrelevant thoughts passed through his mind; but one image remained
constant. However much he strove to banish the illusion, he felt
always upon him the melancholy burning gaze of the “Ikon not made with
hands.” It seemed to be calling him to leave the Club--to return to his
quarters.
He rose unsteadily and slipped away, apparently unnoticed, to the
hall, where a surprised attendant brought his cloak and found him a
conveyance. Ten minutes later he let himself into his flat. His man,
perceiving that all was not well, discreetly retired, after satisfying
himself that nothing was required. As soon as the door was closed,
Koslevin looked for the ikon. It had fallen on its face upon the
sideboard. He took it in his hand and looked fixedly upon it. He was
possessed with the idea that it lived, that it was a Person.
“Well,” he said aloud, “here I am. You have called me and I have
come. What can You want with me? You spoke to me before, and I would
not listen. I had some money then, and I could have obeyed You while
still retaining a little self-respect. I had a choice, and I could
have chosen the good. Now the opportunity has gone, and I am the worst
kind of cur--one who calls ‘_Peccavi_’ when he has exhausted all the
possibilities of evil. What do You want with me?”
He fully expected the ikon to speak, but no word came. Yet, as he
looked, it seemed the expression of the Face underwent a change.
Instead of stern reproof there was compassion, and--yes, the Lips
seemed about to part in a smile of infinite tenderness. As the frozen
steppe melts under the sun of early spring, so he felt the cold
rigidity of his soul soften under that steadfast gaze. Tears filled his
eyes, and he fell on his knees.
“Christ pardon me,” he whispered.
A loud burst of mocking laughter echoed through the room. Koslevin
winced. It was profanation--sacrilege. Without rising, he turned to see
who had violated his sanctuary. Belinsky stood in the doorway rocking
with mirth. Behind him was Anna Loubova.
“Good God,” he cried; “here is Satan turned monk. This is too rich. I
must pass on the jest,” and he departed with another shout of laughter.
Anna lingered a minute longer. She came swiftly and touched Koslevin’s
shoulder. He had already forgotten them both.
“Aleosha,” she said in a low voice, “you forget. You promised to dance
with me.”
Koslevin’s eyes were still fixed on the ikon, to which he now pointed.
“Look!” was all he said in reply. She stooped and looked intently on
the Face of the Christ.
“Ah!” she said quietly, and a moment later was gone.
[Illustration: (Decorative divider)]
THE PILGRIM’S IKON
It was oppressively hot on the feast of S. Boris, and the good Orthodox
folk of Spasskoe Selo frequently thanked God that there was no need for
them to work in the fields. Of all the pious traditions of the Church
none was observed in the village with more rigour than that which
forbids work on a holy day. Bátushka Nikolai, the parish priest, had
been heard to remark on several occasions that he could not remember
ever having to rebuke a parishioner for breaking the rule: and there
are many holy days in the Russian kalendar.
Out in the fields the crops gleamed like burnished gold in the July
sun; but there was no sign of life save for a few slow-circling birds.
Most of the inhabitants of Spasskoe Selo slept in the shade of their
isbas. Some naked children splashed about in the village pond, while in
the shady aisles of a neighbouring wood two lovers sang with powerful
reedy voices one of the sad little folk-songs of the Ukraine, a song[3]
of which the words were indistinguishable at the distance, but of
which the music ran thus:
[Music]
[3] Taken down at first-hand by the Author.
Near one of the isbas, the largest and cleanliest in the place, a few
elderly peasants punctuated their desultory talk with the consumption
of the inevitable sunflower seeds. From time to time Vasili Ivanoff,
starosta[4] of the parish and owner of the aforesaid cottage, alleged
that it was very hot. Several resolutions to that effect were carried
unanimously, which did not surprise Vasili, for he was accustomed to
having his own way. If he had stated that it was freezing it would have
been all the same. A clumsy giant of a man with a leonine head, he was
by far the most able and prosperous inhabitant of the village, which
he ruled with a rod of iron. Vasili was not very popular; he was too
magisterial, too interfering for that; but there was not a man in the
place who had the courage to oppose him. He was a pocket edition of the
great white Tsar.
[4] Elder or headman.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF PEASANTS.
_By Vassilkovsky._]
For a few minutes nobody had spoken. Suddenly the schoolmaster, a mild
little fellow, ventured to remark that someone was approaching the
village.
“Hey! what’s that?” said Vasili, sitting up. “Someone coming from the
town?”
The company was visibly stirred at this remarkable piece of
intelligence, and every pair of eyes turned down the wide uneven track
along which travellers usually approached the village. In the distance
a solitary pedestrian was observed, all but enveloped in a cloud of
black dust. His pace was slow and his gait unsteady.
“Ouf! he’s drunk, the dirty rascal,” continued the starosta. Nobody
made any reply. Probably it was felt that an unquenchable thirst was
natural on such a day.
But the traveller was not drunk. As he drew nearer it became obvious
that he was suffering from exhaustion and thirst. He was painfully thin
and weak; his eyes were dull and heavy; his tongue protruded.
“Water, brothers, water for the love of Christ,” he whispered.
The water at Spasskoe Selo was not fit to drink, but Vasili’s samovar
was boiling as a matter of course, and his wife soon produced a bowl of
tea which the wayfarer drank in one long draught. He ate like a wolf
the black bread and smoked fish which they set before him, and then,
with a brief word of thanks, stretched himself on the ground and fell
asleep.
The onlookers felt aggrieved. They had been looking forward to hearing
his story. The village tailor wanted to wake him up and ask questions,
but Vasili vetoed the proposal. The great man was not wont to be so
considerate, but then it was certain that the stranger would remain
with him for the night, and he would have an opportunity of finding
out his history later on. The company was reduced to discussing his
appearance.
He was plainly a pilgrim, and the condition of his bast shoes, of which
the soles had almost disappeared, indicated that he had come from afar.
There was a long scar on his forehead, and several fingers were missing
from his left hand. In the other hand he held a dirty blue envelope,
which one of the onlookers, who was a fairly expert pickpocket,
endeavoured to secure, but without success. As soon as the envelope was
touched the sleeper stirred uneasily. What could it contain?
“Perhaps it is an ikon,” said the schoolmaster.
“You’re a fool,” said Vasili gruffly. “Ikons are not so thin as that.
It’s his passport.”
Nevertheless, Vasili was wrong. It was an ikon.
The ringing of a distant bell interrupted the conversation, and all
rose and set out for the manor house, where there was to be dancing
that evening, for the feast of S. Boris was the Bárin’s[5] namesday.
[5] Bárin: master, squire.
* * * * *
It was late when the starosta reached home. The pilgrim was no longer
outside, and an uncomfortable suspicion seized his host. He crept
noiselessly up to the half-open door and peeped inside. The place was
in darkness except for the tiny light burning before the ikon in the
corner. There he saw the pilgrim, who was praying in a low voice.
However, his gaze was not fixed on the ikon of the house, but on one
held in his hand. Vasili listened:
“Little Doves,” he murmured, “dear little Souls, you are with God,
but you do not forget your poor Mikhail. He cannot hear you, but you
can hear him. You are close to him now. Pray for poor Mikhail that he
may be forgiven and may come to you very soon, dear little Souls.” He
kissed the ikon again and again.
Involuntarily Vasili made a slight movement and the man looked round
startled and confused. He began hurriedly to wrap the ikon in its
envelope, but the starosta interrupted him.
“You pray with strange words, brother,” he said. “Show me your ikon.”
The pilgrim refused. “It is too holy to be shown,” he said.
“But I am Orthodox,” said Vasili. “Come, let me see it.”
“No, I cannot show it,” the pilgrim replied; “but you have been kind to
me and I will tell you about it. Let us go outside.”
The garden was bathed in moonlight, all but one corner behind an
outhouse. Here the pilgrim seated himself upon a pile of wood and began
his story.
“There is not much to tell,” he said. “A few years ago I was an artisan
in Moscow. I had a wife and a little son, whom I loved very dearly.
In the middle of our happiness came the war with Japan, and I was
ordered to join my regiment. My wife went home to my parents in the
Poltavsky Government, and I went to the war. You know the story of the
war, brother. I was badly wounded in the battle of Liao-yang, where I
lost my fingers and had this cut in my forehead. They sent me back to
Russia and I spent some time in hospital. It was good to be back again,
but one thing troubled me. I could get no news from my wife. When
they let me out from the hospital I walked all the way home (it took
me three weeks, brother), expecting to find my family. All the way I
was thinking how surprised and happy they would be. At last I reached
the village, and saw the isba where they lived. It was very still and
I wondered that I could not hear my little son playing in the yard.
In the doorway was my mother. She was surprised to see me; but when
I asked for my wife she burst into tears. Brother, my wife and son,
and my old father, too, were all dead. The smallpox had come to the
village, and not many had escaped.
“I need not tell you what happened during the next few months, how I
wandered like an idiot all over Little Russia. I will only tell you how
I learned to bear my grief.
“One day, when I was very sad and weary, I came to a monastery, a
little lonely place in the steppes. There were only twelve monks
besides the igumen,[6] and they were very poor; but they treated me
kindly, washing my feet and giving me food. The igumen himself came to
me when I had eaten. Christ must have sent him, brother. After looking
at me for a minute, he said: ‘You seem very sad, little brother.’
[6] Igumen: abbot.
“‘I am indeed sad, little father,’ I answered, and told him why.
“‘That is hard for you,’ he said. ‘But do you not pray for them?’
“I answered that since I found my dear ones gone I had not prayed.
“‘Then you have not asked them to pray for you either?’ said he.
“‘No,’ I replied.
“‘Then how can you expect to bear your grief, little brother?’ said the
igumen. ‘You will not use your Christ-given privilege. Remember this,
that Death is only a thin veil. Those who have passed beyond are, like
us, in God’s hands. And we can help them and they us, by prayer and
loving remembrance. Pray for them, and ask them to pray for you. Then
you will know how close they are to you. Instead of being separated
from them by a great emptiness, you will feel their companionship
again.’
“Brother, the monk’s words are true. At times I am almost happy. That
is all my story.”
“But your ikon,” said the starosta. “What about that?”
“My ikon is only a photograph of those whom I had lost and have found.”
A sound of distant horse-play and singing broke the silence. The
starosta’s relatives and friends were returning from the festivities.
He went to the yard gate to meet them. When he returned, the pilgrim
was gone.
[Illustration: “AN OLD MAN WAS PRAYING.”]
THE LIVING IKON OF ZHARAIMA
In the dingy little Church of the Archangel at Zharaima a solitary
old man was praying before the sacred ikons. His general appearance
was in keeping with his surroundings. He was long past his prime; his
rugged features, softened by the influence of religion, bore witness to
his peasant origin; his patched and shabby cassock and badly wrought
pectoral cross denoted his profession. If you had inquired his name you
would have been told that he was Father Efraim Gorastchenko, for nearly
fifty years parish priest of Zharaima. If you could have looked into
his heart you would have found there love of God, love of Russia, love
of his little flock, and love of his tumble-down wooden church. For the
rest, men said he was very simple and very poor--a saint of God. On one
occasion in the street, a stranger, an atheistic pedlar, had jeered at
Father Efraim. The old priest paused a moment in pathetic bewilderment,
and then crept into the church. When he was gone his parishioners beat
the scoffer to death. They were wild, rough folk, and they loved Father
Efraim better than they had yet learnt to love God.
Every day at noon it was his custom to go to the silent church and
there to pray for his people; and every day, when his prayers were
ended, he made a tour of the building, patting the walls lovingly with
his trembling hands and noting the places where the rain came through.
The inspection always terminated at the same place, where Father Efraim
had a little conversation with himself and came away with a happy
smile. Those who met him used to wonder what he was smiling at. On one
occasion the village gossip, old Granny Agrafina Ivanovna, listening at
the church door, heard the priest talking to himself, and hobbled off
to spread the news that Bátushka Efraim was having an interview with
the Archangel Michael.
“God bless my soul!” said everybody and then they agreed that it was
what they had suspected all along.
To-day Father Efraim took rather longer than usual over his prayers,
but at length, making the sign of the Cross, he began his customary
perambulation, and finally stopped before the ikons which decorated
the screen. The ikons had never possessed much artistic merit; but now,
after years of exposure to the smoke of tapers and incense, they were
so blackened as to be almost indistinguishable one from another. The
worst of the four was that of Christ, because it had been smoked more
than the others. It was before this ikon that the Bátushka began his
little soliloquy.
“Ai! but what a disgrace! It’s quite black. One can’t see the Face at
all. How can one blame the poor people who do wrong? They’ve never seen
the _Face_. But you’re coming down, black one. Yes! it’s all in the
house--two hundred and forty-five roubles tied up in a bag! Soon there
will be five more, and then we shall have a fine new ikon with gold on
it.”
Father Efraim turned and walked out of the church smiling to himself
as usual. He was anticipating the pleasures of writing to the bishop,
of the dedication service, of his people’s surprise and delight. From
his scanty income he had been setting aside twenty-five kopecks every
week for many years, and now he was nearing the sum he had aimed at,
two hundred and fifty roubles, to be spent for the glory of God and the
Church of the Archangel at Zharaima.
Bátushka Efraim felt that he could not keep his secret much longer. It
was getting too hot to hold.
As he was entering his house a man came up, doffing his cap. “Little
Father, have you heard the news? Old Sasha is dead--died suddenly half
an hour ago. Nobody knows what was the matter.”
The priest looked grave. “I will come at once,” he said, going indoors
to fetch his stole. A few minutes later he was in the death-chamber
reciting some prayers for the departed. There was nothing else to be
done at the moment, for Sasha had no relatives.
On the way home Bátushka Efraim’s thoughts were naturally occupied with
the dead man, one of the few parishioners who could remember his coming
to Zharaima. “An old, old man,” he said, talking to himself. “And I,
too, am old, very old. God will call me soon; but perhaps he will let
me see the new ikon first.”
_Perhaps!_ The possibility of his dying before the ikon was set up had
not occurred to the priest before. It alarmed him to think that after
his death the money he had saved might be put to other uses, for nobody
knew his intentions. He decided to make a will to guard against the
possibility. This is what he wrote:
“Behind the holy picture in the corner of this room is a bag. This
bag contains my savings, nearly two hundred and fifty roubles. I am
going to buy a new ikon of Christ with gold on it, instead of the one
on the screen in church. If I die first, have the kindness to buy the
ikon just the same.
+Efraim Gorastchenko+.”
He folded up the paper and placed it in a black earthenware pot on a
bench near his bed.
The next morning nine more people were ill, and one had died during
the night. The patients all manifested the same symptoms--cramp,
weakness, vomiting, loss of voice. Father Efraim was busy hearing their
confessions and anointing the poor ill-nourished bodies. In one isba he
met the doctor, who greeted him courteously:
“Take care of yourself, Bátushka,” he said, “or you will be ill too.”
“What is the matter with them?” asked the priest. “Is it--is it----?”
“_Cholera_,” said the doctor gravely.
Father Efraim shuddered. “Can you stop it from spreading?” he inquired.
“If your people will do what I tell them,” was the reply. “But I
want disinfectants, ice, nourishing food, and so forth, plenty of
everything. Can you get me any money?”
It had been a bad year for the peasants, and there was nobody in
residence at the manor house. The priest hesitated for a moment. “Yes,”
he said slowly, “I can get you some money.”
He hurried back to his house and reached down the leathern bag
containing his savings. A large tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek and
splashed on to the bag.
“God wills it; God wills it,” he said.
* * * * *
A week later, thanks to the doctor’s energy and skill, the epidemic was
well in hand. A dozen or so of the inhabitants were dead, but with a
few exceptions most of the sick were on the road to recovery.
Father Efraim was one of the exceptions. He was already weakened by
overwork when the dread disease fastened upon him, and from the first
it was plain that there was no hope.
Outside the little parsonage a number of people had gathered,
regardless of the doctor’s orders. The women were weeping; the men
stood gravely conversing in whispers.
Within, a neighbouring priest was administering the last Sacraments.
As the end drew near Father Efraim’s mind began to wander. He talked
excitedly of his little hoard and the purpose for which he intended
it. He told them of the paper in the black pot, pointing to it with
trembling fingers.
The doctor found the will and read it aloud. “Yes, yes; that’s right,”
said the old man. And then he remembered. “There is no money now,”
he added. “The people needed it, so I gave it. It was God’s will.” A
minute later the call came.
* * * * *
Some years after Father Efraim’s death a stranger was being shown
over the church at Zharaima. It had changed very little except in one
respect. A beautifully carved and painted screen had replaced the
old one which had done service for so many years. The four large new
ikons were real works of art, but the picture of the Christ puzzled
the visitor. All the details of the painting were in accordance with
tradition except the Face. It was the face of an _old man_, rugged but
beautiful, crowned with silvery white hair. The visitor’s inquiries
elicited the story which has been told already, but with this addition.
It appeared that his eminence the bishop had been informed of Father
Efraim’s holy life and pious intention, and had come in person to
Zharaima to make inquiries. He called together the village elders and
announced his intention of placing not merely one ikon but the whole
screen of them in the church as a memorial to their late priest. “My
children,” said his eminence, “while Bátushka Efraim was with you, an
ikon of the Lord was not needed here. He himself was a living ikon.
When you saw him you knew better than any ikon could tell you what
Christ is like. Now that he is gone you shall have your ikon for the
church, and it shall be painted to resemble Father Efraim.”
And that is the explanation of the curious ikon in the Church of the
Archangel at Zharaima.
[Illustration: (Decorative divider)]
PAX DEI
The great Lavroff-Pravezhsky squabble, like many other squabbles,
arose from a very small incident. One Saturday morning the Pravezhsky
cockerel, advancing solemnly through a gap in the Lavroff hedge,
discovered a bowl of prostokwasha[7] which Mother Lavroff had set
in the shade to keep cool. Yielding to his natural curiosity, the
intelligent bird proceeded to sample the concoction, which he found to
be so delectable that he got into it in order to investigate the matter
more fully. It was unfortunate that Mother Lavroff appeared upon the
scene at that moment, especially as she was of rather hasty temper.
With a yell of rage she hurled a pot at the astonished cockerel, who
departed, cackling indignantly, to his own side of the fence. It was
still more unfortunate that Mother Lavroff was a very bad shot, for
the missile smashed upon a stone, and a piece flying off at a tangent
hit Mother Pravezhsky in the ear as she looked over to see what was
happening.
[7] Prostokwasha: a kind of sour junket.
“What’s the matter, blockhead?” cried that lady angrily, rubbing the
injured member.
“Devil take the bird,” was the no less angry reply. “Why can’t you keep
him in your own yard?”
“Why can’t you mend your fence, you fat object?” screamed Mother
Pravezhsky, leaning over to box her opponent’s ears. In this amiable
intention she was frustrated by the agility of Mother Lavroff, who not
only escaped personal injury to herself, but also managed to give a
good tug at her neighbour’s hair. The yells and screams with which the
viragos embellished their intercourse quickly summoned their respective
husbands, who entered into the fray, pummelling each other over the
hedge as well as they could. The fracas bade fair to assume alarming
proportions. A neighbour ran off to summon the starosta, who arrived
just in time to check a determined assault of the whole Pravezhsky
forces upon the Lavroff front gate. Foiled in their efforts to come
to closer quarters, the belligerents maintained for some minutes a
withering fire of invective, which exploded harmlessly on both sides of
the fence. When their ammunition was exhausted the starosta was able to
make himself heard.
“Now, then, Orthodox, what’s all this about?”
Instantly the uproar broke out again, all the combatants talking at
once. Accusations, counter-charges, and insults flew from one side to
the other until the place became a very babel.
“Stop,” roared the starosta, with his fingers in his ears. “This will
have to come before the Mir[8] to-morrow. It’s disgraceful, that’s what
it is. Get on with your work now. And mind--no setting fire to houses.
We don’t want the village burnt down.”
[8] Mir: the parish council.
With sullen faces the offending parties retired unwillingly to their
cottages to brood over schemes of revenge. It was just as well that the
night-watchman spent the dark hours prowling in the vicinity.
On the Sunday afternoon the neighbouring heads of families assembled
under the presidency of the starosta to consider the case. Lavroff and
Pravezhsky were present, looking very sheepish and surly. After several
hours of desultory discussion the blame was divided equally between the
two households, and the men were admonished to that effect. They went
home fuming with annoyance and disappointment.
For more than a month the two households kept up the feud. Their mutual
resentment had practically died down, and there had been no renewal of
active hostilities; but with rustic obstinacy neither party would take
the first step towards a restoration of the old friendliness.
Meanwhile the great Lenten fast was nearing its close. The parish
priest, a young man fresh from the seminary, urged them repeatedly
to settle their differences, but without effect. Not until Maunday
Thursday, when the whole of the villagers made their Easter Communion,
did their stubborn resistance begin to weaken; and the cause was a
serious one. They were refused both Absolution and Communion. It was a
great disgrace. Such a thing had not been heard of for years, for the
last priest had been a slack, easy-going old fellow, who never asked
inconvenient questions, or bothered himself about the spiritual welfare
of his flock. Plainly something would have to be done.
During the next two days Mothers Lavroff and Pravezhsky spent a great
deal of time working in their respective yards. Each hoped eagerly
that the other would open the conversation; each would gladly have
spoken first only that she feared a rebuff. Once it seemed as though a
suitable moment had come; but just then the Pravezhsky cockerel crowed
insultingly from the top of the Lavroff gate, and the crestfallen women
slunk indoors. At six o’clock, when the church bells rang for Vespers,
they lit the little hanging lamps before the ikons in their houses and
began to prepare for the midnight Mass. The creamy paskha, or Easter
cake, was wrapped up carefully, and all the other little delicacies
destined for the first Easter meal were set out ready to be carried
along for the bátushka’s blessing. Then they tidied the house, washed
themselves and the children, and donned their best clothes.
[Illustration: THE EASTER MASS.]
It seemed a long while to the Lavroffs before they reached the Church.
When they took up their penitential position in the narthex they found
that the Pravezhsky family had arrived just before them. The two
parties greeted each other with silent nods, and then turned to survey
the scene which lay before them.
All their friends and acquaintances were there, each one holding
a lighted taper according to custom. Except for one small hanging
chandelier and the tiny lamps burning before the ikonostas, these
tapers were the sole illuminants in the gloomy nave, and very quaint
was their effect. Only the lower part of each countenance was visible;
and many odd shadows were thrown dancing on to the roof.
When the clergy entered a hush fell over the congregation, and then the
clear tenor of the priest rang out in the opening benediction, followed
immediately by the fine old Hymn of the Day, _Christós vóskres_:
_Christ is risen from the dead. By his death he hath overcome Death,
and giveth Life to them in the Tomb._
_Like as smoke vanisheth, so do thou drive them away; and as wax
melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of
God._
_Christós vóskres!_
For several hours the people stood, following with rapt interest and
devotion the great drama of Calvary which, by a startling paradox,
is everywhere in Christendom the supreme thank-offering for the
Resurrection. At the Communion, when the royal gates were flung open,
they half expected _to see_ the Christ emerge triumphant over Hell and
Death. And yet if they had seen him, they could hardly have had a more
vivid sense of his presence than they possessed already.
At length the Mass ended. A riotous peal rang forth from the belfry
as the people once more exchanged with each other the Easter kiss of
charity and peace. In the shadow of the narthex Stepan Lavroff looked
at his neighbour. Their quarrel suddenly seemed a very petty, childish
affair. The two men stepped towards each other and embraced.
“Christós vóskres,” said Pravezhsky.
“Vo ístinê vóskres, he is risen indeed,” replied Lavroff simply.
THE HERMIT
The woods of Bassianova were veiled in almost complete darkness. Here
and there the pale rays of the moon filtered through an opening in the
branches and shed a ghostly light upon the tangled undergrowth. Silent,
too, were the woods of Bassianova; silent, as though the furtive things
that stir in the night watched with bated breath a figure moving
stealthily along the rugged paths.
“Curse it! How dark it is!” muttered the man nervously. “One needs the
eyes of a cat.”
He stopped for a moment and appeared to take his bearings; then, with
resolution, continued on his way. For some time he crept on, getting
deeper and deeper into the heart of the woods. The gloom seemed to him
to increase, the eerie silence to become more intense.
“God! what is that?” He sprang back in sudden terror as some large
creature rose almost at his feet and crashed away through the bushes. A
cold perspiration broke out on his brow; his heart was beating like a
drum. He leant against a tree until his self-possession was restored,
and then, fingering a revolver, pursued his journey. A determined man
this? Yes, and a cruel, secretive, dangerous man. At length he saw in
the distance the glow of a small fire. With a sigh of relief he hurried
forward, and in a few minutes reached a clearing where some dozen
peasants seated in a ring received him in silence.
“Is this wise, brothers?” he asked, pointing to the fire.
“Safe enough, messenger,” replied one of the men. “The woods of
Bassianova are not a coppice. But you are late, messenger.”
“Can you wonder at it?” asked the newcomer angrily. “You have just
reminded me that your cursed woods are not a coppice.”
He sat down opposite to the spokesman, and after a swift survey of his
audience began to speak with a vehemence the more compelling by reason
of its repression. His features were cast in the Semitic rather than
in the Russian mould. The powerful jaw, covered but not concealed by
a closely-cut black beard, resembled a steel trap. The glowing embers
of the fire were not more suggestive of smouldering evil than were his
small shifty eyes. If Satan ever took human form it would surely be in
some such mould as this. The peasants watched him closely, fascinated
as if by a snake. For nearly half an hour he spoke, exciting the anger
of his hearers by a skilful exposition of their grievances, fanning
their resentment against their rulers, and urging them to take action
in their own interests.
“Nothing can be achieved without the help of the people,” he said.
“Hitherto we have failed because we have lacked your support. Surely
you will not refuse it now, you who have groaned so long under a
hateful tyranny. You will strike now, and the sound of your blow will
echo through all Russia. The troops are far away, and before they can
be mobilized you will have lit a blaze which they cannot put out. Your
rising will be the signal for the revolution. In less than a week
Russia will be in flames, and the dawn of freedom will be at hand.”
He ceased speaking, and eagerly awaited their reply. Of its nature
there was small room for doubt. His cunning eloquence had stung into
activity these patient, slow-moving peasants. Long conscious that
something was wrong, but unable to discover a remedy, they were dazzled
by his forecast of the future when all men should be equal and freed
from State control, each living and working as might seem good in his
own eyes. Yes, they would join the movement; but what were they to do?
A curious smile curled the thin lips of the messenger as he outlined
what was required of them.
“The committee have received information that Zubov, Minister of the
Interior, will visit Bassianova to-morrow. Is that right?”
“It is true,” said one of the men, a gardener at the manor-house.
“Zubov is the bárin’s cousin, and he comes for a little holiday.”
“Good,” said the messenger. “To-morrow night Zubov must be killed. I
shall provide you with enough dynamite to blow up the greater part of
the house. Next----”
“But that means killing our bárin too,” interrupted the gardener.
“Of course it does, fool,” said the nihilist. “The whole brood of
snakes, young and old alike, must be stamped out.”
They had not bargained on this. They knew nothing of Zubov, and were
willing to believe that he was responsible for their troubles and so
worthy of death; but to kill the bárin and his family, that was another
matter. They had no complaint against him, and did not wish to harm
him. The messenger felt his hold upon them to be loosening.
“But you are slaves, not men,” he cried. “I would sacrifice my own
brother for the cause. It is necessary to act regardless of sentiment.
Suppose your bárin catches you trying to kill Zubov. What will he do?
Shoot you down like dogs! Then why should you not kill him? Do you want
freedom, or would you rather go on living like cattle? There is no time
to lose. Answer me now. Will you do what I have said, or will you not?”
“_They will not_,” said a voice from the darkness.
With an oath the man sprang to his feet. At first his companions were
too frightened to move, but gradually they too arose and huddled
together, peering into the gloom. As they looked, a tall spare figure
dressed in a ragged cassock stepped from behind a tree and came
fearlessly towards them.
“Lazarus the Hermit,” they whispered among themselves.
“Take hold of him, some of you,” said the messenger angrily; but nobody
stirred at his bidding. “What? you won’t?” he added. “Well, see this,
you crow. If you attempt to escape I shall put a bullet through you.”
He sat down again, and placed his revolver ready to hand.
Utterly disregarding the threat, Lazarus addressed himself to the
peasants.
“You will not do this man’s bidding, brothers,” he said gently. “You
will not be so wicked or so foolish.”
The men looked sheepish under his steadfast gaze; but one of them,
who had worked in a town and had lost much of his reverence for holy
things, ventured a reply:
“What do you know about such matters?” he said roughly. “Go back to
your prayers and leave us to decide.”
The messenger laughed, and his laugh was more terrible than his curse.
“Will you listen to this old fowl’s cackle?” he asked.
“Let him speak,” said the gardener. “We have listened to you; now we
will hear him, and afterwards we will decide.”
They sat down again round the fire and waited for the hermit to begin.
For a minute he stood silent, looking with unflinching eye at the
messenger. Then he turned to his audience and spoke.
“It is now fifteen years since Lazarus the pilgrim, returning from
the life-giving Tomb, set up his khata in the woods of Bassianova and
became Lazarus the hermit. For fifteen years you have sought my counsel
in your difficulties. I have helped you in your work, tended your sick,
comforted your mourners, prayed for the health of your souls. I have
proved my goodwill towards you by every means in my power.”
“Brothers, he speaks the truth,” said the gardener.
“During all this time,” he continued, “not one of you has known my real
name and origin. Only you have known that I have no father but God, no
home but Russia. Now it seems that I should tell you something of my
history, so that you may understand that I have a right to speak. Shall
I go on?”
“Pray do so,” sneered the messenger. “We are comfortable as you see,
and time is no object.”
Without looking at his adversary, the hermit continued:
“My father was a well-to-do peasant of White Russia, and I was his only
son. He was an ignorant man, but he desired that I should have the
benefit of education, especially as I was not strong enough to work
on the land. He sent me to one of the best schools open to people of
our class, proposing to have me trained for the medical profession.
Outwardly the school was normal enough, but as time passed I found that
a great deal was going on beneath the surface. Several of the more
prominent teachers were revolutionaries, and, in private, utilized
their influence for the promotion of their views. As soon as a student
was admitted to the senior classes he was invited to attend one of the
secret meetings. Nobody ever refused. We were led on by excitement and
love of the mysterious. The lofty principles taught by our leaders
blinded us to the wickedness of their methods, which were those of
the bullet, the knife, and the bomb. When I left the school I was an
ardent terrorist. My instructors put me in touch with the leaders of
the movement, whose approval I soon won by my zeal and caution. They
entrusted me with several dangerous missions, which I accomplished
successfully. Then for several years I worked among the artisans at
Moscow and other large towns, securing hundreds of adherents to the
cause. In 1878 I joined the party called the _Will of the People_,
which was pledged to more violent measures. Three years later, only a
month before the assassination of Alexander II, I was badly wounded
in a police raid and narrowly escaped capture. During my recovery I
lived in the country with a peasant, a simple-minded man who took
no interest in politics. For the first time for many years I found
time to think and to observe. I tried to estimate the results of our
activities, and what did I find? The vast majority of people looked
upon us as murderers, foul beasts who ought to be exterminated without
mercy. Many of those who had sympathized with us previously, were
alienated by the murder of the Tsar. The only result of that incident
was the restoration to power of the reactionary party. Our policy had
completely failed.
“The realization of this fact upset all my ideas, and I decided to
dismiss the matter from my mind until I was sufficiently recovered to
be able to think clearly. But one evening I saw my friend the peasant
spelling out the words of a small book.
“‘What are you reading, little father?’ I said.
“‘The Gospel,’ he replied simply, handing me the book. ‘Will you read
it for me? I cannot read well myself.’
“To humour him I read several chapters. It was the first time I had
read the Gospel for years, and I was surprised to find in it most of
the principles for which we had been working. But I found also that
our methods were strongly condemned. Evil had to be overcome by good.
A corrupt tree could only produce evil fruit. It was plain enough. Six
months earlier I should have laughed at the argument, but in the light
of actual experience I could not deny it. The discovery was the turning
point in my life. I read more and more of the Gospel, and became
a Christian. When I was strong enough I went on pilgrimage to the
life-giving Tomb of Christ, and on my return I came to live in these
woods. Here I have tried to teach you that if you want to improve your
lot you must begin at home. If you cannot govern yourselves how can you
be fit to govern our country? ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and
all these things shall be added unto you.’”
“Well, crow, have you finished your sermon?” said the messenger
cynically. “If so we will wish you good-night.”
Hitherto the hermit had spoken gently and slowly, but now he turned on
the scoffer like an avenging angel.
“Do you think I have forgotten you, Yakub Schwartz, Jew and Austrian
agent?” he cried. “How much did you expect to receive for creating
trouble in our land? Go, and tell your masters that you have failed.”
The messenger stood up, and the smile on his evil face was not pleasant
to behold. He walked slowly to the edge of the clearing, turned, and
ere he disappeared into the gloom, swiftly raised his arm. A shot rang
out, two, three in quick succession. Lazarus the Hermit fell on his
face. When they raised him he was quite dead. They buried him where he
had lived, in the woods of Bassianova.
[Illustration: (Decorative divider)]
[Illustration: A PEASANT GIRL OF THE UKRAINE.
_From the painting by Ismailovich._]
THE WITCH
On a sunny day in June several girls were at work in the flower gardens
of the great house at Orsovitsa. It was nearing one o’clock, when the
ringing of a bell would proclaim their release for the mid-day meal.
Some little distance away the head gardener, Arkady Trofimich, was
engaged in abstruse calculations rendered necessary by the notorious
irregularity of his watch. At length he came to a decision, and
strolled in a leisurely fashion towards the bell-rope. Without waiting
for the signal, the girls threw down their implements and, with merry
jests and laughter, sped down a long alley to the lake, on the shady
margin of which they sat down and began to unfasten their parcels of
food.
A charming little picture they made in their snowy kerchiefs and white
embroidered blouses. They were still in their ’teens; several were
quite good-looking; all were barefoot, and tanned a healthy brown by
the warm Ukrainian sun. To-day their idle chatter held more of interest
than was usual, for it was the Vigil of S. John the Baptist, when
strange things might be seen by those who ventured into the woods by
night, witches and goblins and sirens rioting with their lord, the Tsar
of the Underworld.
“When my father was a young man,” said Tania, “he saw a russalka once,
sitting on the banks and combing jewels out of her long hair. She sang
strange wild songs to him, and beckoned him to come near.”
“Oh dear!” said one of her friends, Nadia by name. “Whatever did he do?”
“He made the holy Sign, though a goblin held his arm at first, and
after that he ran away home.”
“A good thing, too,” said Nadia seriously. “She’d have tickled him to
death. The russalke always do that, don’t they, Marina?” She turned to
a languid young beauty of some eighteen years.
“I don’t believe there are any russalke, or goblins, or anything like
that,” was the reply. “My brother Pavel has been to the big school, and
he says that russalke are all nonsense.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Tania indignantly, “your Pavel and Kostia and
Deema are going down to the Soula to-night to look for them. I know
because I heard them talking about it yesterday.”
Marina sat up quickly, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “I say,
girls,” she said, “do let us follow them and give them a fright.”
“Oh, what fun!” said Tania, clapping her hands, “but I’m afraid.”
“Nothing will happen, silly little soul,” replied Marina. “And if it
did, we could make the holy Sign, all of us together.”
The end of it all was that the three girls met Marina in the shadow of
the parish church at eleven o’clock that night. Drab-coloured autumn
jackets concealed their white blouses, and dark kerchiefs veiled
their hair in place of the gayer ones of the afternoon. Just as the
last comer crept up, something happened which all but drove them home
again. An uncouth bent figure shuffled past in the moonlight, breathing
heavily as it went.
“Akh te Gospody!” whispered Tania, trembling. “It’s the znakharka, the
old witch.”
The girls shivered, and even Marina of the strong mind crossed herself.
So great, however, was her confidence in the doctrines of brother
Pavel, that she soon rallied her nervous companions by recounting her
scheme for the discomfiture of the young fellows.
“Now, listen, little sisters,” she said. “I’ve found out where they are
going. You know the island down by the birch wood, where Erofay keeps
his boat. Well, that’s the place. We will row across to the island,
and when they come we will sing _The Kazak’s Bride_. Then I will go
into the water and call to them. What a fright they’ll have! Now come,
quickly. They will be starting soon.”
Giggling nervously the girls followed her down to the river. Half an
hour later they lay concealed in some bushes on the little island.
Marina quickly changed her clothes for a thin white robe, and loosing
her long black hair shook it round her like a cloak. They had not long
to wait. The moon was now high overhead, and some distance off they
could see the three young men walking slowly along the bank. Except for
the occasional cry of a heron the night was absolutely still. Pavel was
talking loudly to his companions, who glanced fearfully around as they
approached.
“All our teachers at the big school said it was nonsense,” Pavel was
saying in a lordly tone. “Only stupid old muzhiks believe in such
things. Ask the bátushka if you don’t believe me. He will----”
The three stopped dead. A weird mournful song floated softly over the
placid river, and from the shadow of some tall bushes on the island a
slender white form passed slowly to the water’s edge and gazed at them
in silence. Then she too joined in the song and entered the stream.
The silver rays of the moon transmuted into shining jewels the drops
which fell from her white arms now outstretched towards the trembling
youths. For a moment they stood transfixed with horror. Then they
turned and fled, pursued by the shrill laughter of their tormentors.
As soon as Marina was ready the girls regained the bank and set out for
home. They were so delighted at the success of their stratagem that all
their own fears were banished, and they laughed and chatted freely.
As they approached the village, however, they saw a dark object lying
across the path. It was their turn to be alarmed. They stopped and
huddled together, conversing in frightened whispers. While they looked
the figure moved and moaned. Nadia began to cry. Marina alone retained
some degree of self-command. She advanced a few paces and peered ahead.
Just then a cloud passed from the veiling of the moon, and a clear cold
light fell upon the prostrate form. It was Akulina, the wise woman.
Returning from some unhallowed orgy in the woods, she had tripped over
the protruding root of a withered tree and fallen heavily, injuring
her leg. The girls were hardly less alarmed than if she had been a
ghoul, and would gladly have avoided her had it been possible; but
there was no other way home. While they were hesitating the znakharka
saw them, and cried for help in a quavering voice. Marina ran towards
her, followed slowly by the others. When they raised her to a sitting
posture she looked at them with such piteous appeal in her sunken
eyes that all their alarm vanished. She was just a poor old woman who
needed their help. Between them the girls managed to convey her to her
cottage, a solitary abode on the fringe of the village. There they left
her, after ascertaining that no bones were broken, and Marina promised
to visit her on the morrow.
For some time the terrible experiences of the young men and the illness
of the witch formed the staple subjects of conversation in the village.
With regard to Akulina the generally received opinion was that the
Dyavol had given her more than she had bargained for, and that it
served her right too, though the latter verdict was usually implied
rather than expressed, having in view her abnormal powers. Had not
her nose been seen to shine with unearthly lustre at night? As for
the youths, naturally enough their story lost nothing in the telling.
Everybody knew how they were surrounded by goblins and russalke, and
thrust towards the river, and how they were only saved from a horrid
fate by the intervention of S. Nikolai the Wonder-Worker. Pavel was
even reconciled to his loss of caste as a philosopher on finding
himself a popular hero.
The parish priest, Bátushka Sergius, was the only person who made
himself really unpleasant in the matter, suggesting that the young
men had had more than a nodding acquaintance with the vodka bottle;
whereat the general indignation reached such a pitch that several old
women publicly stated that he ought to be reported to the rural dean
for impugning the merits of blessed S. Nikolai. As the harvest time
approached, however, the peasants found little time for gossip, and
soon the incidents gave place in public interest to the latest births,
marriages, and deaths.
Among the weddings was that of Marina, who for some months had been
“promised” to a stalwart young carpenter, Maksim by name. According
to custom she did little work for twelve months, and so found many
opportunities to visit the old witch, who made but slow progress
towards recovery. At first Marina found the undertaking far from
pleasant. The bones and frogs and black cats which graced the
znakharka’s cottage were not calculated to remove any superstitions
which may have lingered in her breast. In time, however, she grew
accustomed to them, and there sprang up a strange friendship between
the girl and her incongruous charge. Indeed, friendship is too mild a
term to express the sentiments with which the old hag regarded Marina.
For forty years and more no living soul had shown her any kindness,
and it was with a devotion quite pathetic in its intensity that she
welcomed the young woman to her den.
Bátushka Sergius was much interested in the course of events. When
several months had elapsed he sent Marina a hallowed ikon of the
God-bearer with her Divine Child, which was to be given anonymously
to the znakharka for the good of her soul. Akulina received it with
small show of gratitude; but on her next visit Marina found all the
paraphernalia of witchcraft swept away, and the ikon set in a place of
honour. It was about that time that she first noticed the absence of
that expression of malicious cunning which had at one time disfigured
the old woman’s wrinkled face.
Throughout the long winter Akulina kept her bed, but with the advent
of spring she began once more to creep round her little hut, and even
sometimes to venture into the garden. Yet she was less happy than she
might have been, for Marina came less and less frequently to see her,
and finally ceased coming altogether. Day after day the old woman
hobbled to the gate and waited with slowly fading hope for the sight
of Marina coming up the steep path. Day after day the old hard feeling
returned with increasing bitterness as she found herself deserted.
So she had lost her husband long years ago, and so one by one her
children. Now she was alone in the world, her hand against every man,
and every man’s hand against her. Matters came to a head one evening
towards the end of May. She had risen from her hard couch full of hope,
and had spent the whole day at the wicket-gate, leaving it only for
food. When the sun set, and she knew that hope was useless, a hideous
change came over her face. Uttering a torrent of imprecations she
hurried indoors and with a violent blow of her stick smashed down the
sacred ikon from its place of honour and ground her heel upon it. Then
the thought came that she would extend her vengeance to Marina, whom
she felt she hated. She passed out of her gate and hobbled painfully
down to the village. Few peasants were abroad; but those who saw her
shuddered, and whispered a “Gospody pomilui”--Lord have mercy--as they
met her malignant gaze. At length she reached Marina’s cottage, the
door of which was open. Voices could be heard within, among them that
of Bátushka Sergius.
The witch crept to the window and glared inside. At first she saw only
Marina, seated on the couch and looking pale and delicate. As her eyes
became more accustomed to the light, she saw that Marina held something
carefully in her arms. It was a little rosy child, fresh from its
baptism. Everything became plain then. A scalding tear rolled down her
withered cheeks and for a moment she reeled. Then with a low cry she
limped into the room and flung herself sobbing at the mother’s feet.
“Akh! the little angel,” she said, “just like the Baby Christ on the
ikon. Forgive me, Marinichka, I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”
The priest stooped and raised her gently from the ground, but she knelt
again and made confession of her manifold sins before them all. And
that night there was joy in Heaven.
[Illustration: (Decorative divider)]
[Illustration: THE ANGRY SUN.
_From the painting by Chevtchenko._]
THE SEER
A TALE OF THE GREAT WAR
Dawn was breaking over the blood-soaked plains of Russian Poland. On
all sides lay heaps of mangled bodies, stiff, cold, and silent. In
a ruined village, littered with discarded baggage, the flames of a
burning church leapt high to greet the angry sun, terrible as the wrath
of God blazing against the German hosts. In earth and sky red ruin.
For days a ghastly struggle had raged in the neighbourhood. Backwards
and forwards swayed the grappling hordes, enveloped in a Gehenna of
blasting shells and poisonous gases. Now it was finished--for a time.
The Russians, having exhausted their stores of ammunition, had been
forced back, badly mauled but still unconquered, ready to fight again
for the Faith and the Fatherland.
A short distance to the west of the village lay the German armies
occupying the abandoned trenches. They, too, had suffered frightful
losses, and were for the time being incapable of advancing another
yard. And so the night had passed in silence, a truce of exhaustion
tacitly accepted by the opposing forces.
Hidden behind the smoking church was a little group of Russians, an
officer, a chaplain, and six soldiers, all of them wounded. The priest
was dying, but before the end came, that end which is only a beginning,
he was able to shrive his companions in preparation for death, which
was inevitable for all. They had spent the long night in silence,
sometimes praying, sometimes snatching a few minutes’ troubled sleep.
With the coming of dawn they began to converse in low tones, glancing
often at the young officer who knelt motionless by the dead priest,
oblivious to his surroundings. His face was thin and worn, and his
eyes, shining with an unnatural light, indicated that he was in a state
of spiritual exaltation bordering on religious ecstasy. He had not many
hours to live, and the veil of the unseen was wearing thin. Suddenly he
started, and held out his hands.
The soldiers looked in the direction of his gaze, but they perceived no
one.
“He can see the White Knight,”[9] whispered one of them. “If we pray,
maybe we shall see him too.”
[9] Among the Russian troops, as on the Western front, it is believed
that visions of Christ have been vouchsafed to the wounded and dying.
_Boom!_ The thunder of a great gun recalled them to a sense of their
danger. Even the lieutenant was shaken back to earth, and began to
think of his military duties.
“Listen to me, brothers,” he said. “We cannot escape death. We are all
wounded, and the army is now miles away. The enemy has again begun to
advance, and will be here in a short while. What will you do? Will you
surrender, or will you die fighting for the Fatherland?”
“We will die, your nobility,” said a sergeant stepping forward. “If
we surrender they will only torture us; but if we fight we shall do
something for the Tsar.”
“Yes, yes, we will fight,” cried the rest.
“Good,” said the officer. “Have you rifles and ammunition?”
There were rifles enough, but hardly any bullets. Suddenly one of the
men remembered having seen a broken box of cartridges lying in the main
street as he was seeking shelter. He crept away, and returned a few
minutes later with as many as he could carry.
“I found this too,” he said, producing an altar crucifix, which had
been dropped during the retreat.
“It shall be our standard,” said the lieutenant. “Who will carry it?”
“Let me have it, your honour,” said one of the men. “I have been reader
in a church at Strelna.”
They gave him the privilege of bearing the Cross, and then the little
band stumbled painfully after their leader to a deserted trench on
the outskirts of the village. What splendid insolence! Seven wounded
Russians facing a brigade of the Prussian Guards. Yes, but the White
Knight----
On it came, the Protestant army, wearily yet irresistibly, ignorant
of the proximity of danger. An aeroplane whirred overhead, but its
occupants were looking towards the horizon and failed to perceive the
little squad of patriots. They remained motionless until the German
advance-guard was within a hundred and fifty yards, and then opened
a rapid fire upon the dense masses. Several men dropped at once, and
a scene of horrible confusion ensued. Men ran this way and that,
stumbling over the bodies of the dead and wounded; officers shouted and
cursed, beating their soldiers with the flat of the sword; and all the
while a thin stream of bullets came pouring into their ranks, each with
its message of pain and death. By the time the Germans had deployed and
were lying in safety, their opponents had exhausted their ammunition.
A curious silence followed. The Prussian commander was puzzled and
suspected some trick. For some minutes he directed a heavy rifle and
machine-gun fire upon the village, while from either wing parties of
men advanced in spasmodic rushes to encircle the place. But there was
no reply, and after a while the order was given to cease fire. Then
was heard the sound of chanting, as if from the ruined church. The
reader was intoning the Great Litany from the Orthodox Mass, and to
each petition his companions gave the customary response, “Gospody
pomilui”--Lord have mercy.
_For peace from on high, and the salvation of our
souls, let us pray unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
_For peace upon earth, for the good estate of the holy
Churches of God and for the unity of them all,
let us pray unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
_For the Holy Governing Synod, for the Metropolitan
Pitirim of Petrograd and Ladoga, for
the honourable Presbytery, for the Diaconate in
Christ, for all servants of the Church and for all
congregations, let us pray unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
_For our most pious Autocratic Great Lord, the
Emperor Nikolai Alexandrovich of All the
Russias, for his wife, the most pious lady, the
Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, for his mother,
the most pious lady, the Empress Marya Feodorovna,
let us pray unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
_For his heir, the Orthodox Lord, the Tsarevich
and Grand Duke Alexei Nikolaievich, for the
whole imperial house, and for their whole court
and armies, let us pray unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
_For help for them, and for the subduing under their
feet of every enemy and adversary, let us pray
unto the Lord._
_Lord have mercy._
A shell exploded on the parapet of the trench near where they
were standing. No one was hurt, but it was plain that their exact
whereabouts was discovered. The lieutenant went to the breach and
looked out. His wound had been bleeding afresh, and he was even weaker
than before. Then he saw the White Knight again standing before the
German lines. Snatching the Cross from the reader he staggered out into
the open, followed by his men, and ran down upon the bayonets of the
Guard. And there, verily and indeed, all the little band of heroes saw
the White Knight, for it is written, “_If I go down to Hell, thou art
there also_.”
[Illustration: A NORTHERN MONASTERY.
_By Ovsianikov._]
THE VEILED CHRIST
One evening in September two men were standing on the piazza of a large
manor house in the province of Olonetz. Alexis Talietsin, the taller,
bore himself with that air of authority and dignified ease which
characterizes a country gentleman dwelling on his own broad lands. His
companion, Féodor Gordanoff, was obviously a man of lesser rank, a
tutor in fact, but the quiet gravity and kindliness of his demeanour
caused him to be regarded with a certain deference and sympathy
sometimes denied to men in his position. For some minutes no word had
passed between the two men. A solemn, almost religious, silence brooded
over the landscape, a silence broken only by the deep notes of a bell
chiming from a distant monastery, the gilded domes of which reflected
the fading lights of the sunset. Talietsin was the first to stir.
“It is very beautiful, this Russia of ours,” he said. “On such a night
as this one could almost believe in God.”
Gordanoff looked at him in surprise. “Then you do not believe, M’sieur?”
“Believe?” said Talietsin. “Is it possible for a man of education
and intelligence to believe? The Christian myth serves very well for
peasants and women-folk. It keeps them out of mischief; but it will not
do for such as you and I. Listen to that bell now. I suppose the church
is filling with monks and other deluded fools; and to-morrow morning
they will all be there again for the Mass, the most incredible of all
their superstitions. You agree with me, of course?”
Gordanoff hesitated for a moment, not desiring to discuss the matter;
but seeing that Talietsin awaited his reply, he said gently, “No,
M’sieur, I do not; I believe in God.”
Talietsin was a little taken aback at the avowal. “Well, well, Féodor
Ivanich, I dare say there is something to be said for the existence
of a supreme being, a first cause, eh? But surely you do not believe
in all _this_,” he pointed towards the monastery, “in the Mass, for
example?”
“M’sieur,” Gordanoff replied, “since you ask me, I do.”
“Is it possible?” cried Talietsin with amazement. “But you are joking,
surely. A man of your ability to believe in the Mass! What nonsense!”
“I do not jest about religion, M’sieur,” said the tutor. “And I have
my reasons for believing.”
Talietsin looked at him with curiosity. “Oho! you have your reasons.
Come, you must tell me what they are. But it’s getting chilly out here.
Let us go indoors.”
He led the way into the study, which was dimly lighted by a couple of
candles, and settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair opposite to
his companion.
“Now,” he said with a touch of sarcasm, “let us hear these weighty
reasons which can induce an otherwise intelligent man to part with his
common sense.”
Gordanoff was troubled by his irony and endeavoured to change
the subject, but his patron, with the quick generosity so often
characteristic of Russians, had already repented of his words and urged
him to begin.
“Forgive me, Féodor Ivanich, if I have hurt your feelings. You took
me by surprise; but I like you, and I shall respect your convictions,
however extraordinary they may be.”
“Thank you, M’sieur,” said Gordanoff. “If it will really interest you
I will tell you how I feel about these matters. To begin with, let me
say that at one time I shared the opinions you have just expressed. The
education I had received led me to suppose that any form of religious
belief was impossible to a man of intelligence. I thought, with you,
that science had dethroned God, and banished him like a pallid ghost
to the realm of exploded superstitions. I regarded science as not
only infallible but even omnipotent. There was no ill which science
could not redress, no department of human activity in which it was not
supreme. The successes already achieved were nothing in comparison with
the victories of the future. M’sieur, it required a great sorrow to
change my attitude towards science and towards God.”
“Excuse me,” Talietsin broke in, “but you do not despise the
achievements of science?”
“Not at all,” replied Gordanoff, “but I have learned, what few
scientists will admit, that science has its limitations. Let me give
you just one example. I used to be enthusiastic over the scientific
doctrine of the survival of the fittest. When I saw some unhappy
wretch dying from consumption or cancer, I was accustomed to say to
myself, ‘Soon all disease will be banished from the earth. The unfit
will become extinct.’ It did not at the time occur to me that this
doctrine was cold comfort for the unfit and for those who loved them.
Not until my sorrow came did I realize that science _had no consolation
for the broken-down_. While I was happy and contented science filled
my head; but in my hour of need only God could soothe my heart. Yes,
M’sieur, I have discovered that religion concerns the heart as well as
the intellect, and to a far greater degree. I found no difficulty in
believing in God as soon as I needed him. But perhaps I am boring you?”
Talietsin sat upright. “On the contrary, my friend, I am deeply
interested. Your point of view is novel to me. I have never suffered.
Please go on.”
“Well, M’sieur, having got so far I desired to go further. We Russians
are a gregarious race; we need companionship and sympathy. I could not
remain satisfied with my former friends; I had to find new friends
with whom I could pray, so I decided to join a church. I studied
theology with care, and every Sunday for some months I went to places
of worship of different types--for example, the Polish Cathedral, the
Lutheran Temple, and even to the English Church on the Quay. In each
case I found something attractive, something helpful. Perhaps, owing to
my rationalistic training, the Protestant system appealed most to my
head. It made few demands on my faith, for everything was so obvious
and natural. But I had learnt already that what seems most natural
and obvious in religion is not always most true. And certainly the
worship of the older churches, the Roman and the English, brought more
comfort to my heart. I began to consider the possibility of joining
one of them. There were two obstacles, however, which hindered my
doing so. First of all I did not desire to abandon my nationality.
I was a Russian and I had a Russian heart. Both of these communions
were of foreign origin, and few Russians attended their services. If
I joined either I should never know the religious companionship of
my countrymen. And then there was the question of the Mass. I could
not see a great deal of difference between the doctrines of the two
churches in this respect, and they were doctrines which I was not
prepared to accept at the time. At last I decided, in spite of Tolstoi,
to try the Russian religion. I began to attend with regularity the
services at the Nevsky Monastery. Here at least were Russians at
prayer, and I felt my heart warm towards God and my fellows. One
difficulty had disappeared. There remained the Mass, always the Mass.”
Gordanoff paused for a moment, and then went on: “M’sieur, what I
am about to tell you will no doubt seem to be nothing but the wild
hallucinations of one whose mind was already unbalanced by grief and
over-much study. For my own part I firmly believe that it was God’s
answer to my prayers.
“I dreamed one night that I was in a vast cathedral. The building was
shrouded in almost complete darkness, and all around me stood a great
concourse of those who had been stricken in the battle of life. Each
one bent under a heavy burden of sin or of sorrow. From within the
screen came the sound of a voice chanting the Divine Liturgy, and the
hymns and responses were taken up very sweetly by an invisible choir of
those who no longer dwelt on the earth. As the Mass proceeded I peered
through the gloom at my neighbours, and I saw on each uplifted face a
look of expectancy and eager hope which contrasted strangely with their
bowed forms. It seemed that they awaited One who could relieve their
pain, as men waited long years since at the pool of Bethesda. And still
the Mass went on; but, alas! I had no share in it. How I envied those
worshippers who were about to lose their burdens! At last I began to
pray for faith and vision, and as I prayed I heard a voice from beside
the altar, a low, sweet voice, which somehow I knew was that of the
Mother of God, and it said: ‘_Lord, open the young man’s eyes that he
may see._’ Almost before the words were spoken the great screen faded
from sight, and I could see within the sanctuary. The consecration was
taking place.
“As the prayer reached its climax the small jewelled cross upon the
altar slowly increased in size until it was large enough to bear the
figure of a man. In the centre of the cross there was a small white
object which I recognized as the Holy Sacrament. It was shaped like a
heart, the Heart of Christ, and glowed with a mysterious flame which
was the Divine Compassion. Rays of dazzling light streamed in all
directions from the Heart, driving gloom and sadness from the church,
and passing through the walls into the world outside. As my eyes became
accustomed to the brilliancy I saw, with increasing distinctness,
in the midst of the flame a figure like to the Son of God, his arms
outspread against the shining Cross. It appeared that at the same
moment my companions saw him too, for all in the Cathedral sank on
their knees, and a cry like a great sob broke from them as from one
mouth:
‘_Salve, Christe Consolator._’
And then, one by one, we approached the altar, and from the throne of
the Cross our Lord bent down and embraced us, blessing us with the
pierced Hands. All our burdens were consumed in the fire of his Heart,
and we returned to our places erect, purified, and strong.
“The vision faded as the Mass came to an end. I stood aside while the
congregation poured into the street, and I perceived that though the
Christ was no longer visible, the Glory of his Presence was enshrined
in the hearts of all, as it was in my own.
“M’sieur, I have never forgotten my dream. Whenever I go to Mass I
know that it is all happening again behind that veil which hides
spiritual things from our eyes. Sometimes I see from the face of some
poor peasant that he, too, has eyes to see, and then I pray for those
who are blinded by ignorance or materialism, and for those who would
limit God’s operations to what they themselves regard as rational and
probable. No, M’sieur, I no longer have any difficulty with regard to
the Mass. As I contrast it with other services of human origin I can
see clearly how infinitely greater and nobler are God’s ordinances than
ours.”
Gordanoff had been speaking with intense earnestness, and his evident
sincerity impressed his companion. “Féodor Ivanich,” he said, “I cannot
say that you have convinced me of the truth of your beliefs; but you
have done what I thought was impossible. You have given me the desire
to believe.”
Gordanoff smiled. “Then you are not far from the Kingdom of God,” he
said.
Transcriber’s Notes
In the .txt version, surrounding characters have been used to indicate
_Italics_ and +Smallcaps+
The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the
printed notation and are placed in the public domain.
Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to follow the paragraph from
which they are referenced.
Illustrations have been moved from within to between paragraphs as
needed.
Minor typographical and formatting errors have been corrected.
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