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Title: In the hollow of His hand
Author: Hesba Stretton
Illustrator: Walter Jenks Morgan
Release date: July 31, 2025 [eBook #76597]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1897
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: HE LAID HIS HAND ON HER HEART.]
IN THE HOLLOW
OF HIS HAND
BY
HESBA STRETTON
AUTHOR OF
"JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER," "ALONE IN LONDON,"
"BEDE'S CHARITY," ETC., ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
PREFACE
[Illustration]
THE most extraordinary and inexplicable phase of Christianity is the
persecution of Christians by Christians. Persecution is absolutely
opposed to the nature and teaching of the Lord, who said to His
disciples, when they desired to call down fire from heaven on the
Samaritans who refused them hospitality, "Ye know not what manner of
spirit ye are of. For the Son of Man is not come to destroy men's
lives, but to save them."
In my former story, "The Highway of Sorrow," I attempted to set forth
the religious principles of the Stundist men, and their steadfast
courage in maintaining them. I have received a letter from Russia
saying that this narrative "is true to fact." "In the Hollow of His
Hand" endeavours to show the bitter sufferings of women and children in
the storm of persecution now raging in Russia. The latest suggestion
made for the complete stamping out of Stundism is that all children
should be taken from their Stundist parents and brought up in the
Orthodox Church. When this was done, in the Middle Ages, to the Jews
in Spain, many parents adopted the awful alternative of slaying their
children.
In writing both stories I have drawn largely from two sources. One
is a pamphlet, called "The Stundists: the Story of a Great Religious
Revolt," published in 1893 by James Clarke & Co. The other is a most
valuable work, entitled "Siberia and the Exile System," by George
Kennan, from whose volumes I have drawn many of the details of the
protracted journey to Eastern Siberia. Both of these stories are
sorrowful, but they are true. And I would earnestly ask my readers to
ponder over the words of our Lord, "Blessed are ye, when men shall
revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against
you falsely, for My sake. 'Rejoice,' and be 'exceeding glad:' for great
is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which
were before you."
This blessing the Stundists realise.
HESBA STRETTON.
1897.
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
CHAP.
I. THE SCOTCH COVENANTERS
II. THE RUSSIAN STUNDISTS
III. AT HOME
IV. ESTRANGED FRIENDS
V. IN THE FOREST
VI. THE CHILDREN'S SERVICE
VII. FATHER CYRIL
VIII. A CRUEL BLOW
IX. ORTHODOX REASONING
X. MOTHERS AND CHILDREN
XI. A HARD WINTER
XII. A FRIENDLY JAILER
XIII. DENYING THE FAITH
XIV. LITTLE CLAVA
XV. BLESSING THE HERETICS
XVI. IN KOVYLSK.
XVII. FATHER CYRIL'S LETTER
XVIII. THE FORWARDING PRISON
XIX. THE GREAT SIBERIAN ROAD
XX. SERGIUS
XXI. MARFA'S FUNERAL
XXII. THE PRISON HOSPITAL
XXIII. MONTH AFTER MONTH
XXIV. THE EXILES' BEGGING SONG
XXV. SLEEP AND DEATH
XXVI. THE END OF THE JOURNEY
XXVII. DEMYAN'S TIDINGS
XXVIII. THE SEED OF THE CHURCH
XXIX. A YOKE OF BONDAGE
XXX. VELIA'S TYRANTS
XXXI. RESCUED
XXXII. A LETTER PROM SIBERIA
IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
THE SCOTCH COVENANTERS
"BEHOLD, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye
therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves."
The boy who was reading in a clear, low voice, though with a foreign
accent, felt the pressure of his mother's feeble hands, and lifted up
his eyes to her white and placid face. He was kneeling beside her bed,
and she pushed back the thick curls of his brown hair, and looked with
a very tender gaze into his frank, boyish face.
"That's true, my laddie," she said; "true for you, but not for me.
He calls me home, but He sends your father and you forth as sheep in
the midst of wolves. Ah! The Lord Jesus knew; and He knows now. Never
think He's away, and not minding your troubles. You'll go back to your
father, when I'm gone home—not to Knishi, never again to Knishi. Oh, if
I'd only known, I'd have gone home to heaven from there!"
The feeble, gasping voice ceased for a minute or two. But the mother's
eyes still rested fondly and anxiously on her boy.
"And, oh, my Michael," she said, "be wise! Don't anger the neighbours
more than you can help. You're only a boy yet, and they'll leave you
alone if you keep quiet. Be 'harmless as doves,' says our Lord."
"But you wouldn't have me a coward, mother," answered the boy somewhat
hotly.
"Me, Michael? Me?" she cried, a faint colour flushing her pallid
face. "No, no! Weren't my ain forebears among the Covenanters? Both
on father's and mother's sides! Didn't they suffer the loss o' all
things—eh! and die for conscience' sake? Nay, Michael, I'd send you
to death, if need be, for the truth. But it's hard to think of young
little ones having to suffer cruelly because their parents must act
according to their conscience. Oh, my Michael! And my little Velia!"
She sank back on her pillows with closed eyelids, through which the
tears were slowing oozing. Michael did not go on with his reading. They
were both thinking of the last twelve months, when Catherine Ivanoff
had left her Russian home to try if her native air in Scotland would
restore her health. Michael had accompanied her, being old enough to
be a help and comfort to her during the long voyage from Odessa to
Glasgow, and through her sojourn among her own kinsfolk. It had been on
the whole a happy year, filled at first with delusive hopes. But all
hope was gone now. She would never be able to bear the voyage and the
inland journey homewards.
Her brother's house, where she lay dying, was a small Scotch farm, not
unlike the homestead she had left in Russia. She lay still, thinking
longingly of it now. The thick walls of dried mud, with their deep
window-sills; the large house-place, with its oak table, and oak
benches standing along the walls, which she had kept beautifully
polished; the huge stove, which seemed to fill half the room; and the
great barns and stables built round the fold-yard. Oh, if she had only
been there now!—dying in the little bedroom which opened out of the
roomy house-place, where she could watch her husband going to and fro,
and have her little Velia in her sight. Her house in Knishi had been
the best in the village, almost equal to the church-house; and she had
cherished a secret pride in it. The garden on the eastern side was even
better than the priest's garden, for her husband as well as herself
took great pleasure in it. It was already near the end of February; and
the snow would be melting, and the buds swelling on the fruit-trees,
and the earliest flowers pushing their first shoots through the moist
earth. Oh, how happy she and her husband had been in Knishi!
It was eight years since they had gone there, with their two young
children, to rent a farm belonging to her husband's cousin, Paul
Rodenko, who had been exiled to Siberia for holding fast to his
Stundist faith. A sharp outbreak of persecution had taken place,
during which three of the leading Stundists had been imprisoned—one
of them dying in prison. And the mother of Paul Rodenko had fallen a
martyr to the uncurbed violence of a mob. There had been some official
inquiries into the cause of her death. And though no one was punished,
the peasants, after their wild excess of savagery, were ashamed of the
crime.
Since then the Stundists had been unmolested, left very much to
themselves, and practically cut off from all village intercourse.
Alexis Ivanoff was their presbyter; and though they had no stated
hour or place of worship, it was well-known they maintained their own
religious views.
Alexis Ivanoff's letters to his wife told her that this tranquil state
of affairs showed signs of coming to an end. Although there was a good
and kind-hearted priest, Father Cyril, appointed in the place of the
old Batoushka, who had fomented the persecution eight years ago, there
were symptoms of hard times coming for the Stundists. The Starosta, who
was the chief layman in the village, was a fierce bigot and a churlish
miser; and it lay in his power to injure those whom he disliked.
Already Alexis had been compelled to pay sundry fines for himself and
his poorer fellow Stundists; and the exactions were increasing. It was
no use appealing to any court of law against these unjust and vexatious
taxes; were they not Stundists? But he hoped the oppression would be
confined to monetary forfeits.
"I would send Velia to you out of the way," he wrote, "if I thought
Okhrim would do more than tax us unjustly. But he is fond of money, and
will be content to fleece us; when the sheep are slain, there is no
more to be gained. Velia is the treasure I value most—my only earthly
joy, now you and Michael are away. Yet, if the Lord required it, you
and I would give up our children, precious as they are. My Catherine,
this life is only a journey, and a short one at the longest. What
matters it if we come to the end soon, or travel on a little longer? If
we walk in smooth paths or rough ones? Let us work while it is called
to-day; 'the night cometh when no man can work.' And at nightfall we go
home and rest with our beloved ones."
This was his last letter. It lay under her pillow.
Michael had risen from his knees beside his mother, and gone to the
little lattice window, through which he could see the distant mountains
still capped with snow. Below the house lay a pleasant valley, which
had been the resort of the Covenanters in times long gone by, when they
must needs worship God in secret. In the room below, on one side of
the wide, old open hearth, there was a little closet four feet square,
cunningly contrived behind the wainscot, where many a time godly men
had hidden whilst their persecutors searched the homely farmstead for
them, or sat round the fire cursing their fruitless efforts. The whole
place and neighbourhood were full of legends of the Covenanters, and
Michael had heard of them, and listened to them with avidity, for the
last twelve months.
He was longing to be home again with his father and Velia, especially
now when there was a threatening of renewed oppression. He loved
his fatherland, Russia, with a boy's hot patriotism. He had fretted
inwardly at his long exile, though he fancied he had concealed his
home-sickness successfully from his mother. It would soon be over
now, and the tears fell fast down his cheeks. For it was only when
his beloved mother passed through the gates of death, already opening
slowly before her, that he could be free to hasten away home.
"Michael!" cried his mother in a strong and happy voice.
He sprang towards her.
She had half-raised herself in bed, and her face was full of radiant
gladness, such as he had never seen before.
"I'm dying! And it's beautiful!" she said. "Tell your father death is
beautiful! And I'm not alone—no, not alone!"
CHAPTER II
THE RUSSIAN STUNDISTS
THREE weeks later Michael set out on his return home in a vessel
sailing from Glasgow to Odessa. Sandy Gordon, his uncle, accompanied
him to Glasgow, loath to part with the boy who had become very dear to
his Scotch kindred. They urged him to stay with them, but he could not
bear the thought of it. His home-sickness had greatly increased since
his mother's death, and he had an intense longing to be once more in
his own country, to cross the limitless steppes, and taste again the
spring breezes full of the scent of flowers. He pined for the familiar
sound of his own language, and the songs in which his people delighted.
And underneath this natural love of his own country lay a boy's desire
to share with his father and sister any perils which might be hanging
over them.
"No, Uncle Sandy," he said, with his arms round Sandy Gordon's neck,
and his brown head resting on his uncle's grizzled hair, "no! I'm a
Russian, and I ought to live in my own country, and help my own people."
"And if they send your father to Siberia, my laddie," said Sandy
Gordon, "as they did his cousin Paul Rodenko, what will you and Velia
do then?"
"We'll do what father says," answered Michael; "if he goes, I shall
want to go too. But there is little Velia! Father must settle for us.
She's a tender little thing is Velia."
"My lad," said Sandy earnestly, "remember there's always a home for
you and Velia here with us. For Catherine's sake—and your own sake,
Michael—you'll be welcome. And there's one of your own kin in Odessa,
a well-to-do man, dealing in corn, John Gordon by name. In any trouble
think of him, my boy; and he'll help you, for he has the means and the
will."
Sandy Gordon gave Michael a letter addressed to his kinsman in Odessa,
to be delivered between leaving the port and reaching the railway
station of the line which was to carry him to about fifty miles from
Knishi, the village where his home had been since his early childhood,
and where his father was to meet him. It seemed to him an almost
intolerable interruption to stay some hours in Odessa, but the elderly
merchant was pleased with the boy, and with the news he brought from
Scotland. He promised to be ready with any help he could give, if the
troubles anticipated by Alexis Ivanoff should break out.
The short spring-tide of Russia was in its fullest beauty when Michael
reached the railway station, where his father was to meet him with a
telega, and the old mare whom he had so often fed. The past winter
with its bitter winds was already forgotten, and the scorching heat
of summer lurked still in the future. The boy's heart was torn with
conflicting emotions. His mother's death still filled it with profound
grief, but the joy of coming home again to his father and Velia was as
strong as his sorrow. He had felt no fatigue from his long and tedious
journey, and though his heart leaped at the sound of the Russian tongue
spoken by all about him, he had sat almost speechless, and absorbed in
memories, during the many hours since he had left Odessa.
His father was standing by the telega, outside the barrier, a tall,
strong, middle-aged man, with a grave and handsome face, and a
dignified carriage, very unlike the uncouth and rough aspect of most
Russian farmers. He had the look of a leader among men. Michael
recognised it for the first time, and he felt a new sensation of pride
in him. When he left home a year before, he did not understand all
his father was as a man. But in Scotland, having his mind filled with
stories of the unconquerable courage of the Covenanters, who defied the
power of king and soldiers when they sought to interfere with freedom
of conscience, he discovered that his father was such a man as they had
been. Now he saw it with his eyes.
He threw himself into his father's arms, and felt his kisses mingled
with hot tears falling from his father's eyes. The thought of the lost
wife and mother, who had been buried so far away from them, was in both
of their minds. Silently they got into the telega, and drove away from
the noisy crowd gathered about the station.
Everything about him seemed so new, yet so familiar to Michael, that
he felt that it must be a dream, one of those many dreams of Russia
that had haunted his sleep whilst he had been in Scotland. His father
sitting silent beside him, the noisy creaking of the cart-wheels, which
might be heard half a mile off, the jolting over the rough road, the
slow jog-trot of the old mare—were these real? Or would he awake by and
by, and find himself gazing out down the gentle valley under his window
at his uncle's farmhouse?
Presently there was nothing to be seen around them but leagues upon
leagues of apparently level land, with an unbroken horizon lying low,
like the sky-line at sea. Wherever the ground could be cultivated, a
brilliant yet delicate green carpeted the rich brown soil, showing the
young corn, which would soon be waving under the summer sun. In the
untilled portions of the plain, innumerable flowers were in blossom,
and butterflies and bees fluttered in clouds above them. The cry of
the curlew that loves lonely places followed them mile after mile. Not
a barn or a dwelling was visible in all the vast expanse. The father
and son drove on in almost unbroken silence, only speaking a word or
two now and then. There was so much to say that they knew not where to
begin. At length a soft, gentle breeze just touched Michael's cheek,
which seemed to him as if his mother had kissed it.
"Father," he said, looking up into the sad yet serene face beside him,
"my mother told me to tell you death is beautiful! And her face said it
too; it was full of gladness. Yes, until we laid her in the coffin."
"Thank God!" said Alexis Ivanoff, lifting up his eyes to the cloudless
sky above them. "I praise Thee, O Lord, that Thou halt taken her away
from the troubles to come. She was too tender to bear them. We men,
Michael, can bear hardness as soldiers of our Lord Christ, but when we
think of our women and children—it is that which breaks our hearts."
The boy's whole frame thrilled with delight as his father uttered the
words, "We men." Then he was no longer to be considered a child; this
was a summons to enter the ranks of manhood. He was ready to obey the
call, and eager to endure hardships. Yet, as if he were already a man,
the moment of delight was quickly followed by a sharp sense of dread
piercing him, as he recollected Velia, his little sister, who must
share whatever sorrows and perils befell them. How was it he had never
experienced this vague terror before? Was it because he was almost a
man?
"But could not God save us?" he asked after a while.
"What do you mean by being saved?" inquired his father.
Michael did not answer immediately. He meant that God should give
them the freedom of conscience, and liberty to worship as they
believed best, for which the Scotch Covenanters had fought so long
and so stubbornly. But he knew the tenets of the Stundists forbade
all resistance by force, and taught simple submission to authority in
everything, except coercion in religious matters. Moreover, he had seen
too much of life in Scotland to be able to convince himself that the
Scotch, as a people, were saved. Had he not seen drunkenness there as
bad as in Russia? Were there not lying and dishonesty and quarrelling,
and all the long list of sins which he ran through in his mind?
"I cannot tell what I mean," he said at last.
"Christ came to save us from our sins," answered his father, "not from
sorrow. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' He said; and the
history of His people has been the same through all generations, and
in all countries. The Church has always been built on the graves of
the martyrs. As we beat out the grain from the straw with our flails,
stroke after stroke, so will the world smite us. But God will gather
His corn into His granary; not one grain lost, only the chaff left. The
flail is the world, my son, but God's hand holds it."
"Are they beginning the persecution, father?" asked Michael.
"It has never ceased," answered Alexis, "but now it is growing hotter.
Okhrim has been made Starosta in Savely's room, and there is not a
harder or more cruel man in all Knishi. Father Cyril can do little to
control him. He is a saint and a Christian, our Batoushka, but Okhrim
is his enemy. Khariton Kondraty was taken to Kovylsk, and thrown into
prison there last week. I expect to be the next. But he leaves me
alone, because I pay every fine he imposes; and the farm is not mine, I
only pay rent for it. It belongs to Paul Rodenko, who was exiled years
ago. Old Karpo will take care it is not confiscated, because it will go
to his daughter, Paul's wife, if he dies first. Still, the hour must
come for me at last."
Silence fell upon them again. Michael had a vivid idea of what
persecution meant in Knishi. Instead of the fairy tales and ballads
which other children heard from their elders, he had listened all
through his childhood to stories of martyrs—martyrs in Scotland, and
martyrs in his own country. Even the dear home in which they dwelt had
been the scene of martyrdom; and the bench on which they sat beside the
stove had been the deathbed of Paul Rodenko's mother. But hitherto he
had thought of persecution as a thing of the past, or far-off in other
villages; now it stood face to face with him.
Yet life was very pleasant for the time being. He drew in deep breaths
of the sweet, fresh air of the spring, and looked up into the clear
blue of the sky, and gazed across the vast, sea-like plain. His
heart beat high with the mere joy of living. Courage and hope and an
unquestioning faith in his father filled his mind. Whatever troubles
might be coming, surely he could bear them as his forefathers among the
heathery mountains of Scotland had borne theirs. When he came to think
of it, only a small number of the Covenanters had actually perished;
most of them won through, and secured freedom for themselves, and their
children after them. It would be the same with the Stundists in Holy
Russia.
They were five days travelling homewards; for Alexis seized this
opportunity for visiting the scattered bands of Stundists, already
becoming terrified and disorganised by the increasing severity of
the persecution. Alexis was not only the deacon of the little church
at Knishi; he was also the presbyter of a wide district containing a
number of churches. He was in constant communication with the Stundist
exiles and prisoners, and managed the funds by which they were helped
and the most distressed members of the sect were maintained. He had
therefore much business to transact, and much comfort and information
to give. Compared with most of the other presbyters and deacons, he was
both a rich and educated man; for he had travelled in other lands, and
his wife had possessed a small income, safely invested in Scotland.
In every village they met with terror and sorrow. Spies abounded, and
it had become impossible to hold regular meetings. Alexis dared not
address the assembled congregations, as he had been wont to do. In two
or three places tales so terrible were told him that he would not let
Michael hear them. But everywhere he preached non-resistance, not only
from policy, but from obedience to the direction of our Lord—"But I
say unto you, that ye resist not evil." If they could not conquer by
obeying the commands of Jesus Christ, they must perish.
In some villages, he found that the more timid among the Stundists were
going back to the Orthodox Church, and these were more to be dreaded
than the spies. But in all the little bands, there were some who were
ready to go into exile, or even, if need be, to die for conscience'
sake. These were all poor working men and women, like the carpenters
and fishermen who were our Lord's earliest disciples. Alexis saw them
in secret, and encouraged them. To suffer for Christ was to reign with
Him. There were light afflictions but for a moment on one hand; a more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory on the other!
CHAPTER III
AT HOME
THE last night was spent at Kovylsk. This place was the chief town of
the province. Here the governor lived. Here also was the dwelling of
the archbishop. The law courts, the consistory, and the jail were here.
Civil law and ecclesiastical law held their high courts in Kovylsk.
Alexis was very busy, but also very cautious in this town of the
governor and archbishop.
They took up their quarters in the abode of Markovin, a secret
disciple, more timid than Nicodemus, but a very useful friend to the
Stundists. He was in abject terror all the time a Stundist was under
his roof, but he never refused to shelter them. Alexis and Michael left
their telega and horse at a little inn quite at the other side of the
town, and did not go near him till dusk.
Markovin had means of succouring the men in prison, of receiving news
from them, and of smuggling in letters to them. One of the warders
who was favourably inclined towards Stundism came occasionally to his
house, bringing information about them. He had been several years
in the prison wards, and was trusted greatly by the authorities,
as he seemed always a stupid but well-principled man. His name was
Pafnutitch, and he had formerly been a soldier. He happened to look in
whilst Alexis and Michael were in Markovin's room.
"Look here!" he said, after giving them all the news he could. "There's
poor Kondraty would give his ears to have a sight of one of you. I
daren't take you, Alexis, but if Michael didn't mind running a little
bit of a risk, just put his head for a moment in the jaws of the lion,
I'd pass him in—ay! and out again, unless we were very unlucky. Let
him bring a bag o' tools with him, and I'll say he's my sister's son
learning to be a carpenter. What do you say?"
"I'm ready!" cried Michael, springing eagerly to his feet.
"No! No! No!" exclaimed Markovin, in terrified accents. "Not from my
house. Not from here!"
"Not now," said Alexis quietly. "It would be useless. We have no
important news yet to send to Kondraty. But another time, Pafnutitch, I
may send Michael to you."
It was the first call upon his courage and sympathy, and Michael
rejoiced to feel that he had not for a moment hesitated to answer it;
no cowardice or indifference had made him fail.
It was evening when Alexis and Michael drove slowly, with their tired
horse, along the grass-grown village street of Knishi. Each cottage,
built of wood or mud, stood at the back of fold-yards large or small,
according to the number of sheep or cattle possessed by the owner. Only
on the eastern side of the dwellings were any doors or windows to be
seen, for the Oukrainian houses are built always to face the east. But
though on one side of the road, the inmates looked out through their
doors and windows to see who was passing, as they heard the creaking
of the telega wheels, not one gave them a smile or a word of welcome.
On the other side, some of the people, curious to know who was coming,
peeped round the corner of the huts, but they, too, only stared and
frowned.
Michael felt a lump in his throat, and tears burning under his eyelids.
It was not in this way he had dreamed of coming home. He had been
absent only a year, and he knew all their names, and recollected
their faces. Some of the women had kissed him when he went away;
and the children had followed them as far as the barrier, calling
farewell after them as long as they were in sight. But now the boys,
his playfellows, slouched away, as if they were ashamed or afraid to
recognise him, or stood and stared at him with unconcealed animosity in
their manner. This was not what he had looked forward to.
In his trunk lying at the bottom of the telega were a number of little
keepsakes, which he had bought with great pleasure in Scotland. He
had often thought of how he should go round the village, from house
to house, giving them away, and telling strange tales of his voyage
and his sojourn in a foreign country. He had all the strong desire of
a traveller to narrate his adventures. He had not even forgotten his
enemies, Father Vasili, the Batoushka, and his wife, but now Father
Vasili was dead, and only the Matoushka was left. Was it possible that
nobody would accept his keepsakes?
Presently they were past Knishi, and on the road to Ostron, half a
mile farther on, where their home was. Michael could no longer bear
the wearied jog-trot of the old mare. He sprang from the telega with a
shout, and ran eagerly towards the farmstead. Yes! There it was! The
very home which had haunted his dreams, by night and day, during all
his long absence.
The front was in shadow, for it was evening, but the setting sun shone
slantwise on the barns and stables, and made golden tracks down each
side of the fold-yard. The buds on the lilac trees at the corner of the
house stood out against the low light. In the doorway stood Paraska,
her usually sad face kindled into a look of glad welcome; and on the
turf seat by her, outside the door, was Velia, her long pretty hair
pushed back from her eyes and forehead. With a loud cry of delight, she
flew across the yard and threw herself into his open arms.
"Never go away again, brother!" she cried. "Never leave little Velia
again!"
For a few moments Michael was silent, gazing with dreamy eyes at the
open doorway. For it seemed to him that just within the shadow, behind
Paraska, he saw dimly a vague form, like his mother, with such a smile
upon her face as had lingered there to the last, when they closed her
coffin. Was it possible she was there to take a share in the joy of
the home-coming? He clasped Velia more closely to him, and kissed her
tenderly. When he lifted up his head again, the vision had vanished.
Paraska, too, was gone. She threw her apron over her head, and ran
away to the little room that had been made for her in a corner of the
granary. She was the wife of Demyan, a Stundist, who had been sentenced
to exile at the same time as Paul Rodenko, to whom the farm at Ostron
belonged. He was now living at Irkutsk, in Eastern Siberia, thousands
of miles away. When he went away, she had chosen to stay behind with
her two babies, who were too young to bear the privations and perils
of the long journey, made chiefly on foot. But when her children were
four and five years of age, they had been taken from her by the Church
authorities, to be brought up in the Orthodox faith, and she had never
been able to find out where they were. Catherine Ivanoff had taken the
broken-hearted mother, penniless and friendless, and almost maddened,
into their house, and treated her as an old and cherished friend. But
the forlorn woman was a prey to grief, and went through her daily life
almost speechlessly.
"Let us run after Paraska and speak to her," said Velia.
Up the rude ladder and across the granary floor they ran to Paraska's
little room, but so piteous were the sobs and cries they heard beyond
the closed door, that they crept quietly away again.
Yet, in spite of all, that evening was a very happy one. Alexis sat
by the great stove, for it was still cool at night, with Velia on his
knee, and his right arm round his son. Michael had much to tell them,
and they had a thousand questions to ask. They did not avoid talking of
the mother, whom they spoke of not as one dead and lost to them, but
only as having reached the end of a journey, and entered the heavenly
home before them.
To Michael and Velia, if not to Alexis himself, heaven was as real as
if it had been another land on the face of this earth. They seemed to
know as much about it as they did of Siberia, or the Transcaucasus,
whither so many of the Stundists had been banished, and where they
might go themselves some day. Only there was this difference: they had
no doubt of going to heaven, and they were not sure of going to Siberia.
CHAPTER IV
ESTRANGED FRIENDS
MICHAEL was resolved not to let the coldness of his old friends and
comrades separate him from them. True, they looked upon him as a
heretic, but he had been that before he went to Scotland—that was no
new thing. Of course, there was his chief friend, Kondraty's son,
Sergio, a heretic like himself, whose friendship was as close and dear
as ever. But Michael had been on good terms with all the village boys,
and he knew they would listen with delight to the story of his travels,
nee, would go into a rapture of joy over the treasures he had brought
home. There were at least a dozen pocket knives, which his Uncle Sandy
had bought to be given away among the lads of Knishi. He was eager to
renew the good understanding and comradeship which had been broken off
a year ago.
Then there were the packets of needles for the women, and the dolls
for the little girls. Such needles and dolls had never been seen in
Knishi; surely they would open every door and every heart to him. There
was Marina's little girl, Velia's chief playfellow. He had brought an
English doll for her precisely like Velia's. Yarina had been great
friends with his mother, and he had a memento to give to her, sent by
Catherine herself.
The first morning after his home-coming, he filled his pockets with his
presents, and giving one doll to Velia, bade her take the other one in
her arms. He started off joyously to Knishi, but as he was turning down
the road leading to Yarina's farm, Velia drew him back.
"We must not go there," she said, with a sob.
"Why not?" asked Michael.
"Okhrim is Starosta now," she answered, "and he says I mustn't play
with Sofia any more. He is her grandfather, you know. Unless I cross
myself, and bow to the icons," she added, looking up to him with eyes
full of tears.
"You must not do that," said Michael, his bright boyish face clouding
suddenly.
"Oh no!" replied the little girl. "But oh, I miss Sofia so!"
The tears were rolling down her cheeks, but a moment afterwards Velia
looked up again with a smile.
"But I shan't mind now," she continued, clasping Michael's hand with
all her might; "I have my own big brother now."
"Does nobody play with you, my Velia?" he asked.
"Only the other Stundist children," she said; "and they don't let us go
to school now. Father Cyril would let us go, but Father Vasili got an
order, just before he died, to say the Stundist children must not go to
Orthodox schools if they did not go to church. Father Cyril cannot get
it altered."
"I'll go and see Sergius," cried Michael, "and you must give Sofia's
doll to little Clava."
"Little Clava will love it," said Velia, "but oh, I am so sorry for
Sofia. We must never let her know it was brought all the way from
Scotland for her, and given away to another girl."
The house belonging to Khariton Kondraty, the father of Michael's chief
friend, Sergius, was much smaller and poorer than the farmhouse where
Alexis lived. It lay a little way apart from the village, and near to
the steppe, a part of it so thickly carpeted with flowers that not a
blade of grass or an inch of soil could be seen. Long rows of beehives
lay under a hedge, which sheltered them from the north wind. Khariton
Kondraty had taken up the business of Loukyan, an old deacon who had
died from ill-usage in prison at the last outbreak of persecution in
Knishi. He maintained himself and his family chiefly by the sale of
honey and wax, and since he had been imprisoned in Kovylsk, his son
Sergius, a boy about the same age as Michael, and his daughter Marfa,
a girl of twelve, had proved themselves quite capable of managing the
bees, and tilling the small plot of ground belonging to their father.
The whole family welcomed Michael with delighted cries of welcome.
Marfa alone could not his speak, but her eyes filled with tears.
Sergius clasped his friend in his arms; and little Clava jumped about
for joy, with her English doll in her arms. Tatiania, Kondraty's wife,
kissed him as fondly as if he had been her own son. No welcome could
have been warmer, and Michael's spirits rose again.
"Let us go and look at the hives, Serge," he said.
He wanted to get Sergius alone, to inquire about the school and the
exclusion of the Stundist children from all the pursuits and games of
the Orthodox children. It was too true. The Orthodox parents forbade
their children to have any intercourse with the heretics. They were in
fact excommunicated. This had caused bitter, though perhaps short-lived
grief in many households in the village; for the friendships of
children are often very close and tender. Yarina's little girl, Sofia,
had been made quite ill by her separation from Velia and little Clava.
But the Stundist children were getting no teaching except what their
parents could give in their very few leisure moments.
"Then I will keep school myself for our own children," said Michael.
He soon found out that the boys of the village were more than willing
to listen to his traveller's tales, and accept his presents, if they
could do so in secret. But this Alexis would not allow. Michael himself
saw the risk and the folly of any clandestine intercourse; for Okhrim,
the Starosta, was on the lookout keenly for some pretext for fresh
fines and oppressions.
CHAPTER V
IN THE FOREST
MICHAEL began his school, protected and encouraged by Father Cyril,
the Batoushka, though the Starosta did his best to put a stop to it.
Father Cyril had been appointed to the Orthodox Church in Knishi, on
the death of Father Vasili, with the idea that his holiness of life
and sweetness of nature would bring back the straying Stundists to the
Orthodox faith. He was loyally attached to the Greek Church, and never
having been in close contact with the Stundists before, he had come to
this parish with high hopes of soon rooting out the pestilent heresy by
conciliatory measures and telling arguments. He found the unlettered
peasants very open to conciliation, but their arguments, taken simply
and solely from the New Testament, he could not often combat, and could
never overthrow. In the meanwhile he had conceived a great respect and
a real friendship for Alexis Ivanoff.
Alexis had had more than a village education. He had lived some
years in Moscow, and availed himself eagerly of every opportunity
for acquiring knowledge. His wife, Catherine, had been no ordinary
woman; she had always been a true helpmate and companion to him. He
had learned English from her, and possessed many English books. He
had translated the best English hymns into Russian verse, which were
printed and widely circulated.
Father Cyril was greatly interested in this heretical household—the
well-read, intelligent farmer, the manly yet boyish son, and his
pretty, sweet-tempered little girl. The sad, broken-hearted Paraska,
mourning for her children, also aroused his deepest sympathy. The
farmstead was a model to the village. Whenever Father Cyril passed
it, and saw the clean fold-yard, the comfortable house, with its
shining windows, and the flowers blossoming round it, he sighed to
think he could not point it out as a pattern to his idle and drunken
parishioners without giving great offence to the Orthodox people. He
could not even go as often as he would like to visit Alexis Ivanoff.
Michael's school for the Stundist children prospered; he proved to
be a very good teacher. There was no doubt he was doing better than
the village schoolmistress, who took no real interest in her work.
The Stundist children, who were obliged to pass through Knishi to
reach Ostron were often assailed with threats and bad language and
occasionally with missiles from the Orthodox children. For the spirit
of persecution is easily aroused, but very difficult to suppress.
The summer was nearly over, and the harvest was gathered in, an
abundant harvest, which filled every barn to overflowing. Michael gave
himself and his little school a holiday that they might spend a whole
day in the forest, which lay to the east of Ostron. Paraska made a
large supply of pasties, some of which were filled with boiled cabbage,
and others with fruit; and she baked a quantity of bread and cakes;
for there were quite a dozen children to go besides Michael and Velia,
and Sergius and Marfa, who came as guests, being too old and too busy
to attend the school. They kept this expedition a profound secret,
lest the Orthodox children should follow to the forest and spoil their
holiday.
There was no road, only a foot track to the forest; and between it and
the steppe lay a deep ravine, crossed by a rude bridge of the trunk of
a tree, which had fallen across the chasm generations ago. Some of the
oldest trees in it had been left untouched for centuries, and as the
timber belonged to the Government, it was left to grow very wild and
untrimmed, though the village was often in dire need of fuel. There was
a great tangle of brushwood; and it had the reputation of being haunted
in some parts of its dark and moist thickets. Only the most daring
spirits among the Knishi boys would venture into its glades. But the
Stundist children were at home there. For during the last few years,
many a secret meeting for worship had been held in a deserted hut some
distance within it.
It was a lovely day in September. The sun was still hot, but there were
sweet, warm gusts of wind, which tossed the leafy branches to and fro,
and brought with it the sweet perfume of wild flowers and the pungent
scent of herbs. There were many open spaces where the sun had dried the
moist earth, and where the children could play safely. They played till
the little ones were tired, and then they turned their steps towards
the deserted hut, to eat their dinner.
It had been a charcoal-burner's hut, but for many years no peasant had
consented to work there, so near was it to a fatally-haunted spot. It
stood in a dense thicket, with no beaten track to it; for the Stundists
were careful not to tread down a path which might betray their
meeting-place. A few rough trunks of trees formed some benches for the
congregation to sit upon, and a large log set on end served as a table
for the preacher to stand at, and lay his Bible and hymnbook on. The
children sat here and ate their dinner with a subdued gaiety even more
enjoyable than the boisterous play outside. They sang a grace before
the meal began.
"Let us hold a meeting," Sergius proposed, when dinner was over, "and
Michael shall be our deacon."
"Yes, yes!" cried all the children, clapping their hands.
A few hymn-books were concealed in a hole in the thatched roof. These
were quickly brought out, and Michael took his place behind the
preacher's log, whilst his congregation seated themselves with smiling
faces on the benches.
"My little brothers and sisters," he began, "we can sing a hymn, but I
don't think it would be right for me to pray. I am too young to do that
out loud, and for you to listen to me. I might say something I ought
not to say; and you would perhaps be thinking of me, not of God. But
I'll talk to you, after we have sung 'Oh, happy band of pilgrims!'"
CHAPTER VI
THE CHILDREN'S SERVICE
THE children's voices rang out in clear, sweet, and harmonious tones;
for the Oukrainians are a musical people, and fond of choral singing.
Only now and then a shrill note, sounding like a cry of triumph, broke
the harmony. It was little Clava, who had not yet learned how to
modulate her voice; and Sergius would have checked her, only Michael
gave him a sign to let the child sing on.
"And now," he said, when the favourite hymn was finished, "I am going
to tell you about the children in Scotland, whose fathers and mothers
were like the Stundists. They were called the Covenanters, and the
king wanted to make them say they believed what they didn't believe,
and worship God in the churches; and they couldn't, for conscience'
sake—just like our fathers and mothers. All they wanted was to be left
alone to worship God, and obey Him, in the way they believed to be
right. Then the king said they were rebels, and, he sent his soldiers
to compel them to do as he wished, or to put them to death. Then the
Covenanters said they were ready to die, but they could never, never
disobey God. So the men had to flee away, and hide in the steppes and
the mountains. Now, their steppes are not like ours, all open, and
plain to see across, but they are full of rocks and woods and hollows,
where they could hide easily. They suffered dreadfully from hunger and
cold and ragged clothing; and the soldiers hunted them down, and some
of them they caught and shot like wild beasts; and others they sent to
prison; and they hanged many of them. What for? Because they obeyed God
rather than man.
"But the women, of course, stayed at home with the children; and
sometimes the poor men would steal in to see them, and to get a little
good food and warmth. Then the spies told the soldiers—they were
traitors, those spies were—and the soldiers came; and all the men
and women fled away into the woods, and left the children alone in
the houses. Oh, you may be sure they could hardly bear to do it but
everybody thought, 'The soldiers have children of their own, and they
will not hurt our little ones.'
"Then the troopers came on great black battle-horses, with swords and
guns; and they searched one house after another, and could find no one
but little children—boys and girls no older than Velia. For big boys
like Serge and me had gone off to the woods and caves with the grown-up
people, because they knew the soldiers would have no mercy on them.
"Well, when nobody was found, the captain was very angry. In a great
rage he had all the children gathered together, and asked them where
their fathers and mothers were. Do you think the children told the
captain?"
Michael paused to take breath, and Clava's shrill little voice cried
out, "No!"
"No, my little Clava," continued Michael, "and you would never tell, if
father or mother were hiding. Then the captain set them all in a row,
with a row of soldiers opposite to them with their guns ready to shoot
them, and bade them kneel down to be killed. So they knelt down, and
the oldest little girl, like Velia, said to the others, 'It will not
hurt much, and then we shall be in heaven!'
"The captain told them to say their prayers, but the little girl said
they did not know how to pray aloud, though they could sing a hymn.
And the children began to sing a hymn they all knew, and the soldiers
turned away, and rode off on their battle-horses, telling the captain
they were ready to fight with men but not with children, and before the
hymn was finished they were all out of sight."
"Ah!" sighed the children, drawing a long breath.
"That was about two hundred years ago," Michael went on, "in Scotland;
and in the very house I lived in there was a little secret closet
in the chimney corner, as if it was close to one of our stoves. One
night the father was warming himself at the fire, when they heard the
soldiers coming, and he slipped into the secret closet, and the mother
ran and got into bed, and only a girl like Marfa was left clearing up
the house. There was a good fire on the hearth, so the soldiers felt
sure somebody was there, and they searched up and down, and then they
asked the girl where her father was, but of course she would not tell.
So they said they would flog her, and she ran out of doors as quickly
as she could run. They followed her, thinking she was running to her
father.
"But I will tell you why she ran out into the fold-yard. She said to
herself, 'Father will hear if they flog me in the house, and he will
come out and be killed.'
"And they did flog her, but she stuffed her apron in her mouth, lest
she should scream out. And at last, the soldiers were ashamed. One of
them said she was a brave lassie! She was my grandfather's grandmother,
and they talk about her to this day, so brave she was.
"But it does not always end as well as that. There is poor Paraska; you
know how both her children have been taken away from her. Well that may
happen to us—not to big boys and girls like Serge and Marfa and me,
they will treat us like grown-up people—but you little ones! Oh, if any
of you are taken away from your own fathers and mothers, you must never
forget them, and what they taught you. You must be true to God and
them. If we die for it, we must be true. We cannot bow down to icons,
or pray to anyone but God. Never! Never! Death is not dreadful if we
love God. It only takes a few minutes to die. Then we are safe for ever
with our Lord Jesus Christ. You will remember?"
"Yes, yes!" they all cried.
"It helps me to think often that our Lord was once just like me,"
continued Michael; "a boy as old as me, working with His father, and
living at home; just my age—"
Clava's little brown hand was lifted up to interrupt him; she had an
important question to ask.
"Was He ever just as little as me?" she said.
"Exactly as little as you, my Clava," answered Michael; "six years old
only, and His mother took care of Him, just like your mother; and, oh,
He made her so happy, for He was never naughty! Well, whenever we are
tempted, we must try to think what He would have done in our place.
Remember our Lord Jesus died a martyr, and we must be ready to follow
Him. It is not grown-up people only who are martyrs!"
CHAPTER VII
FATHER CYRIL
AT that moment, whilst Michael was still speaking, the doorway of
the hut was darkened by a man's figure standing between them and the
green light of the forest. The children huddled into a corner, like
frightened lambs; whilst Michael and Sergius stood out boldly in front
of them. The hearts of both of the boys were filled with trouble and
dismay. It was Father Cyril, the Batoushka, who had discovered their
retreat.
"Are you afraid of me, my children?" he asked in a gentle voice, as
he sat down on one of the logs, and stretched out his arms towards
the startled group. "Come to me, Velia; and little Clava, I have a
sweetmeat for you. Come and sit on my knee. Shake hands with me,
Michael and Sergius. I heard you singing some little time ago, and
after some trouble, I found out where you were hidden."
"Batoushka," said Michael, stammering and hesitating, "this old hut is
a secret."
"Not from me now," answered Father Cyril, "but don't be alarmed, my
boys, I respect your fathers, and I will not betray you or your people."
Michael stood aside, and pushed Velia and Clava towards the village
priest. He took Clava on his knee, and put his arm round Velia;
whilst the rest of the children drew near him, attracted by his kind
and benign aspect. His pale, thoughtful face was that of a youngish
man, though his uncut hair, parted in the middle, and hanging on his
shoulders, and his long beard, gave him a venerable appearance. There
was a half smile on his lips and in his eyes, in spite of the sadness
with which he regarded this childish band of heretics, already eager
for martyrdom. He knew better than they did the perils and sorrows
drawing nearer every day. The resolute, manly bearing of Michael, the
more timid yet firm manner of Sergius, the tender delicacy of Velia,
and the clinging weakness of little Clava, appealed irresistibly to
his pity. He felt as the Lord may have felt when they brought young
children to Him for His blessing, if He foresaw that these little ones
must pass through the fires of persecution. Father Cyril knew that
these helpless children were doomed to swiftly coming sorrows; and
his heart ached, and tears came into his eyes, as he laid his hand on
Clava's head and gave her a silent benediction.
"My children," he said, "I see you seldom, but none the less I feel
as if you belonged to me. You are in my parish, and the Church has
appointed me to be your Batoushka. I would give all I have—yes, and
lay down my life—to bring you, and all your people, back to the Church
you have forsaken. Yes, Michael, I know that cannot be at present.
The Church must be purified and reformed, but we too are Christians.
I would have no man dare to sign himself with the sign of the cross,
without truly recollecting the cross of Christ. No man should put an
icon into his house, except as a reminder of the constant presence
of God, before whose sight, he could not commit a wrong deed, and in
whose hearing he could not utter an evil word. The symbols must only
represent truths, or they are worse than useless. There will come a
time—but the end is very far-off."
Father Cyril paused, with a break in his voice like the sob of a
wearied runner. Velia pressed closer to him, and leaned her head
against him as if he had been her father. The hearts of the children
were touched, and they drew still nearer to him, clustering about his
feet. Michael's eyes were fastened upon the Batoushka's agitated face.
"Oh, I wish we could belong to you!" he cried. "But we cannot! We
cannot!"
"But we can pray together, my children," said Father Cyril.
Kneeling down in the midst of the children, under the roof of the
deserted hut, where alone the proscribed Stundists dared to worship,
the Batoushka offered a simple prayer, intelligible even to little
Clava, that God would be with them in the troublous times that were
coming, and save them from all evil, especially the sin of disobeying
His voice when He spoke through their conscience.
When they rose from their knees, he kissed each one of them on the
forehead; and they bent their heads as he pronounced a priestly
benediction upon them. The Batoushka and the band of childish heretics
were very near to each other at that moment.
Father Cyril walked slowly homewards through the thickly-grown forest.
He felt sure that he could win the people back to Orthodoxy but for the
persecution they were always encountering. He had no faith in coercive
measures. Besides, he acknowledged sadly and reluctantly that a vast
accumulation of superstitious rites and beliefs was suffocating the
Church. He had never been so conscious of it as since he had lived
in this remote country parish, where none of the spirit of town life
breathed over the stagnant waters.
When at last he came in sight of the church-house, he saw his wife—the
young Matoushka, as the villagers called her—standing at the door,
looking out anxiously for his return. She held in her hand a large
official-looking packet, which she raised above her head as he came in
sight.
"From the consistory," she called out, "with the archbishop's seal. Oh,
I am so curious!"
Father Cyril hastened in, and opened the document and read in unbroken
silence, whilst his wife waited impatiently for news. He sank down on a
seat, and covered his face with his hands.
"Oh, my dearest one!" she cried. "Tell me what is the matter quickly."
"A cruel thing," he groaned, "a cruel thing; and I must do it."
"What is it?" she asked again breathlessly.
"An order from the consistory," he answered, "that I must take all
Stundist children between two and ten years of age from their parents,
and place them in Orthodox families; their maintenance to be paid for
by fines levied on their heretic fathers. Think of it, dear wife—think
of our own little ones. Ah! Those monks who have neither wife nor
children do not know how cruel they are!"
The Matoushka burst into a passion of tears, when Father Cyril told her
with a broken voice and a face of profound pity.
"I'd rather see my children in their coffins," she sobbed, "than lose
them in such a cruel way. Poor Tatiania! Her husband in prison, and
little Clava to be taken from her. It will break her heart! And Velia
Alexovna! How old is she, Cyril?"
"Not ten yet," he answered. "Oh, it is frightful, and absolutely
useless! We shall never win them back if the authorities adopt measures
like these. Would to God I could disregard the order!"
"Cannot you put it off, and go to see the archbishop?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "the Starosta has got an order from the police in
Kovylsk to assist me in carrying out the order. Okhrim will rejoice
over it; he hates the Stundists with all his heart, and so does the old
Matoushka. Oh, they are at the bottom of all this!"
Father Cyril could not sleep that night, his brain was too much
worried with vexatious and perplexing questions. How should he break
the terrible tidings to the Stundist families? How could he bear
the heartrending scenes he would be obliged to witness—himself the
unwilling messenger of the cruel sentence? And what homes could he
choose for the children, whom he must provide for as carefully and
kindly as possible? They must be homes with which the sober, cleanly,
and religious parents might be moderately content. He awoke his wife
to ask her if she would be willing to take Velia and Clava into their
own home, to live with their own children, and she answered drowsily,
"Yes, yes, beloved!" Surely no objection could be made to this step. A
priest's house was an Orthodox house.
Then there was Yarina, the richest woman in Knishi, with only one
little girl. True she was Okhrim's daughter-in-law, but she was a widow
for the second time, and quite independent of her husband's father.
She was regular at church; though she was not as devout as the old
Matoushka, Father Vasili's widow, who never missed a church service. He
would not place a child with the old Matoushka—her temper was bad, and
she was too miserly—a child would lead a terrible life with her.
Well, he must do the best he could for all of them. They would be under
his own eye; and he would see each child every day in the village
school, which of course they would now be expected to attend. Poor
Michael! His little class would be scattered.
One clause of the order hurt Father Cyril's tender soul more than the
others. The parents were not permitted to hold any kind of intercourse
with their children unless they returned to the Orthodox faith. Ah!
What daily agony there would be both for parents and children! It
would have been almost better—more merciful—to have removed the little
ones altogether out of sight. Yet, after all, would there not be some
consolation to the mothers to see their children, even from afar?
CHAPTER VIII
A CRUEL BLOW
THE children who had been spending the day in the forest went home at
sunset, wearied but very happy. They parted with one another after
they had crossed the rough bridge, and Michael and Velia went on hand
in hand towards Ostron. Michael felt his heart strongly attracted by
Father Cyril. If all priests were like him, he thought, there would
be no persecution. And why should not people think differently about
religion, as they did about everything else? The Stundists accepted
the teaching of the New Testament literally. The Orthodox people added
symbols and ceremonies and the traditions of the Church to it. He could
not see that it made the New Testament any more binding. If the Lord
gave a command, His followers must obey it.
As Michael and Velia turned into the fold-yard, they heard a loud
harsh voice speaking on the other side of the house. They hurried
round the corner, and saw Okhrim, the Starosta, who was reading with
some difficulty from a large official document. He had not entered the
house; and Alexis stood listening, whilst Paraska could be seen partly
concealed by the door which she held ajar.
[Illustration: THE STAROSTA WAS READING FROM A DOCUMENT.]
Michael and Velia drew near just as Okhrim, with a spiteful smile on
his harsh face, read the plainly-worded order that the Starosta was to
aid the parish priest in removing all children of Stundist parents,
between the ages of two and ten years, and placing them in Orthodox
families, where they would be brought up in the Orthodox faith. A
wild frenzied shriek from Paraska rang through the quiet evening air;
and Velia, who understood the slowly-uttered order, uttered a cry of
terror, and flinging herself into her father's arms, clung closely to
him, as if no power on earth could tear her from the shelter of his
breast.
"Oh, my God!" cried Alexis. "What can I do?"
"Do?" repeated Okhrim contemptuously. "Why, become a good Christian,
and go to church and pay the Church dues. Ay! And drink vodka as
other Christians do. I believe you Stundists are the greatest fools
living. The child is to be brought up Orthodox, and if you won't do it,
somebody else must. I'll take her myself, and if fair means won't 'tice
her to church, there is always this."
He cracked his whip, which he always flourished in his hand, and was
not reluctant to use it on anybody he dared to tyrannise over. Alexis
felt Velia tremble violently in his arms.
"O Father," he cried, "if it be possible, save us from this hour!"
"There you go," said Okhrim, with a sneer and a laugh, "as if God
Almighty could hear you amid all His angels and archangels singing
and chanting, to say nothing of the blessed saints. If I were in your
plight, I'd pray humbly to one of the smallest saints, and get him to
speak to those higher up; and maybe it might reach at last the ear of
the Mother of God. Not that she'd do anything for a cursed Stundist.
Besides, she'd never interfere with our archbishop and the consistory."
"Can we do nothing, father?" cried Michael.
"I must think," said Alexis, turning to him with an expression of
almost hopeless anguish; "we have no power, no influence. Oh, if I had
only sent Velia to Scotland with you, she would have been safe! But
there are other fathers and other mothers. Oh, my God! Help us to bear
it!"
For once in his life Okhrim's conscience stung him, and he turned away,
slowly passing out of sight.
Alexis carried Velia into the house, and Paraska locked and barred the
door, as if she could shut out the coming trouble.
It was a sleepless night for Alexis, as well as for Father Cyril. The
thought crossed his mind that he would have time to carry Michael and
Velia to Odessa, and get his wife's kinsman there to send them away to
Scotland. But a step like this would only precipitate and intensify the
storm ready to burst, not only upon himself but upon hundreds of fellow
Stundists in the district. There were other parents, even in Knishi,
who would have the same most heavy cross laid upon them. They were
not only to be bereft of their children, but they knew those children
would be brought up in tenets which they themselves renounced with such
fervour that they were willing to sacrifice everything rather than
profess to believe them. No, he could not save Velia in that way.
Then he thought pitifully of Tatiania, whose husband, Khariton
Kondraty, had been in jail for nine months. She too would now have to
give up little Clava, her youngest child, the pet and darling of the
house. Poor Tatiania! Could she stand fast in her faith, so severely
tried? Could any of the mothers refrain from going back to the Orthodox
Church, if by doing so they could keep their little ones? Ah! This
was the sharpest weapon of all in the Orthodox armoury. "Give me the
children," the Church demanded, "and the mothers will follow."
Then Father Cyril was so good and kind and persuasive; so different
from Father Vasili, who had been an idle, self-indulgent, and arrogant
parish priest. It would make it much easier for the women to go back to
the Orthodox Church. By slow degrees they would relapse into the old
condition of superstitious observances, and the lamp of truth would be
extinguished in Knishi, as it had been in other places.
But below every other thought there rang through his soul the cry, "Oh,
Velia, my little child! Would to God we could die together, my child
and I!"
The morning came, and a wretched circle assembled at breakfast. Michael
and Velia had both slept, but their eyes were red, as if they had wept
themselves to sleep and awoke with tears again. Paraska was heavy-eyed,
and completely dumb. They were lingering together, as if they could not
bear to separate, even for an hour, when Father Cyril appeared at the
door.
"Ah, Okhrim has been before me!" he exclaimed. "I ought to have come
last night. My poor Alexis! But the order is not to be executed before
Sunday that the people may have time to make their submission, and be
reconciled to the Church. Those parents who come to confession will
keep their children, on condition that they bring them up as Orthodox
Christians."
"We shall see who can bear the severest temptations," said Alexis, with
a sad smile.
"But I will start off to Kovylsk at once if you can drive me," said
Father Cyril; "and I will ask for an interview with the archbishop.
Come, Alexis; I am a father too. I feel for you. I can guess the terror
little Velia feels, poor lamb."
He sat down on the bench, and took the trembling little girl into his
arms. The tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. He felt great shame in
the errand forced upon him. This terrible order, which he was called
upon to execute, seemed to him a monstrous attack upon a parent's
rights—those primal rights which existed before the Church was founded.
He sat in silence for some minutes, until he could command his voice.
From time to time, he stroked Velia's hair and patted her cheek. And
the child nestled close to him, much comforted.
"We must bestir ourselves, and do the best we can," he said, almost
stammering.
"And leave the result to God," added Alexis. "But how can I quit my
little daughter just now?"
"Let her go and play with my little ones," answered Father Cyril; "the
Matoushka will be like a mother to her. We will put her down at the
church-house; for we must tell my wife we shall be away for one or two
nights."
CHAPTER IX
ORTHODOX REASONING
AS they drove across the steppe, in the two-wheeled cart without
springs, at the slow, monotonous trot of the old mare, Father Cyril
had a better opportunity than he had ever had before of a prolonged
discussion with Alexis Ivanoff on the tenets and history of their
young sect. He was filled with surprise and admiration. The absolute
simplicity and truthfulness of the farmer, united as it was with mental
strength and a close grasp of his subject, astonished the Batoushka.
Alexis was not logical; he had had no training in a theological
seminary, like Father Cyril. He argued as the fishermen of Galilee
would have argued. But his convictions were as strong as theirs, who
had seen the Lord with their eyes, and heard Him with their ears.
Father Cyril could not help admitting that the worship of the Stundists
was far more in accordance with that of the apostolic age than the
ornate, multitudinous, and magnificent ceremonies of the Orthodox
Church. He owned that the peasants, in their ignorance, did worship
the icons with idolatry. Yet in fundamental Christian doctrines, he
and Alexis were one. They prayed to the same Father in heaven; they
believed in the same Lord; they studied the same Holy Scriptures. There
was real spiritual communion between them, as they slowly crossed the
brown autumnal steppe, now lying under a thin veil of mist, which hid
the horizon, and enclosed them in a soft circle of mellowed light.
They reached Kovylsk too late to go to the consistory that night. But
quite early in the morning Father Cyril presented himself at the gate,
and inquired for Father Paissy, who was known throughout the diocese as
the archbishop's right hand. They had been at the theological seminary
together, where they had been on friendly terms, but they had seen
nothing of one another since Father Paissy had elected to enter the
order of the monastical clergy, who take vows of celibacy, and who
alone can be raised to the higher ranks of the Russian priesthood. He
was already a powerful personage. He was a small, sharp-featured man,
with a soft voice, and a perpetual smile on his thin lips.
"Father Cyril, parish priest of Knishi?" he said interrogatively,
without condescending to recognise him as his former comrade. "Ah! You
have a troublesome flock. Heresy runs like an infectious disease among
them. We must stamp it out—stamp it out effectually."
"I come in the hope of seeing the archbishop," said Father Cyril.
"He is in Moscow," interrupted Father Paissy, "but I can act in his
stead."
It was a great blow to Father Cyril; for the archbishop never refused
him an interview, and he had placed great hopes on his indulgence. It
is easier to prevent a thing being done than to get it undone. There
was no sign of indulgence in the hard face opposite him.
"I came to intercede for my poor parishioners," he said gently, "those
unhappy parents who are to be deprived of their young children. Some
of them are scarcely out of their mothers' arms, and still require a
mother's care in childish maladies. Only a mother's patience is strong
enough to bear them through the first seven years. A child's heart is
capable of great sorrows, and its spirit is quickly broken if it is
sent among strangers, and separated from all it has known from its
birth."
"Ah!" said Father Paissy, with a deep breath, which sounded almost like
a sigh.
Father Cyril went on, encouraged.
"The unfortunate people who have left our holy Church," he continued,
"are most affectionate parents. It is their universal practice to
treat their little ones with the utmost tenderness. They look upon
their children as entrusted to their care by God Himself. True, that
may be an error, but it is their belief. The children never hear
uncivil words; they never see a drunken person in their homes. Think,
your reverence, what it must be to children so carefully reared to be
distributed among the houses of peasants who are ignorant and degraded
by vodka-drinking. There would be great difficulty in finding suitable
homes for them with our Orthodox peasants."
"You seem to think very highly of your heretics," said Father Paissy in
a scoffing tone.
Father Cyril felt that he had forgotten himself.
"I grieve over their heresy night and day," he answered earnestly; "it
makes my life in Knishi a burden to me. I never had this trouble to
encounter before. But oh, believe me, harsh measures will never bring
them back to us, above all, not such a measure as this! Every father,
every mother worthy of the name, will cry out against it. I assure your
reverence, I was gaining some influence over them; I have seen two or
three steal in at the church door to listen to my sermons. Let me plead
their cause to you. Do you, with your powerful influence, get this
terrible order rescinded. The Stundists will bless you, and it will add
greatly to my influence in the parish."
"Do you forget the children's immortal souls?" asked Father Paissy. "Is
their salvation of no moment?"
"Alas!" cried Father Cyril. "If salvation means to be saved from sin,
I must confess that these poor straying heretics have advanced farther
along the path of salvation than our superstitious, half-pagan Orthodox
peasants. I am striving my utmost to teach and raise them, but only
a parish priest can know how deeply they are sunk in degradation and
drunkenness."
"I can do nothing for you," said Father Paissy in a chilling voice;
"the consistory has issued the order, and it must remain as it is. It
must also be obeyed promptly, Father Cyril."
The Batoushka felt his heart sink within him, as he looked at the set
and stubborn face before him, with its cruel smile still playing about
its lips. Neither this man nor the archbishop could understand what a
father's love was, and they had no knowledge of a child's nature. His
chief hope was gone, but another was left to him.
"I may place the children as I please," he asked, "provided I settle
them in Orthodox families? Some houses are much better than others."
"Just as you like—just as you like," said Father Paissy impatiently;
"only let me warn you, Father Cyril, no indulgence to the heretics! We
intend to weed them out, root and branch. Our long-suffering is at an
end. Church or Siberia! Church or Caucasus! They must choose between
them."
Alexis was waiting at the entrance to the consistory when Father Cyril
came out. He had been to see two or three friends in Kovylsk, who had
sympathised with him deeply, but gave him no hope that the order would
be rescinded. It had been sent to many other villages besides Knishi,
and there was lamentation and bitter weeping in them all: "Rachel
weeping for her children refused to be comforted."
"Yet, 'Thus saith the Lord,'" said Alexis, "'Refrain thy voice from
weeping, and thine eyes from tears: for thy work shall be rewarded,
saith the Lord; and they shall come again from the land of the enemy.
And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall
come again to their own border.' Send that message to the churches, and
bid them trust the Lord to keep His promises."
He knew the moment he caught sight of Father Cyril's downcast face that
he had failed in his mission. But Alexis had regained his habitual
courage and resignation. He said to himself, "'He that loveth son or
daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.'" Hard words! But they were
the words of his crucified Lord.
They scarcely spoke to one another until they were some distance out of
Kovylsk, and could no longer see the glittering domes of its numerous
churches. Then Father Cyril owned his bitter disappointment. "It will
break my heart," he said.
"The soul is stronger than the heart," replied Alexis. "Now I submit
myself to God's will, and leave my little child in His hands. He
loves her better than I can; yes, He loves her with an infinite and
everlasting love."
"Velia and little Clava shall come to me," said Father Cyril.
Alexis dropped the reins and turned to him, as if he had not heard
clearly what was said.
"My wife and I have settled that," Father Cyril went on, with tears in
his eyes; "they shall be to us the same as our own children."
"Oh, you good man!" interrupted Alexis. "Oh, how can I thank you? What
can I do for you? Oh, if all Batoushkas were like you!"
"I would take them all if I could," said Father Cyril, "but I will
find the best houses I can for every one of them. Yarina will take
two, I am sure. Then there are seven or eight more. The worst part of
the order is that the parents are to have no intercourse whatever with
the children, and not in any way to interfere with their training. But
they will live in the same village, and see them from time to time,
though at a distance. They will know they are all under my protection,
and they can always come to the church-house and hear from me, or the
Matoushka, of their welfare. Oh, I will do my best for them."
"You will teach them no false religion," said Alexis.
"Oh, as for religion," replied Father Cyril, "they must come to church,
and be brought up to observe the Orthodox rites and accept the Orthodox
doctrines. There is no way to escape that, but, Alexis Ivanoff, there
is salvation to be found in every Church."
The telega stopped at the church-house after nightfall. Father Cyril
called to Alexis to come to look through the uncurtained window. There,
on a rug near the stove, sat Velia, with Father Cyril's two little
daughters, one on each side of her. The children's heads were close
together, and their faces shone in the lamplight. They were laughing
merrily, and the Matoushka was laughing too.
"God bless them!" cried Father Cyril, as he grasped Alexis Ivanoff's
hand.
"God bless you!" replied Alexis.
CHAPTER X
MOTHERS AND CHILDREN
BUT to get little Clava away from her mother, Tatiania, was a hard
task, almost an impossible one. The other parents recognised the
absolute impossibility of evading the order of the consistory, and they
listened submissively to the arrangements made for their children by
the Batoushka, who was supported by Alexis Ivanoff. But Tatiania would
listen to no reasoning or persuasion. Her husband had been in prison
for nine months, and but for Sergius and Marfa, who had done all the
work on their land, and with their beehives, the family would have
fallen into dire poverty. They were, of course, much poorer than they
had been in former years. But she would not give up her darling, she
declared—no, not if the archbishop himself came to take her away. The
Matoushka came to entreat her to trust little Clava to her, but in vain.
"Oh, foolish woman!" cried Paraska to her. "You'd know where she was,
and how kind they were to her, and you'd see her in the street, and
watch her growing up and changing into a girl. And I shouldn't know my
boys now if I saw them. They were babies when they took them from me
eight years ago, and now—! No, I'd pass them in the road and not know
them for my own sons."
It was not until a letter came from Khariton Kondraty, written in
his prison cell in Kovylsk, bidding his wife give up the child, that
Tatiania yielded, and little Clava went to the church-house, where
Velia was already settled.
Profound grief, underneath which lay a presentiment of still heavier
calamities, if that were possible, took possession of the little
community of Stundists. Every house had lost one or two of its
children. Several of the mothers, with their hungry love for their
little ones, could not keep aloof from the village church, where alone
they could see them and be for a short time under the same roof.
Paraska told them they were highly favoured; she did not even know if
her boys were living. Alexis Ivanoff in his great pity did not reproach
the women for their stolen attendances at the parish church. Velia had
returned to him for two or three days before he was compelled to resign
her to the care of Father Cyril and the sweet-tempered Matoushka. They
had been days of unutterable anguish, the Gethsemane of his soul. After
this sacrifice to his faith, no trial could be too bitter.
The old Matoushka, Father Vasili's widow, took care that a report of
the return of the heretic mothers to the Orthodox Church should reach
Father Paissy's ears. He heard it with a smile of self-satisfaction. At
last, then, he had discovered a way of dealing with the Stundists of
the diocese.
Michael's spirit in those days was hot and mutinous within him. Not
so much on account of Velia, whom he could visit frequently, but for
the sake of his father and little Clava's mother, who could hold no
intercourse with their children, and who were visibly aged by their
grief. Why could not the Stundists do as the Scottish Covenanters had
done before them, set up the standard of revolt, and defend themselves
until the right cause triumphed? Why should not they strike a blow for
freedom—at any rate, for freedom to serve and worship God according to
their conscience? Alexis listened to his boy with a melancholy smile.
"First of all," he answered, "because we remember that our Lord
suffered His enemies to take Him and crucify Him, though He might have
had a legion of angels to take vengeance on them. He said to Simon
Peter, 'Put up thy sword into its place: for all they that take the
sword shall perish with the sword.' 'The cup that My Father hath given
Me, shall not I drink it?' Yes, Lord, we must drink the cup that Thou
givest us! Cannot God save us, if that be best for us and for our
country?"
"Yes," replied the boy.
"That is the chief point," pursued Alexis, "but to revolt would be
utter madness. It would mean our extermination. Scotland is a small
country, and the Covenanters could easily band together. Besides, the
people were mostly in their favour. But Russia is vast, and the people
are our enemies, and will be as long as superstition and drink have the
upper hand. Here in Knishi, with nearly a hundred parishioners—that is,
heads of families—only nine of us are Stundists. Our nearest sister
church is in Kovylsk, a day's journey from us; there are some thousands
of inhabitants, and not more than a hundred brethren who are quite
sound in the faith. Our little churches are feeble in themselves, and
lie miles apart. Truly, if we took the sword, we should quickly perish
with the sword. We could not combine for resistance; we can only do so
for mutual sympathy and help. No, my boy, it is God's will, and we must
submit to it."
The Russian people, like all Eastern nations, are fatalists; and
Alexis Ivanoff was not without this strain in his temperament. There
is an element of peace in it, but not much element of progress. Boy
as he was, Michael chafed against it with all the love of freedom,
and a desire to strike a blow for it, which he had inherited from
his Scottish ancestors. God's will was ever for the right, and this
persecution was wrong.
The children over ten years of age were suffering in many ways, besides
having their younger brothers and sisters ruthlessly separated from
them. They could not pass along the village street, or drive their
parents' oxen to water at the village well, without having stones
or clods thrown at them. If they went out in numbers for mutual
protection, the Orthodox children formed bands which lay in ambush to
attack them. At a lonely cottage, left in charge of two girls whilst
their parents were working in the communal lands, the door was locked,
and the young persecutors gathered a quantity of reeds and ill-smelling
weeds, and set fire to them under the unglazed window, until the
noisome smoke almost suffocated the terrified girls. It was useless to
complain to the Starosta, and Father Cyril found himself powerless to
prevent such outrages.
The women dared not send their girls to the shop; and only big
boys like Michael and Sergius could water the cattle, or fill the
buckets for home use. They did it under a constant shower of abuse,
occasionally accompanied by skilfully aimed missiles. But on the whole
the village boys were afraid of Michael.
One day, as Michael was going down to the river to look after some
wicker fish-traps he had hidden in the water, he saw a girl standing
in the track leading to the washing-place, with a big boy brandishing
a whip over her. Before he could reach them, the long lash was falling
upon the girl's bowed shoulders and bare ankles in rapid stinging
stripes. She stood motionless, protecting her face with her hands,
and uttering no cry. The clothes she had been washing lay trampled in
the mud. It was Marfa, and the boy who was flogging her was Okhrim's
grandson, and a bully and a coward. Michael had just been reading how
Moses in Egypt saw one of his brethren suffer wrong, and forthwith
avenged him that was oppressed, and smote the Egyptian. He considered
the example of Moses was to be followed.
"Stop that!" he cried, seizing the whip, and breaking the handle of
it in two. "You coward! Come on and fight me, if you dare, you mean,
skulking, miserable coward!"
But the boy dared not fight. He stood still for a moment glaring at
them; then, spitting at Marfa, turned away, running as fast as he
could. Michael was for pursuing him, but Marfa held him fast by the arm.
"Oh, Michael, you shouldn't, you shouldn't!" she sobbed, lifting up her
tear-stained face. "I could have borne it. Oh yes, I was bearing it. I
was saying to myself, 'This is for Jesus Christ's sake.' I didn't cry
out, did I, Michael?"
"No," he answered; "you were quite dumb. But I couldn't stand by and
see a girl flogged like that. No, no, Marfa! I did right, and I should
do it again."
"It will bring us both into trouble," said Marfa, picking up the soiled
clothes, and carrying them back to the washing-stage.
Michael lingered about till she was ready to go home. And after seeing
her there safely, he went on to his father's house, carefully avoiding
the village street. Alexis looked greatly troubled when Michael told
him what had happened.
"I will go and tell Father Cyril after dark," he said. "If anyone can
help us, he can and will. You did right, but no one knows what the
issue may be. Tell me, my son, did you feel angry with the boy?"
Michael flung back his head, and his face grew crimson.
"I felt as savage as a wild beast," he cried; "if I had not broken the
whip and flung it away the first moment, I should have flogged him."
"Thank God you didn't!" answered Alexis. "But oh, Michael, my boy, you
must learn to 'love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good
to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and
persecute you.' It is our Lord's command."
"It is too hard for me yet, father," said Michael frankly. "I could
forgive them gladly and make friends again, if they wanted it. But they
delight in being enemies. It's as much fun to some of them to lurk
round corners and throw stones at us from behind, as it used to be to
play games with us. But I'll try to keep our Lord's commands; I'll try
my utmost. A boy can't be perfect all at once."
"Nor a man either," said Alexis, with a smile and a sigh. "It is a hard
saying, but He who said it will give us grace to obey it. Only love
Him, Michael, and, presently we shall learn to love all for whom He
died."
In the dusk Alexis went to the church-house. It was somewhat larger
than his own, and possessed a slate roof, and glass in every casement.
It stood near the church, and not far from the cemetery, where, until
the last few years, all the village comrades in life had found their
last resting-place for their toil-worn and wearied bodies. But now the
Stundists were forbidden to bury their dead beside their forefathers.
Any unconsecrated hole was good enough for their unhallowed corpses.
Father Cyril was sitting alone, but the voices of the Matoushka and
the children could be heard in the kitchen, where supper was being
prepared. Alexis heard Velia's beloved voice singing an evening hymn
with the other little ones. Father Cyril was reading by the light of
a lamp with three wicks. Through the uncurtained window could be seen
the dim, great plain, which lay like a sea round the little island of
Knishi. The first slight veil of snow was lying softly upon it, for the
autumn was already over.
Father Cyril invited Alexis to sit down. The former Batoushka had
zealously testified to his religion by not permitting a heretic to
take a seat in his house. Alexis sat down by the window, gazing out at
the white wilderness on which the moon was shining softly. He told his
story simply, without looking at the Batoushka.
"Would to God I had been there instead of Michael!" exclaimed Father
Cyril. "I always suspected that young rascal was the ringleader in this
persecution of children by children. If I could but have laid my hand
upon him! Then I would have sent a report to the archbishop. Surely no
servant of God could wink at such an evil. It frustrates all my efforts
to teach them mercy and loving-kindness. It is making them more savage
and cruel than their parents were before them."
Father Cyril's voice faltered, and Alexis turned to see why he ceased
speaking. He had buried his face in his hands, and the lamplight shone
upon tears trickling through his interlaced fingers.
"Father, forgive them! They know not what they do," murmured Alexis.
"Amen!" said the Batoushka.
Before them both, the Orthodox priest and the heretical Stundist,
there rose a vision of their crucified Lord, in the hour of His bodily
anguish, when rude, rough hands were nailing Him to His cross on
Calvary. Both thought of that hour with profound pity and love, but the
remembrance brought more strength and comfort to Alexis than to Father
Cyril.
"Amen!" he repeated. "Our Lord said it. And He also said, 'Blessed are
you when men shall revile you, and persecute you, for My sake. Rejoice,
and be exceeding glad.' Father Cyril, we are ready to follow where the
Lord leads."
"But what about the persecutors?" said Father Cyril. "And I am on their
side. Alexis, it will break my heart!"
They were silent for some minutes.
"I fear this will bring fresh trouble," said the Batoushka, "but I will
send a report at once to the archbishop. You are sure Michael did not
strike the Starosta's grandson?"
"He confesses he would have done it," replied Alexis, "if he had not
broken the whip and thrown it away the first moment. But who will
believe him?"
"I will go and see Marfa first thing in the morning," said Father
Cyril. "Little Clava and your Velia are in there," he added, nodding
towards the kitchen; "they are dear children to us."
The children had just finished singing, and pattering steps came
towards the door to fetch Father Cyril to supper. He hastened to
intercept them and send them back; for no heretic parents were
permitted to hold any intercourse with the children taken from them.
CHAPTER XI
A HARD WINTER
FATHER CYRIL'S report to the archbishop did no good. The Starosta
Okhrim, mad with rage, went to Kovylsk, and had a personal interview
with Father Paissy, at the consistory. This priest had a special
interest in the suppression of Stundism at Knishi. Some few years
before he had been present at an outbreak of popular prejudice, excited
by himself, which had resulted in the death of a Stundist woman named
Ooliana Rodenko. Her son Paul, and Paraska's husband Demyan, had been
exiled to Siberia, with other prominent men among the Stundists. If
these sharp measures failed to root out heresy, they appeared almost
like crimes. Father Paissy was resolved to attain his object. The end
justified the means. But what if the end was not achieved? This time he
determined to stamp out Stundism, once for all, in Knishi. If Father
Cyril failed to win the heretics back to the Orthodox Church, they must
be exterminated.
All the men of the Stundist households, nine in number, were arrested,
and carried off to the prison in Kovylsk. The women were left without
their natural protectors, and without breadwinners in their desolated
homes. No one was left to do the necessary winter work except
themselves, and the children between ten and fifteen years of age.
Alexis Ivanoff gone, Michael was left with all the toil and care of the
farm upon his shoulders, shared only by Paraska, who, under this new
calamity, shook off the lethargy of her despair, and showed herself
full of energy and resource. Tatiania, too, roused herself from the
melancholy that had possessed her since the loss of little Clava, and
she went from house to house comforting and encouraging the other women
in the trouble still new to them. It was an old trouble to her, for it
was nearly twelve months since her husband, Khariton Kondraty, had been
imprisoned.
The Starosta, Okhrim, and his grandson paraded the village street with
insolent triumph, but Father Cyril kept the day of arrest as a day of
fasting and prayer in the solitude of the church vestry.
Winter had already set in, making the whole wide landscape white. The
houses and barns stood out against the sky like huge heaps of snow.
Every morning the street was trackless under the fresh falls that
fell each night; and every evening the white surface was marked with
countless footprints and furrows. All the cattle and sheep were under
cover, and needed to be fed and watered every day. Michael was kept
busily occupied, and Sergius came to help him as soon as his own work
was done at home.
The village was cut off from all intercourse with the outer world until
the snow was frozen hard enough to bear the sledges. There were only
two sledges in Knishi, one belonging to Okhrim and the other to the
innkeeper. There was no chance of hearing news of the prisoners in
Kovylsk.
Father Cyril no longer checked the visits of Michael and Sergius
to their little sisters in the church-house. On the contrary, he
encouraged them; and the boys went often, on one pretext or another.
Velia's childish heart was full of vague dreads and sharp sorrow
for her father in prison, but little Clava was as gay and happy as
a child can be. The Matoushka treated them exactly the same as her
own children; whilst Father Cyril was, if possible, more tender and
indulgent to them than to his own. He could not look at them without a
feeling of the deepest pity.
As a loyal servant of his Church, he did his best to place its tenets
in a clear manner before Michael and Sergius, feeling persuaded they
did not know or understand them. The boys listened to him attentively
and respectfully.
"Father Cyril," said Michael one day, "if a strong man came to your
house, and dragged your sister from you, and carried your father off to
a dreadful prison, could you think he was God's servant?"
"No," answered Father Cyril, almost smiling.
"That is what the archbishop has done," continued Michael; "he has done
it both to Serge and me. You think he stands higher up in God's service
than you do. We don't think so. We could never, never believe he is
really serving God, for God is love."
Father Cyril gave no answer. He could not tell them the archbishop was
ignorant—the excuse he always made for the peasants. He looked at the
two earnest, sturdy lads before him with compassionate eyes.
"Be good, my boys!" he said. "Be good, and your conscience will tell
you when you are disobeying God."
Michael and Sergius were much together. Sergius had only one cow and
a few sheep to tend, whilst Michael had many cattle and horses and a
numerous flock. The boys went to and fro daily between their homes,
always avoiding the village street, infested as it was by foes, and
making their way along by-paths, through deep drifts of snow. The
active life and frequent exposure to extreme cold hardened their bodies.
"As hard as nails," Sergius declared.
On the contrary, Marfa and her mother Tatiania grew pallid and weakly
with prolonged confinement to the house, and continual fretting about
Khariton and little Clava. Only on Sunday morning Tatiania, with her
hungry mother's heart, made her way along the white street, and stole
within the church door during mass, that she might at least see with
her own eyes her little girl sitting with the Batoushka's children.
By the New Year the snow was as hard as the roads were in summer, and
much pleasanter to travel over, as it was smoother, and there were no
clouds of dust. The sky, too, was clear, and of a deep blue, which
contrasted beautifully with the unsullied snow. The road to Kovylsk
was traced out plainly by the tradesmen's sledges, which had come to
bring supplies to the village shops. But no letters had arrived from
the prisoners in Kovylsk; and every heretic soul was longing for some
tidings of them.
In Alexis Ivanoff's barn there was a rough sort of sledge, which he
had been wont to use for carrying up reeds from the river. Michael and
Sergius determined to get over to Kovylsk secretly in this old sledge,
taking only Marfa and Paraska into their counsels. This was necessary,
as they would have to tend the cattle during their absence. Tatiania
they dared not tell, lest she should talk about it to some of their
Stundist neighbours.
In the dead of the night the boys dragged the sledge along the silent
street, hearing every little jar of the runners as if it had been a
shriek loud enough to arouse the neighbourhood. They hid it behind a
low hillock where the open steppe began; for luckily they found the
gate at the barrier not securely fastened. At sunrise they led the
mare, with sacks slung across her, through the street, as if they were
going on some errand to Yarina's farm, which lay on that side of the
village. Okhrim's grandson saw them, and shouted some words of abuse,
but kept at a safe distance. No one else took any notice of them; and
before long they were driving over the snowclad steppe.
It was bitterly cold, but they had on their sheepskin coats, and caps
of Astrachan fur. In their sacks was food enough for three or four
days, which Paraska had provided, besides a present for Markovin, to
whose house Michael was bound. The air was stinging but wonderfully
exhilarating. The low sun lay like a red ball in the filmy sky. The
old mare ran at a much brisker pace than her jog-trot under the sultry
sunshine. They were jolted and jerked by the shaking of the rough
sledge, but this was part of the pleasure to the hardy lads. They sang
and laughed and talked as if there was no sorrow for them in the past,
the present, or the future.
The short day was over before they reached Kovylsk, but the night could
not be dark on such a snowy plain, and under such brilliant stars. They
parted as soon as they reached the town, Sergius going to a cousin who
was living there, whilst Michael went to ask help and shelter from
Markovin.
The timorous old man looked scared when he saw the boy, the notorious
Alexis Ivanoff's son. But he could not find it in his heart to send
him away. He felt a superstitious pleasure in the fact that he had
never turned a Stundist away from his door, however terrified he was
at harbouring them. The fresh outbreak of persecution redoubled his
dread, though he had no reason to suppose the authorities suspected him
of heresy. But who knew where a spy might be lurking? He diligently
attended mass in the cathedral, where he had been for some years a
verger; and he crossed himself, and bowed to the icons. When the
brethren reproached him with time-serving, he excused himself by citing
the example of Naaman the Syrian, who said to Elijah, 'Thy servant will
henceforth offer neither burnt offering nor sacrifice to other gods,
but unto the Lord. In this thing the Lord pardon thy servant, when my
master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth
on my hand, and I bow myself in the house of Rimmon . . . the Lord
pardon thy servant in this thing.' This history was a great comfort and
support to Markovin, and he was generally known among the Stundists by
the name of Naaman.
Markovin led Michael into an inner room, where no one could hear or
see them, and almost in a whisper told him all he knew about the
prisoners. They had been brought several times before a committee of
investigation, of which Father Paissy was the chairman, held in the
consistory. Every effort had been made to get them to recant; promises
and threats had been showered upon them. But all remained firm and
faithful to their convictions, except perhaps Nicolas Pavilovitch, who
seemed shaken by the rigour of his prison experience, and the promise
of reward if he returned to the Orthodox Church.
"Why can't they hold their opinions as I do?" asked old Markovin
querulously. "The Scriptures don't say, 'Thou shalt not cross thyself,
Thou shalt not bow to the icons'—"
"There you're wrong," interrupted Michael hotly; "did you never see the
commandment, 'Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image, neither
of things in heaven, nor things on earth, nor things under the earth.
Thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them'? Not bow down to
them, Markovin Petrovitch! Not even bow down to them. And you know they
worship them—pray to them."
"The icons are painted, not graven," answered Markovin; "besides, there
was Naaman the Syrian—"
But before he could utter another word, a loud knocking at the outer
door made his old knees tremble and his hands shake as with palsy.
"Did anybody see you coming in?" he asked in a terrified voice.
"I don't know," answered Michael, "but nobody in Kovylsk knows me."
Markovin threw himself on the bed.
"Go to the door," he murmured, "and tell them I'm ill in bed. Oh, I am
ill, true enough!"
CHAPTER XII
A FRIENDLY JAILER
MICHAEL, feeling greatly disgusted by Markovin's cowardice, threw
open the door boldly. The visitor, who was carefully wrapped up in a
huge sheepskin coat, was no other than the friendly warder from the
jail—Pafnutitch.
"Why—why—why!" he stammered. "Who thought of seeing you here?"
"Then you know me?" said Michael, in equal astonishment.
"Of course I do," answered the warder; "it's part of our business to
know folks again. You're the young cock-of-the-walk that crowed so loud
and ready to thrust your head into Kovylsk Jail last spring, to have a
look at my jail-birds. Your father's one of them now. A good man; oh,
as good almost as Loukyan the saint! What do you say to trying a rig
like that?"
"Hush!" whispered Michael, pointing to the door of Markovin's bedroom.
"Hush! It would kill him with fright. To see my father! Oh, I'm ready!
When will it be?"
"Now! To-night," answered Pafnutitch. "Oh, what luck I came here
to-night! Our head men are all going to the governor's ball, and we
intend to have a jolly night of it. But you shall see your little
father first; only you must have a bag o' tools, or something—"
"I have this," said Michael, throwing his well-filled sack over his
shoulder.
"That will do," agreed the warder; "and don't you speak if anybody
speaks to you. They'll think you are Mitiushka, my sister's son by her
first husband, but he was flogged once for talking to a Stundist, and
now he won't answer anybody he doesn't know very well. His mother,
Matriona, had two husbands—but there, I can't tell you all about it
now. I must be at my post in an hour. Tell Markovin Petrovitch you are
going out a little while on business, but don't mention me. Now, then,
Nephew Mitiushka."
Michael followed Pafnutitch through the streets, his heart beating high
with courage. The wind was piercing, but he did not feel it. The stars
glittered in the narrow strip of sky between the roofs of the houses;
and he fancied they looked down on him like kindly eyes in heaven. Once
again he had the strange sensation of feeling his mother near to him,
walking unseen at his side, and telling him, without words, not to be
afraid.
When they reached the jail the gatekeeper, who was playing at cards
with a comrade, admitted them, with scarcely a glance at Michael. The
light from the lamp was dull, and the man held a good hand of cards,
which he was eager to play. The small door constructed in the heavy
gates, through which they passed, clanged behind them, and the strong
bolts were shot back into their places. Michael felt already the
depressing and stifling atmosphere of a prison.
They went through long dark passages, and up two flights of stairs. On
the topmost floor was a corridor, dimly lighted by one oil lamp at the
head of the stairs. On each side were a number of little cells. Another
warder met them half-way down this corridor, and gazed suspiciously at
Michael.
"Go on, Mitiushka," said Pafnutitch. Drawing the other warder aside,
"He's bringing some victual for the heretics," he whispered, "they've
got powerful rich friends in town—friends that pay well; and I said my
nephew, Mitiushka, should bring them some comforts. There's a bottle
of the best vodka ever went down a man's throat—for me, you know; the
poor heretics don't drink vodka. I'm just mad to taste it, and you and
me 'll go and have some. I'll just turn Mitiushka in here," he added,
stopping at the door of Alexis Ivanoff's cell; "you know he's a poor
softy and won't, talk to anybody. I'll lock the door on him; and we'll
see what the vodka is like."
He pushed Michael into the cell, and turned the key loudly in the lock.
There was not a gleam of light, except that just under the ceiling
a little square of sky, with two or three stars in it, was visible.
Michael heard his father's voice in the darkness.
"Who is there?" he asked.
"It's me, father," he cried; "Michael!"
Groping till they felt one another in the narrow cell, the father
and son stood for a few minutes clasped in one another's arms. Never
had Michael felt a rapture so pure and overwhelming. For the moment
he forgot they were in a prison. They were together again—he and his
father. But very soon both of them remembered how precious time was.
They sat down side by side on the wooden plank, which served for seat
and bed, and Michael told briefly how it happened he was there. There
was so much to say, and so short a time to say it in. Alexis gave
Michael some news of the prisoners to take home, and messages to carry
to sundry friends in Kovylsk, who were stretching to the utmost their
influence on behalf of the imprisoned Stundists.
"For me," he said calmly, "it must be either Siberia or the Caucasus
sooner or later. If it is sooner, before you are fifteen, you may get
permission to go with me as my child. Tatiania and Sergius and Marfa
will go with Khariton Kondraty. But we must leave Velia and little
Clava behind us. They will never give back to us the little ones they
have robbed us of."
"Father Cyril cares for them as if they were his own," said Michael.
"Ah! That is my only comfort," Alexis went on. "But oh, my boy, they
will be brought up in the practices we denounce, and for which we are
suffering even unto death! But we must leave them in God's hands, He
loves them more than we can. If they keep us in prison for years, as
some of our brethren have been, you and Sergius will be too old to go
with us—"
"We will follow you wherever you go," interrupted Michael, "if we have
to walk every step of the way. Paraska is saving up every kopek she can
get to join her husband in Irkutsk. If a woman can do it, we can. If it
was all round the world, we would follow you."
He threw his arms round his father's neck, and laid his head on his
shoulder. Oh, if he could but remain with him now, and share his prison
cell! By this time his eyes had grown used to the darkness, and he
could see the dim outline of his father's face. He told him how he had
fancied his mother was walking at his side as he came to the jail.
"Why not?" said Alexis. "Surely she loves us better than she did while
she was here."
"But will not this make her miserable?" asked Michael.
"Not more miserable than our Lord," he answered; "what He can bear
to see, she can bear. They know the end. Your mother has joined the
cloud of witnesses which compasses us about; and though they see our
afflictions, they also see the far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory laid up for us if we fight a good fight. It is even here a glory
and a joy to suffer for Christ's sake."
Alexis spoke in a tone of sober gladness. But before he could say more,
they heard the voice of Pafnutitch speaking loudly in the corridor.
"I'd clean forgotten the lad," he said; "he'll be scared out of his
poor wits at being shut up in the dark with a cursed heretic. Come
out, my poor boy, come out! Good sakes! This key wants oiling, I can
scarcely turn it."
He fumbled at the lock for some seconds, giving Michael and his father
time for a last embrace and farewell. Michael was breathing hard with
stifled sobs as he stumbled out of the cell.
"Poor lad! Poor lad!" exclaimed Pafnutitch, catching him by the arm,
and hurrying down the corridor, "Scared almost to death! Ay, scared to
death! And he was always something of a softy. I'll put him out into
the street, and be back in a jiffy."
His fellow-warder winked slowly behind his back, and wondered what
heavy bribe Pafnutitch had received. If possible, he would make
him share it. The vodka had been very good, but that was not what
had made Pafnutitch run such a risk as this. Should he report the
little incident to the governor? No. They were good friends; besides,
Pafnutitch knew too much of what he had done himself. It was best to
keep a still tongue in his head.
CHAPTER XIII
DENYING THE FAITH
FOR the next two days, Michael was busy delivering messages his father
had sent by him to the brethren living in Kovylsk. He told no one how
he had received these messages, for fear of betraying the warder, and
thus closing the channel of communication between the prisoners and
their friends outside. He could not help suspecting that someone made
it worth while to Pafnutitch, though it was against the tenets and the
customs of the Stundists to give bribes. Pafnutitch himself declared he
ran the risks solely for love.
Now and then Michael met Sergius in the streets, but the boys took no
notice of one another, thinking it safer not to appear acquainted.
They imagined they saw a spy in every man and woman who happened to be
walking in the same direction; and Markovin deepened this impression
by his gloomy forebodings. He had no suspicion that Michael had been
smuggled into the prison. The mere thought would have killed him. He
was exceedingly glad when Michael bade him farewell, though he had
shown him every kindness in his power. The old man kissed the boy on
the forehead, with a profound sigh, and prayed that God's blessing
might rest upon them both, "Me as well as him, O Lord!" he said in a
trembling voice.
Michael and Sergius had much to say to one another as they drove
homewards. Sergius had less to tell, for though he had been pitied and
sympathised with as the son of Khariton Kondraty, who had been so long
in prison for his faith, his father was not a well-known and beloved
presbyter, as Alexis Ivanoff was. His arrest had been a blow to a score
or more of little Stundist churches. Then there was Michael's adventure
in the jail, and his stolen interview with his father, a secret which
he confided to Sergius under a solemn vow of inviolable secrecy. There
must not be a hint or a whisper of such an event, for fear of getting
Pafnutitch into disgrace or danger, if he was found out.
They left their old sledge among the reeds growing along the margin of
the river, and led their tired horse at nightfall by a narrow by-path
to Ostron. Paraska hailed their arrival with a gladness the boys had
never before seen on her joyless face. The news of their return soon
spread, and before midnight, one woman after another stole in to ask if
there was any news of their husbands, and any hope of their liberation.
The wife of Nicolas Pavilovitch came amongst them, but Michael did not
say a word to her that it was rumoured her husband was about to recant,
and bear witness against the other Stundists. It seemed too shameful
and too treacherous a thing for him to put into words.
It was not many weeks, however, before Nicolas himself arrived in a
police-sledge. Every man and woman in Knishi ran into the frost-bound
street to watch its progress. The sledge was driven straight to Father
Cyril's house. Nicolas had been ordered to make his submission to
his parish priest. When he entered the house under the eye of the
policeman, he bowed profoundly to the icon, and with a tremulous voice
asked for the priest's blessing, and humbly kissed his hand.
"Nicolas Pavilovitch, you desire to come back to the Orthodox Church?"
said Father Cyril, after reading the order from the consistory.
"I do," answered Nicolas.
"Is this from conviction before God?" he asked. "Or from fear of man?"
Father Cyril's voice was stern, and his gaze penetrating. The
miserable-looking man only bowed his head, he could not utter a word.
"You will have your children restored to you," continued Father Cyril;
"and I am to see that they are carefully brought up in the sacred
rites and doctrines of our holy religion. I am also to report to
the consistory how frequently you and your wife come to mass and to
confession. Go home now. To-morrow I will come and bless your house."
The driver of the sledge had already spread the news. And when Nicolas
left the church-house he found he had to pass through groups of
unsympathetic neighbours, most of whom jeered at him or hailed him with
mock applause. Pale and haggard, enfeebled by long confinement and
prison fare, he could not hurry homewards out of their way, but crawled
along with bowed-down head and eyes almost blinded with tears. Was it
for this he had belied his conscience and turned renegade and traitor?
The veriest drunkard did not believe in his conversion. What were those
words repeated again and again in his brain? "Seeing he has crucified
to himself 'the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame.'" Oh,
terrible words!
His house was the peasant's hut next to Khariton Kondraty's, and
Sergius, seeing his arrival, rushed in, after giving him a few minutes
to greet his wife and children, to ask how it was he had been released.
Surely his father would be set free too, and perhaps Alexis himself,
though as presbyter he was least likely to escape exile.
Nicolas had thrown himself breathless and exhausted on the bench
beside the stove, and his wife was standing before him speechless and
bewildered.
"Is my father coming?" cried Sergius. "Are the others let off? Oh,
Nicolas Pavilovitch, tell me quickly!"
"They could all come home if they'd do as I've done," answered Nicolas
in a muffled voice.
"He has denied the faith," sobbed his wife. "He was a miserable
drunkard before he joined the brethren, and now he is a lost soul."
"But you'll do as I do," said Nicolas.
"Never!" she cried. "Never! I'll throw myself into the river first!"
Sergius stole away quickly and silently. If that was the price to pay
for liberty, he knew well his father would not give it. No, not to gain
the whole world.
The recantation of Nicolas was a great shock to the little community of
Stundists in Knishi, consisting now only of a few desolate women and
their children. Father Cyril ordered the children of Nicolas to be sent
home, notwithstanding his wife's persistent refusal to join her husband
in abjuring her faith. The three little ones, all under ten years of
age, were very dear to her, and to hold them again in her arms, or to
work from dawn to dark for them, was a great consolation, but nothing
would induce her to go to mass with them and their father. When she
heard that her husband had given evidence, mostly false, against
his fellow-prisoners, she refused to quit the house, or to hold any
intercourse with her old friends and neighbours. Her tribulation was
greater than that of the other women.
The winter wore slowly away; and the women's hearts grew heavier as
they heard nothing of the liberation of their husbands. They were
wanted sorely at home. As soon as the thaw came, the numerous labours
on a farm, so necessary in the spring, must be done. They had patiently
borne many hardships through the winter, but if their breadwinners did
not come home soon, starvation would stare them in the face. Okhrim,
the Starosta, exacted the taxes as if the men were at their usual work;
and already some of the stock had been sold at low prices to meet his
demands.
The snow melted away, and the fine blades of corn sown in the autumn
began to push upwards through the rich, moist soil. Michael and Serge
toiled from the first streak of dawn to the last gleam of light in the
western sky, scarcely snatching time enough for food. But what could
two boys do unaided? Besides, there were houses where there was not one
child big enough for heavy work; and the women could not do it all.
Even if they had possessed the means to hire labourers, they could not
have done so; for it had been made illegal for a Stundist to have an
Orthodox servant in any capacity.
CHAPTER XIV
LITTLE CLAVA
THE short spring-tide was almost spent when news came. The men were
all sentenced to exile in Eastern Siberia for various periods; Alexis,
whose term was the longest, for ten years. As usual, the wives who
chose to go into exile with their husbands might do so, and take their
children. Not one of the women, warned by Paraska's experience, chose
to remain behind. There were only a few days for disposing of all
their possessions, and they were forced to sell their goods for what
their neighbours would give. Yarina, the richest woman in Knishi,
bought a good deal of the stock; and it was noticed that the sellers
looked satisfied and grateful, whilst Okhrim went about swearing at his
daughter-in-law. Father Cyril seemed much pleased, and very friendly
with her.
"You are not fifteen yet?" Father Cyril inquired of Michael.
The boy was so manly in his bearing and so well-grown it was difficult
to believe him still under the age at which he could be entered in the
convoy-list as a child.
"I shall be fifteen next Michaelmas," he replied.
"A good thing!" said Father Cyril. "But you will have to go as a child,
my boy."
"I'd go as a baby," he answered, laughing, "rather than not go with
my father. But there is Velia," he said, his face growing grave and
anxious.
"She cannot go," said Father Cyril; "the children already separated
from their parents are not to be restored to them. And it is best!
Think of such a journey, month after month, through the bitter winter
and the scorching summer, for little children. My heart aches whenever
I think of it."
"But our poor little Velia!" exclaimed Michael, suddenly realising what
his departure would be to her. How would the tender-hearted little soul
bear the separation? He recollected her cry, "Never go away again,
brother! Never leave little Velia again!"
"Michael," said Father Cyril, "trust me. Velia and little Clava shall
be as my own children. They must observe the rites of our Church, but
I will teach them the truths that lie underneath the symbols. Do not
be afraid. They shall not cross themselves except when they do so in
remembrance of our crucified Lord. They shall not pray to the icons,
but to the saints whom the icons recall to our minds. I will take care
no superstition is mixed up with their religion."
"But we pray straight to God," objected Michael, "neither to the icons
nor the saints. Our Lord said, 'When ye pray, say, Our Father which art
in heaven.' He did not speak of saints."
"They shall say the Lord's Prayer night and morning," answered Father
Cyril gently; "my boy, you have no voice in this matter. Only trust in
me. As far as mortal man can guide them into truth, I will do so. Trust
Velia to God also. He loves her more than you can."
Tatiania, like the other women, had sold her few possessions, and made
all the necessary preparations for joining her husband at Kovylsk with
her children. But when she heard that little Clava would not be given
back to her, she declared she would not stir without her. There were
other almost broken-hearted mothers, who were leaving their little ones
behind in far less happy circumstances than little Clava. But their
remonstrances and entreaties were in vain. Tatiania sat down in her
empty house, and refused to listen to anyone.
"She is going mad," said Sergius to Michael.
Michael, like the rest, had sold the cattle and sheep, and the store
of grain left from last year's harvest, for a small sum indeed. But he
was rich in comparison with the others, though he had given half the
money to Paraska, who must now leave Knishi. She would be homeless and
friendless, hardly able to earn a living, as no Stundist could be taken
as a servant into an Orthodox family.
"Your mother is going mad!" she said to Sergius. "Tell her to think of
me! I had the chance of going with Demyan, and I gave it up to stay
with my children. They were torn away from me, my two little boys, and
I never set eyes on them again, and never knew what became of them.
That's enough to make a mother mad! But she knows good Father Cyril has
adopted little Clava. I'll go and reason with her," she added, running
off to Tatiania's house.
The poor mother was sitting on the side of the bed which was no longer
her own, rocking herself to and fro.
"They were all born here," she cried; "and two of them died here before
my little Clava was born. She is the dearest of them all! I'd rather
see her lying dead here than leave her behind, and never know what was
happening to her. She'd fret so after her mother if she didn't see me
at mass in the church. No, I cannot go! I will not go without her."
"But you have sold all your goods," urged Paraska; "you have nothing
left but a few roubles. After to-morrow, you'll not have even this roof
over your head. Think of your husband! If you won't go, of course Serge
and Marfa cannot go. Because it is you who choose whether you'll go or
stay. They only count as children. You'll all be beggars together."
"Serge and Marfa are big and strong; they can work," said Tatiania.
"And who can they work for?" asked Paraska. "They mustn't work for the
Orthodox folks, and there 'll not be a Stundist left in all Knishi.
There's Vania has to leave three children."
"I'll never leave little Clava," interrupted Tatiania.
Paraska went back to Ostron, where Sergius was awaiting her return.
Oh, how mournful the old familiar place looked, now the barns and
the stables were empty! There was only the old mare left; and the
telega, already holding her luggage and the small bundle of clothes
which Michael was taking for his long journey to Siberia. There was
no pleasant cackle of poultry in the deserted fold-yard, no bleating
of young lambs and calves, as was usual at this time of the year.
The broken-hearted woman all at once realised how peaceful had been
her days of sorrow, protected and comforted by Alexis and Catherine
Ivanoff. She was losing a second home and a second family.
"Paraska!" shouted Michael, as she lingered at the gate.
She hastened on to the desolate house, already stripped of furniture,
and the two boys asked her eagerly what Tatiania said.
"She will go mad to-night, if she is not mad now this moment," answered
Paraska. "She won't go; and of course nobody can make her. She is not a
prisoner."
"But what can we do?" cried Sergius.
It was a cruel dilemma. He and Marfa could not accompany their father
into exile if their mother persisted in her refusal. Now all their
possessions were sold, the small sum realised by the sale would barely
keep them through the summer. Unless they became Orthodox, they could
not maintain themselves by labour; and both of them were old enough to
know and understand the religion for which their father had suffered
a long imprisonment, and was about to encounter exile. They could
not renounce their faith, though the most miserable poverty, if not
starvation, awaited them in the near future.
But the inmost heart of their distress was the thought of their father
going alone, forsaken by his own wife and children, to his distant
place of exile. He had never beaten them, as most other fathers did,
had never even spoken an unkind word to them. Their mother had been
fretful, and unreasonably angry at times, especially with Marfa, but
their father never.
Then they would lose Michael; and what would Knishi be without him? He
would go with his father, march by his side, share his lot all through
the long journey by rail and river and on foot, till they reached their
place of exile; and there he would make a new home in that far-off
country. Sergius had looked forward to this fresh experience with
profound interest. He had only once been out of Knishi, and that was
when Michael and he had driven in the sledge to Kovylsk. He was longing
to travel. He did not care how or where, but a passion for roving had
taken possession of him.
"Let us go and tell Father Cyril," said Michael.
Never had Father Cyril been so unhappy as since the order had come to
Knishi for a clean sweeping out of heresy from his parish. He could
not bring himself to acquiesce in the stern decree; though rather than
leave the victims of it to the cruel measures of the Starosta Okhrim,
he had carried the tidings to the unfortunate women whose husbands had
been in prison all the winter. Heartrending scenes he had witnessed,
and harrowing petitions he had listened to, but he could do nothing.
Those few days aged him by years.
"I cannot bear it!" he sometimes cried when he was alone.
But still he went about, comforting the sorrowful women, and as far as
possible seeing that no very great injustice was done to them. It was
through him that Yarina bought at fair prices many of the cattle. He
had done all he could to soften the severity of the sentence.
"I will go and see Tatiania," he said to Michael.
But his persuasions were useless.
"Will you give me my child?" she asked.
"I cannot," he replied sorrowfully; "it is against the order. But she
shall be as one of my own. My poor woman, you must submit to the will
of God."
"It's not God's will I should be robbed of my child," she replied; "if
He had been pleased to take her to Himself, I would say, 'Thy will be
done!' They are cruel men who have torn her from my arms; and I'll stay
here and die rather than forsake her."
"Think of your husband and Marfa and Sergius," said Father Cyril.
"I love her better than all the world," cried Tatiania
passionately—"better than our Lord Himself. God forgive me!" she added,
frightened at the sound of the words she had uttered.
Marfa shuddered, and Sergius stood aghast.
Father Cyril spoke softly, with tears in his eyes.
"Amen! God forgive you, poor mother!" he said. "She does not know what
she is saying."
He went homewards, pondering in his heart the strange and terrible
problem of how Christians could persecute their fellow-Christians. How
was it possible they could think they were doing God service? To-morrow
nine homesteads would be left desolate, and the hapless women and
children would start on a journey of which many would never reach the
end. And this was done in the name of the Lord, whom both oppressor and
oppressed worshipped.
CHAPTER XV
BLESSING THE HERETICS
AT night Father Cyril could not sleep. The scenes he had recently
passed through haunted his brain, and drove away sleep.
On the day that was just past, the last day, he had allowed every
mother to see the children she was compelled to leave behind, for the
last time. Tatiania had not come to say good-bye to little Clava; and
to Father Cyril this seemed the saddest thing of all. He dreaded the
day that was coming; for then the women would be carried away from
their native village, probably never to return.
They were in his parish, his people, though they did not acknowledge
him. Yet he was absolutely powerless to help them. He had gained a few
alleviations for them. He had obtained permission for Michael to join
the convoy at the nearest railway station, which was two days' march
from Kovylsk. But that was all.
His brain whirled with useless and hopeless thoughts. Hour after hour
he lay awake, praying for the unhappy people who would rather perish in
Siberian wildernesses than forswear themselves. More than the rest, the
fate of Tatiania and her children perplexed him.
Between two and three hours before the dawn, he heard stealthy
footsteps pass his window. Most of the rooms were on the ground floor;
and the little chamber where Velia and Clava slept opened out of his
own. Very quietly he got up, and looked cautiously through the window.
It was bright moonlight, and, three shadows, one that of a woman, lay
upon the ground. Very soon he heard a stifled cry. The door into the
children's room fitted badly, and there was a chink wide enough for him
to look through. He recognised Michael and Sergius; Michael was bending
over Velia asleep and softly kissing her hair, whilst Sergius was
holding Clava in his arms, and wrapping a sheepskin about her. Father
Cyril understood in an instant what the boys were going to do.
He stood spellbound; tears smarting under his eyelids. He had never
doubted for a moment that to take children from their parents was a
crime against God. He had hesitated to carry out the order of the
consistory, but to refuse to obey was simply to give over his parish to
the hands of those who would execute the sentence without mercy. What
was he to do now?
He watched the silent and rapid movements of the boys, and saw them
give the sleeping child into the stretched out arms of the woman whose
shadow he had seen. They were only going to steal Clava away. He knew
the vital importance of this step for Khariton Kondraty's family. If
they remained in Knishi, to-morrow they would be plunged into the
direst distress. The boys were doing the best thing in their power.
Should he hinder them?
"No!" he said to himself. "God help them!"
It was Paraska who received little Clava into her arms; for the boys
had not ventured to tell Tatiania of their desperate scheme. Michael
and Paraska were to start at daybreak in the telega for Kovylsk, and
the child could easily be concealed at the bottom of the cart, till
they were far enough away to be no longer afraid of detection. Once in
Kovylsk, Clava could be included in the convoy, as Kondraty's children,
three in number, were entered on the list. They started at the first
streak of dawn, calling at Tatiania's house, that she might see for
herself that little Clava was with them. Michael was so much excited
that he scarcely thought how he was leaving home again, this time
probably for ever.
Sleep was farther than ever from Father Cyril's eyes, after what he had
seen. He felt almost as if he was a boy again, rejoicing with the boys'
joy over the success of their enterprise. At any rate, the burden of
Kondraty's family would now be taken from him.
He had never before been in a parish containing heretics. He was known
throughout the diocese as a very estimable and successful parish
priest in country places. And in consequence he had been chosen to
follow Father Vasili, and had been sent to Knishi to wage war with the
Stundists. He came willingly, with high courage and confident hope. But
instead of finding blasphemous, ignorant, and godless people, he met
with devout and simple Christians, better grounded in the Scriptures
than himself, though ready to listen to him with respectful attention.
Now he saw and shrank from the pitiless spirit of persecution. He had
never been face to face with it before. Well might our Lord say to
His disciples, who wished to command fire to come down from heaven
on the Samaritans, "Ye know not what spirit ye are of." Father Cyril
understood now the spirit of persecution, and he quailed before it.
It might turn cowards into hypocrites, but it could not make true men
forswear their consciences.
When the Matoushka awoke in the morning, Father Cyril was up and
dressed. His eyes looked heavy, and his whole appearance was dejected.
"Clava is gone to see her mother," he said briefly; "do not speak of
her to anybody, my dear wife. Take Velia and our little ones into the
forest for the day. I do not wish them to see the women and children
setting off."
"Is Clava going with her mother?" asked the Matoushka, who sympathised
deeply with Tatiania.
"It is not quite settled yet," he replied.
The hour for starting was early, and Father Cyril went down to the
barrier. A crowd of villagers surrounded the carts which were taking
away their old friends and neighbours, probably for ever. There were
nine women, the oldest, Matrona Ivanovna, nearly seventy years of age;
and the youngest just over twenty, with her first baby, only two months
old. Thirteen children were with them, either big boys and girls over
ten years or babies under two years of age. All the children between
those ages were left behind in Knishi. Six out of the nine were bereft
of some of their children. One amongst them was bereft of all, and she
sat in the cart, tearless and speechless, with a look of despair on her
face. The others were weeping and lamenting, calling out the names of
their little ones, and beseeching Father Cyril to take care of each of
them. All except Tatiania, who sat still, with closed eyes, yet with
an expression of secret satisfaction struggling against the sorrow of
quitting her native village.
Marfa gazed about her with bewildered and sombre eyes. All of them had
been born there, and most of them had never been a day's journey from
Knishi. They were passing out of a familiar and beloved world to enter
into one of which they knew nothing. It would have been less strange to
go to the City of God, whose pearly gates and streets of gold they had
often dreamed about.
In the crowd, watching their departure, there were brothers and sisters
and other relatives who had not abandoned the Orthodox Church. The
young wife who had a baby two months old had a father and mother gazing
their last at her with tear-dimmed eyes. What crime had their child
committed that she should be torn from them, with scarcely a hope she
should ever see them again?
Yarina was there, her heart aching for the mothers of the two children
whom she had adopted, who were now holding their little ones in a last
passionate embrace.
"They shall be as my own," she cried, sobbing; "and when I know where
you go, I will write to you about them."
The last minute was come, and Matrona stood up in the cart where she
was sitting, and looked round her with eyes dimmed with age.
"I've lived here sixty-five years," she said, "and now I go away; and
I shall never go to the well again, and never hear the church bells
ringing. Tell me, have I done any one of you any harm? Have you aught
against me? Have I ever refused to help when I could help?"
"No, no, Matrona Stepanovna!" sobbed Yarina.
And a shout of "No!" came from the crowd.
"Then I bid you farewell comforted," said Matrona; "for this I know,
that wherever they send us, we shall be in the hollow of God's hand,
and no man can pluck us out of our Father's hand."
"Come, we are all ready to start," said the officer who had come to
convey the women and children to Kovylsk.
Then Father Cyril stretched out his arms in the attitude of blessing.
The Orthodox people knelt down, and the women in the carts bent their
heads, whilst he said in a tremulous voice—
"'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts
and minds through Christ Jesus.' . . . 'The grace of the Lord Jesus
Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be
with you all. Amen.'"
At last the sorrowful cavalcade set off. The banished women stood up
in the carts, and stretched out their arms towards their lost homes,
the hearths where they had rocked their babies, and the roofs that had
sheltered their happy families. The villagers tried to set up a shout,
but they broke down. Now the heretics were going, old animosities and
jealousies were forgotten. These sorrow-laden women and sad boys and
girls were never to return. As they passed slowly out of sight, a low
wailing came back on the wind, and was echoed by the sobs and moans of
the crowd.
Father Cyril went home, and passed the long day in solitary meditation
and prayer before the altar in his church. He was greatly distressed
in spirit. These exiled men and women were accepted of God; for did
they not fear, ay, and love Him, and work righteousness? Yet they were
despised and rejected of men, oppressed and afflicted, and acquainted
with grief. They were fellow-Christians, disciples of the same Lord,
and yet they persecuted them in His name, and thought that even when
they hounded them to death, they were doing God service.
CHAPTER XVI
IN KOVYLSK
IN the meantime Michael and Paraska, who had set off at daybreak, were
far on their way across the steppe toward Kovylsk. Until they were
quite safe from recognition, Clava lay at the bottom of the telega, her
sweet little face peeping up from time to time and smiling merrily at
them. She was a small, delicate child, and was easily intimidated, for
she had been tenderly guarded from all unkindness and hardship. After a
while, Paraska took her on her lap, kissing her often, with a mother's
yearning after her own lost children. Her deepest sorrow had befallen
her some years ago. She was accustomed to grief.
But Michael was not yet benumbed by sorrow. He was troubled, sorely
troubled at leaving his home again; and above all at leaving Velia
behind. True, she could not be better off than in Father Cyril's
house; and though he knew but little of the perils and hardships of
the journey which lay before the exiles, he knew enough to make him
thankful that his young sister was not to share them. But should he
ever see her again? They would be separated by thousands of miles; and
he did not know for how many years his father's term of banishment
would run. He never realised as he did now how much he loved her.
Velia was four years younger than himself; and he could recollect her
as a little child, following him with tottering feet, and stretching
out her tiny arms to him. Would his mother be watching over her, as
he sometimes felt sure she was near to him? Velia had never felt her
presence as he felt it. Yet, if it was only a fancy that his mother
came to him, it was surely true that God cared for both him and Velia.
"Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father! Are you not
much better than the birds?" he murmured to himself.
He was not afraid for himself. On the contrary, he looked forward
almost with pleasure to the long and exciting, though forced, journey
he was about to take. What were hardships to him? Many men encountered
them for the sake of money; others from a thirst for adventures. He
would be journeying with his father and his friend Sergius, every step
of the terrible wildernesses through which it was said they would have
to pass. He must keep up heart and courage, that his father might
never have the grief of seeing his spirits flag. Whatever happened,
he must show himself brave and patient and cheerful. He was strong,
and hardened to fatigue by the toils of the past winter. Surely if
a delicate little creature like Clava could live through the long
journey, there could not be anything very dreadful for boys like
Sergius and himself.
But he felt grieved when his thoughts reverted to Father Cyril; and
he began to realise that he might get into trouble as soon as it was
discovered that little Clava had been stolen away. Michael had written
a letter, which he had left on Clava's bed, imploring Father Cyril, for
God's sake, not to have the child pursued and claimed; begging him not
to betray them to Okhrim the Starosta, or to the police who were to
convey the women and children to Kovylsk. If the child was taken away
again, Tatiania would go mad; and nobody could say what severe measures
might be taken against Sergius and himself. Michael felt tolerably sure
Father Cyril would grant his petition, even at the risk of trouble to
himself.
When they were about half-way across the steppe, Paraska produced a
leather bag out of her pocket, and addressed Michael with tears in her
eyes, which were red and sunken with much weeping.
"Michael," she said, "going into exile wants all the money you can get.
I've been saving every kopek I could to go some day to my poor husband
Denim. I forsook him for the sake of my little boys. Take the money;
for there are many of you, and only one of me; and I fear I shall never
save enough."
"But, Paraska," he answered, "I think you can get leave to join your
husband, if you ask the governor. You might have come with us, if you
were willing to give up all hope of finding your children."
"Oh, why didn't I know?" she cried. "I shall never find my boys! I'll
come after you, if that's true, Michael. You'll see Demyan first; tell
him I'm coming soon."
They reached Kovylsk some hours before the arrival of the rough carts
bringing the women and children. Michael drove to the house of a
well-to-do tradesmen, Orthodox himself, but kindly disposed towards the
Stundists, as his wife was secretly a member of the persecuted sect.
He undertook to get Clava smuggled into the prison the next morning,
in time to pass out with the other families. Khariton had given her
name with those of Sergius and Marfa, and it was already entered on
the convoy-list; so no question would be raised on that account. He
promised also to look after Paraska, and get permission for her to join
the next exile party; and f that could not be done, to find work for
her. In Kovylsk it was much easier to escape the notice of the priests
than in the villages; although the archbishop and the consistory were
there.
CHAPTER XVII
FATHER CYRIL'S LETTER
MICHAEL lingered about the prison behind whose walls his father was
confined, until the carts came in carrying his neighbours and their
scanty possessions; for the free exiles were limited in the quantity of
baggage they might take. They were to be lodged for the night in the
city hospital, as the prison was already overcrowded. This would make
it quite easy to restore little Clava to her mother at once; and when
Tatiania cast an anxious glance at him, he nodded back with a smile.
The weary, worn-out women, exhausted with emotion, alighted from the
springless carts, which had jolted heavily and slowly along the muddy,
ill-made roads. Sergius came up to him, and clasped his hands warmly;
and Michael felt a paper pressed into his own. As soon as the party had
entered the hospital, he hurried back to Markovin's house, where he was
to pass the night. He was too much afraid of spies to venture to open
it before. It was a letter from Father Cyril.
"MY SONS, MICHAEL AND SERGIUS,"—it ran—"I saw you last night taking
away little Clava, but my heart forbade me to prevent it. I prayed
to my God and your God, my Father and your Father, to bless you! For
whosoever is to blame, it is not you. You put your parents before the
priests; and this is the law both of nature and of God. Love your
parents: honour, obey, and cherish them. God gave them to you, and you
to them; and no man can break that bond. You are about to face an army
of difficulties and sorrows, but remember! You can never go where God
is not! I give you two verses to think of daily, 'If I go down into
hell, Thou art there,' and, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me: Thy rod
and Thy staff, they comfort me.' Death and hell are filled with the
presence of God. Tell your father again, Michael, that Velia shall be
as my own daughter. Kiss little Clava for me—the dear child!
"I feel myself, though you acknowledge it not, your father in Christ."
Michael kissed this letter. And resting his forehead on the hands that
enfolded it, he thought with love and gratitude of Father Cyril. Oh, if
all Batoushkas had only been like him! Then his father and the Stundist
brethren would never have been driven to leave the Orthodox Church.
The boy did not yet know how deeply rooted were the principles which
separated his people from a State religion. He was, however, keenly
awake to the danger there would be to Father Cyril if such a letter was
found in his handwriting. He set himself to learn it by heart; and when
he was satisfied that he knew and would remember every word of it, he
lit a match, and held the burning paper in his fingers till they were
almost scorched, taking care that no vestige of the writing should
remain.
Markovin looked on with nods of understanding and approval. "A wise
lad! A prudent lad!" he murmured. "His head is screwed on right. I'd
trust him with a secret."
The next two days Michael drove alone along the route he and his father
had traversed on his return from Scotland. He was to join the band of
convicts and free exiles at the same station; and in the meanwhile
he was charged by his father with the commission to deliver up the
funds of the churches in his district to the man who had been elected
presbyter in the place of Alexis Ivanoff.
Michael had besides to carry sundry messages from the Stundists in
Kovylsk to the little congregations dwelling in scattered villages. It
was considered safer to employ a boy than a man; and every precaution
was necessary not to arouse suspicion. He reached the station where he
was to join the convict party about an hour before the train was due;
for the first few stages were to be taken in an ordinary train, though
in special carting.
Michael lingered about the station-yard, anxiously looking out for the
first indication of the approach oft the prisoners. The stationmaster
was raging about the unpunctuality of the prison-convoy. In a siding
stood a small number of comfortless carriages, little better than
cattle trucks, but with benches and a roof. These were set apart for
the exiles.
At last a confused sound was heard in the distance, which by and by
came more clearly to the ear as the clanking of chains, the harsh
creaking of cart-wheels, the tramp of horses' hoofs, and the cracking
of whips. It was a sound to which Michael was to grow familiar, but now
it seemed to jar through all his being. Both mind and body were shocked
by it; and to the last day of his march with the prisoners the ominous
discord made him shiver.
For the last few miles the prisoners had been made to march at a rapid
rate, as the convoy feared to be too late for the train. They were
driven like cattle into the yard, with oaths and blows, almost running,
notwithstanding their heavy leg-chains. They were chained two and
two together, which added greatly to the difficulty of marching, and
even the strongest among them came in breathless and exhausted. Those
prisoners who had been confined for some months in narrow cells were
half fainting.
There were nearly two hundred convicts, all dressed alike in long grey
overcoats. Their heads were closely shaved on one side, looking bare
and blue; whilst on the other side the hair, grown long in prison,
fell in a tangled mass over the ear. Michael could not for some time
recognise his father, whom he had not seen since last autumn. At last
he saw a gaunt, haggard man, in a filthy shirt, and trousers of coarse
grey linen, limping painfully beside a vicious and brutal-looking
criminal. This man smiled at him with a noble serenity in his eyes, and
with a sharp cry of agony, Michael pushed his way through the jostling
crowd, and flung his arms round his father's neck.
"Father!" he cried. "Father!"
But before his father could speak, the convict to whom Alexis was
chained pulled him forward with a jerk and an oath. The waggons set
apart for the exiles were rapidly filling up, and he, an old criminal,
knew they must make haste if they wished to secure a seat for the night.
Khariton Kondraty was close behind, with his wife and children marching
beside him; all of them worn-out and footsore, for they had walked
twenty miles since morning, and for the last hour they had been almost
running. But there was no time to linger, the waggons were being
crammed with women and children and their bundles, amid calls and cries
and an uproar of voices. Sergius was anxious to prevent his mother and
sisters being separated from himself.
Michael soon found his hands full in helping his old neighbours from
Knishi, lifting the young children into the different compartments,
and looking after their baggage. Some of the strangers who were
accompanying their convict husbands into exile were willing enough to
lose their children for the night, which was rapidly closing in. The
waggon was so overcrowded that many of the children sat on the floor;
and there was no room for Michael and Sergius except standing against
the doors, which were now locked and guarded by the soldiers of the
convoy-guard.
Tatiania was in a corner beside the boys, with little Clava on her lap,
and Marfa squeezed closely to her side.
Before the long dark night was over, Michael thanked God fervently that
Velia was not there. For all night long, as the train sped through
the level plains, there was mingled with the rumbling of the wheels,
and the throbbing of the engine, the wailing of children and the loud
hysterical sobbing of women, rising now and then to despairing shrieks.
Tatiania, who was always an emotional woman, broke down completely,
and wept till she was quite exhausted. Marfa took little Clava on to
her lap, and sang soothing songs to her. But they could do nothing for
Tatiania, only Sergius looked down on his mother with unutterable pity
for her in his heart.
But it was not the dark night only, it was the long day that followed,
and succeeding days and nights, night and day. They had some hundreds
of miles to travel before they could reach the nearest station on
the Volga, where they would exchange the convict-train for the
convict-barge. The ceaseless motion of the rumbling train became a
positive torture to the cramped bodies, which had no space for moving.
They escaped the torment of extreme heat or excessive cold, for it
was the pleasant spring-tide, and on every side the sweet wind blew
in upon them, carrying away the foul air, which must have collected
in closed carriages. Twice a day the train was stopped for necessary
refreshment, when they could stretch their stiffened and weary limbs.
But the families could hold no intercourse with the convicts, who were
carefully guarded by the convoy to prevent any attempts at escape.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE FORWARDING PRISON
AT last they reached the forwarding prison, where they had to await
the arrival of the convict-barge which was to take them up the Volga.
Here the fathers were to join their families, and occupy the family
kamera, or ward set apart for those prisoners whose wives had chosen
to accompany them into exile. Through filthy corridors, the women and
children were conducted to a still more filthy kamera. It was a long
and narrow room, with two windows which would not open. No furniture
was in it, except two parallel wooden platforms, each about twelve feet
wide, raised a few inches in the middle, thus giving to them sloping
sides. This was to be their bed, where the whole party was to lie as
closely packed as possible, with heads touching one another in the
middle, from the opposite slopes. There were no pillows, no mattresses,
no bed-clothing of any kind. Russian peasants are a hardy race, not
accustomed to comforts, but this absolute bareness filled the women
with dismay for themselves and their children. Every limb, every bone,
every muscle was aching from their long journey, and these bare planks
formed their only resting-place. There was not even a bench for them to
sit down upon.
Michael found Katerina, the young mother, sobbing bitterly over her
baby.
"What is the matter, Katerina?" he asked pityingly.
"Look at it!" she cried, putting the baby in his arms. "I haven't been
able to wash it for five days. And oh, Michael, it's covered with
horrid things, and so am I."
The tiny creature's skin was blotched and smeared, and its little face
was terribly disfigured. Michael could hardly find voice to comfort
Katerina.
"It will be better now," he said at last. "One of the convoy men told
me we were sure to stay here five days or a week. We shall have time to
rest. And, Katerina dear, God knows all about it."
"Does He?" she asked doubtingly.
But before he could answer the prisoners came in. Michael flew to
his father and flung his arms round his neck, holding him in a close
embrace; for he could not bear yet to look into his dear, disfigured
face. Khariton met his wife and children in speechless delight, too
happy to find even words of endearment. Michael saw Katerina hanging on
her young husband's arm, no longer sobbing. All the Stundists had their
heads half shaved, like the worst criminals. Sergius and Marfa turned
their eyes away from their father's grief-worn face, but Tatiania
kissed the poor dishonoured head tenderly.
"We're all together, Khariton!" she cried. "Not one of us is missing.
If we all get through to the end, we shall have a home again."
"If God wills it!" said Khariton, taking little Clava into his arms.
Marfa ventured to look at her father, and stole to his side, though
she said nothing. They felt happier than they could have imagined it
possible to be a few hours before. The cramped limbs and aching heads
were almost forgotten. They were together again, with no fear of
separation in the future.
Alexis and Michael sat hand in hand on the foot of the
sleeping-platform, not able to utter more than a few disjointed
sentences. Alexis had been almost utterly cast down by the discovery of
the clean sweep which had been made of the Stundists in Knishi. They
were all here, with the exception of Nicolas the renegade, and the
children who had been taken from their parents to be brought up in the
Orthodox Church. Whether they were all to be sent to the same place of
exile as himself, or scattered hither and thither in Siberia, he did
not know. Just now he was as much worn-out in mind as in body, and he
could hardly think of his fellow-prisoners. He could only think feebly
of God. From time to time, he muttered absently, "'Persecuted, but not
forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.'"
Michael sat beside him, stiff and weary in body, but with his mind in a
tumult. This going into exile, on étape, was very different from what
he had imagined. It had seemed beforehand a much lighter experience,
mingled indeed with some elements of adventures and pleasures in the
long march. But to be pent up in railway waggons like cattle trucks,
and be conveyed like cattle from place to place, was quite a different
thing. The cries of little children, the wailing of babies, the sobs
and prayers and curses of women during the long journey, had entered
like iron into his very soul. Hunger and thirst, plank beds and bitter
cold, he had been prepared for, but not for the degradation and the
untold misery and the wickedness that surrounded him. His father was
no longer chained to the brutal murderer who had been his comrade on
the march from Kovylsk, for that man's family had abandoned him. But
there were men and boys in the kamera so evil and depraved that they
did not open their lips without uttering words so vile as to appal him.
How could they hinder the girls and children from hearing the common
conversation around them? He thanked God again that Velia was not there.
There were women there of the lowest class, degraded to the deepest
corruption, not worthy of the name of women. In the corner near
Katerina and Tatiania, a young lady sat on the edge of the nari, gazing
round with terrified eyes. She was a political prisoner, going into
exile as a suspected person. Children of all ages crawled about the
filthy floor. There was still light enough to see them—unwashed, weary
little ones, with matted hair hanging about their begrimed faces.
There had been no chance of washing for any of them; and some of these
children were too much accustomed to such a condition to be consciously
affected by it. But the Stundists were used to cleanliness, and they
suffered from enforced defilement. They felt degraded and injured
by it. Clava's sweet little face was soiled with dust and tears.
Michael shook himself as if in a rage, as he felt the indescribable
offensiveness of the surroundings.
Was it possible the archbishop could think he was doing God service
by dooming men and women and children to such a state of misery?
Father Cyril said the archbishop was an eminent servant of the Lord
Jesus Christ, and only desired their salvation. It could not be true.
Either he was quite ignorant of what was being done in his name, or
he belonged to the synagogue of Satan—that terrible congregation of
devil-worshippers, the very name of which made him shudder when he read
the words, "'Behold, I will make them of the synagogue of Satan, which
say they are Jews, and are not, but do lie.'"
His father was falling into a troubled sleep beside him, and Michael
heard him muttering in an undertone, "'My God! My God!'" It was the
only prayer his weary, worn-out brain could form. Michael bent over him
and kissed his shaven head reverently.
CHAPTER XIX
THE GREAT SIBERIAN ROAD
THE band of exiles had several days' rest before the convict-barge
which was to carry them up the Volga returned. This gave them all
time to recover from their terrible railway journey. The women washed
and mended the clothes. But there was no decent privacy. In the
family kameras men and boys were confined with women and girls in an
indiscriminate herding together. More than anything else, worse than
the filth and the vermin about them, the modest Stundist women felt
this indecent exposure. But there was no help for it. They did not even
dare to hold themselves altogether aloof from the coarse, wretched
women who were forced upon their companionship.
Alexis and Khariton urged them to do any little act of kindness in
their power both to women and children. They themselves sought to gain
an influence over the men; they talked to them, wrote letters for them,
and made many efforts to interest them and wile away the tedious hours
of idleness. The days dragged heavily along, and most of the men spent
them in gambling and quarrelling.
Over the big boys and girls, Michael, Sergius, and Marfa soon exercised
a good influence. Michael especially could interest them by long
stories of his voyage out to Scotland and his twelve months' sojourn
there. He could talk for hours of that foreign country; and the boys
squatted round him in the prison-yard, listening with breathless
attention to his tales of his brave forefathers, the Covenanters, their
hairbreadth escapes and courageous deaths.
So the days passed by, spent altogether out of doors in an enclosed
yard with high palisadings, which shut out all glimpses of the world
outside, excepting the blue sky overhead. But every night they had to
herd in the unventilated kamera, reeking with foul air, and swarming
with vermin. It was better at night than in the morning, for the open
door had admitted some fresh air. But after the kamera had been closed
an hour or two, the atmosphere was poisonous. This misery would follow
them all along the route to the very end.
At last the convict-barge arrived, and the men were separated from the
women and children. More convicts joined the band from Kovylsk, and
there was much overcrowding. But this was nothing like as bad as it
would be later in the year, when the bands of exiles would be larger.
There was no yard here to pass the days in. Instead were two big cages
of strong bars, in which the exiles were able to stand upright, though
it was almost impossible to move easily about. In the railway waggons
they had been compelled to sit, and could not stand. Here they were
compelled to stand, and could not sit. But unless they stayed in the
foul atmosphere of the cabins below, which no fresh air could enter,
they must stand all day long, closely packed in these cages, more like
wild beasts than human beings.
It was early summer. Day after day—the sun shining joyously on the
rejoicing earth; the happy, free peasants pausing at their labour on
the banks of the river to watch the convict-barge go by; the merry
sound of church bells ringing—the laughter of girls at the washing
platforms—the singing of the larks and the calling of the cuckoo
filling the air—day after day, through all this gladness, the terrible
load of untold misery sailed up the Volga. Yet this was only one
amongst many that would follow in their wake until the winter came. But
the day was better far than the night, when they were fastened down
below, and the atmosphere in the cabin grew so heavy and polluted they
could hardly breathe it.
They left the barge, as they had left the train, with the sense of
relief which any change in misery brings. There was a short journey
by railway again; and then, because there had been a landslip on the
line farther on, it was decided that the convoy should take the old
route along the Great Siberian Road. The exiles left the train with
the idea that the worst lay behind them. For now they would be able to
move freely; they would live in the open air, and at present the early
summer was full of sweetness and beauty.
The country through which they passed was carpeted with gay flowers,
and the road led through meadows and forests, along valleys, and
over the flanks of mountains. Here and there were village streets
stretching for a mile or two along the sides of the road. Cattle were
browsing on the common pastureland, and corn was shooting up rapidly
under the sunshine, which was growing hotter every day. The cloudless
sky above them, and the sweet fresh air breathing softly about them,
revived the spirits of Michael and Sergius. This was something like
what they had anticipated. Little Clava, too, regained her merry ways
in some measure, as the children were free to run where they chose,
and pick the flowers, provided they kept up with the convoy. Sometimes
the convoy-guards were kindly and indulgent, but when the guards were
changed they proved often to be impatient and even brutal men. But as
the march was a steady one, and about twenty miles a day, there was not
much time for rambling among the flowers, and it was forbidden to lag
behind. There were rough, springless carts for carrying the children
under twelve, as well as the men and women who were too ill to walk.
But little Clava did not ride in the cart. Michael and Sergius said
they would carry her on their backs whenever she was tired, along the
Great Siberian Road. Tatiania was only too glad to keep her darling by
her side.
But Marfa was suffering in silence more than any of them suspected. She
had spent the winter indoors with her mother, who would not let her out
of her sight, and this confinement had sapped her strength before she
set out on this sorrowful journey. The scenes she had passed through,
of which she had formed even less idea than Michael and Sergius, had
given her a more severe mental shock than they had felt. Everything had
revolted her. But above all, the infamous and abandoned men and women
with whom she had been brought into close contact were insufferably
loathsome to her. She felt herself in a hellish atmosphere, amid a
band of monsters, from whom she could not escape. Her mind as well as
her body was ailing. Though she was not separated from her family, an
indescribable home-sickness took possession of her. She longed with a
hopeless longing to see once more her old home at Knishi.
Marfa kept her grief, which was gnawing at her heart, to herself. But
the home-sickness grew greater as every day took her farther away from
her birthplace. They had not yet passed the boundary which separates
Russia from Siberia. The exiles were still in their native land. But
presently they reached the frontier. A midday halt was called around a
square stone pillar, about twice the height of a man, on one side of
which lay Russia, and on the other Siberia. It was half-way between the
last Russian étape and the first Siberian one; and the cavalcade, with
its convoy-guard, its chained prisoners, its carts laden with children
and invalids, and its families of free exiles, rested for a short time
at this place of farewell.
The midday halt was usually a time of relief and comparative enjoyment.
But to-day there was a universal outburst of grief. Even the most
brutal and most stupid of the criminals wept at the thought of quitting
Russia—their fatherland. Scarcely one among them had ever trodden a
foreign soil. Most of the women knelt down, with sobs and prayers. The
Stundists stood bareheaded, looking away from the boundary posts to the
western land, and taking a last submissive gaze at the dear country
they were leaving for conscience' sake. Michael and Sergius, linked arm
in arm, leaned sorrowfully against the pillar. Suddenly a wild shriek
rang through the sobs and groans of the crowd, and looking round they
saw Marfa falling forward against the foot of the pillar, close to the
spot where they were standing.
She was quite insensible when they lifted her up. As soon as the order
to march forward was given, they carried her to one of the rude carts,
at the bottom of which she lay on a little straw, and Tatiania obtained
permission to go with her. She was not quite conscious when they
reached the étape in the evening. The family kamera was overcrowded as
usual, and all they could do for Marfa was to lay her on the hard, bare
planks of the sleeping-platform. All night did Khariton and Tatiania
watch waking by their delirious child, able to do nothing for her, and
only longing for the return of daylight. Fortunately the nights were
short, and a dim dawn soon shone through the dirty casements of the
étape.
CHAPTER XX
SERGIUS
FOR the first time in his life, Sergius began to realise how much his
sister Marfa was to him. She had always been so quiet and reserved, so
passive, that she had seemed almost a cipher in the family. Tatiania,
his mother, with her lively, impulsive temperament, and Clava, with
her coaxing, merry ways, had nearly engrossed his own and his father's
regard. None of them had paid much attention to Marfa, either in their
home in Knishi or during the long journey which already separated them
from it by many hundreds of miles.
But Marfa was no cipher. She was a thoughtful, pensive girl, with very
limited powers of putting her inmost thoughts into speech. Her mother
was so fluent that she was reduced to silence; there was no need for
her to speak. At home she had often done all the housework diligently
and steadily, whilst her mother visited the neighbours, or read the
Bible sitting close to the warm stove. It was taken for granted that
Marfa liked work better than reading. A strong sense of duty possessed
her, strengthened by a constant study of the little New Testament which
her father had given to her as soon as she could read, and which she
always carried in her pocket. Perhaps more than any other woman or girl
among the exiled Stundists, Marfa understood why they were banished
from their native country.
What she suffered when she bade farewell to the home of her childhood,
no one knew but herself. Not a murmur had escaped her quiet lips.
Through the wretched railway journey, and the still more trying voyage
for many days in the crowded convict-barge, she had not uttered a
word of complaint. Often she had taken little Clava from her mother's
arms, when Tatiania was moaning and praying alternately, and the girl
of thirteen would nurse the child of seven until her young limbs grew
stiff and ached with pain. The long and bitter winter preceding their
exile, followed by the great strain upon her strength during the
journey, had at length broken down her silent courage and endurance.
The shock of emotion caused by passing the boundary, and witnessing the
uncontrollable distress of the whole band of convicts and exiles, had
been the last blow on her breaking heart.
The next morning Marfa was laid in one of the telegas which carried
those unable to walk, and the march set out again. There were no seats
in these rough, springless carts, and only a thin sprinkling of hay was
laid in the bottom of each. Three women lay or crouched beside her. In
front of the telegas went a convoy of soldiers, and behind them was
the band of chained convicts, shuffling along in low shoes, with their
heavy leg-fetters weighing upon them, and now and then clanging against
their ankles. Behind the telegas came the baggage-waggons, followed by
the free exiles, and the women and the children over twelve years of
age who were following their husbands and fathers. After these was a
rear-guard of soldiers.
It was full summer now. The sun beat upon the dried-up road, and the
dust lay inches thick. The long procession numbered hundreds, and at
every footfall the fine, pulverised earth rose in quantities, until
the whole cavalcade was almost hidden in a cloud of yellow dust,
suffocating to all who breathed it, but to those who were ill, this
atmosphere was almost deadly.
Marfa lay along the bottom of the narrow telega, with her head on the
lap of a convict who was suffering from asthma, and who could only
breathe at all when sitting upright. The woman was gentle and kindly,
but there was no escape from the terrible jolting of the springless
cart, and the dust-laden air which set the asthmatic convict coughing,
and shook her whole body. Marfa looked up into her face pitifully, but
what could she do and say to comfort the poor woman? Fever was burning
in all her veins, and the heat of the sultry sun seemed to scorch every
nerve. She was conscious now, and alive to all the anguish of her
position. But her weary brain was unable to recall some memory which
haunted it.
"Who was it said, 'I thirst'?" she asked, looking up into the face
leaning over her, in an interval of rest from the racking cough.
"I don't know, dear," answered the woman; "nobody in particular. We all
say it."
"Living waters!" murmured Marfa. "Somewhere there are living waters."
"I wish they were here," said the woman.
"In the cup of salvation," whispered Marfa to herself.
The woman shook her head, smiling bitterly.
When the midday halt was called, Sergius and Michael rushed to the
telega, followed more slowly by Tatiania and little Clava. But Marfa
did not recognise them. She was lying quietly, however, and the
friendly convict was sitting in a cramped position to give her more
room. They bought some tepid water from the peasants who brought
provisions for sale, and she drank a little, but she could eat nothing.
"What can we do?" cried Tatiania, wringing her hands. Whilst little
Clava climbed into the cart, and crept close to Marfa's side.
"Nothing, nothing!" replied the convict sadly. "We have days to travel
yet before we reach any hospital. If I were her mother, I'd pray God
night and day to take her to Himself soon, rather than leave her alone
in a prison hospital. Soon! O Mother of God! Soon! This misery is more
than a child can bear."
The halt came to an end too quickly, and clouds of dust rose again,
hanging over and travelling along with the melancholy procession.
Michael and Sergius fell back to their own places, panting with the
intense heat and suffocating air. But what was their suffering compared
with that of the women and children, especially those who were ill like
Marfa!
"Michael," said Sergius, "do you know how far we have to march like
this?"
"More than two thousand miles," answered Michael; "father told me
last night, when I was thinking of Marfa. We are to go at a rate of
about one hundred miles in six days. We can't get to the end before
next February, or perhaps March, if the winter is a bad one and we are
detained on the road."
"Marfa can never live through that!" exclaimed Sergius.
"No," replied Michael.
"Nor little Clava," Sergius continued; "she's too young and too tender!
Oh, Michael! If we'd only left her with Father Cyril!"
"But you forget," said Michael, "your mother refused to come without
her."
They walked on in silence for a few minutes; and then Sergius spoke
under his breath, with a faltering voice.
"Michael," he said, "I feel it would do me good to curse the archbishop
and the consistory."
"So do I!" exclaimed Michael.
The two boys halted, gazing into each other's faces, till a sharp cry
of command brought them back to recollection.
"No, no! It would grieve my father!" said Michael.
"And mine!" Sergius added.
Again they marched on silently, each pondering in his own heart the
temptation that had just assailed them.
"You could not have stayed behind in Knishi," said Michael at last;
"you must have starved, all of you, or given up your religion. Even if
we all die, it will be better than that."
"Yes," answered Sergius; "father was reading to us last night, and he
made me learn the verses. I was glad to learn them, for the Apostle
Paul said them about himself: 'Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was
I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in
the deep; in journeyings often, perils of waters, perils of robbers,
perils by my own countrymen, perils by the heathen, perils in the city,
perils in the wilderness, perils among false brethren; in weariness
and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings
often, in cold and nakedness!' We've suffered nothing like that yet,
Michael."
"No, but we may do, if we live to be as old as he was," said Michael.
"And oh," continued Sergius, with a sob, "the Apostle Paul hadn't got
his mother and his little sisters with him!"
CHAPTER XXI
MARFA'S FUNERAL
DAY after day passed by. The burning sun beat down upon the exiles,
scorching their skin and almost blinding their eyes. The fettered
convicts could hardly drag their feet along the hot dust; and the women
lagged behind in a straggling line. The convoy-guards grew irritable,
and more brutal than in milder weather. They too suffered, but there
was no despair added to their sufferings. They had only certain stages
to travel, and then they would hand over their charge to a fresh
captain and guard.
Every third day there was a respite. After two days' march came a day
of rest. Then the sick people were delivered from the choking dust and
rough jolting of the telegas. Marfa could lie during the day out of
doors under the shadow of the prison walls, with all her friends about
her. They listened to her plaintive wanderings in delirium, now and
then catching a gleam of recognition or a word or two of intelligence.
But the fever was high, and there was no alleviation for it. Anna
Grigorovna, the friendly convict, did her utmost to comfort Tatiania,
and reconcile her to Marfa's death. But she refused all consolation.
Anna had no children, and knew nothing of a mother's heart. If only
she could sit beside her dying girl, she would be satisfied. But
that they all knew it was utterly useless to ask. The telegas were
already overladen, and some of the children were carried on the
baggage-waggons. Tatiania was in fair health, and quite able to walk.
"Even if I could walk," said Anna, "they would not let me give up my
place to you."
She was dying slowly of consumption, and knew she must be left behind
in one of the few prison hospitals along the Great Siberian Road.
Though she dreaded the place, she was longing for the rest she would
find there, if the death she prayed for did not overtake her before
they reached it. She longed to die before she was parted from this
strange little band of Stundists, whose company she had sought because
of their quiet and decent ways. What astonished her was that not one
among them murmured at their hard lot—excepting Tatiania, who only
lamented not being able to ride with her dying girl in the telega. For
that Marfa would die there was no shadow of a doubt.
Khariton prayed in his inmost heart that death would come soon, but
Tatiania could not bring herself even to say, "God's will be done!"
Two or three children had perished already on the route, from the foul
air and from the utter impossibility of cleanliness. None of them
were Stundists' children; and their mothers had grown apathetic with
despair, and were almost glad to be rid of a charge which became every
day more and more burdensome.
But Marfa had been an unfailing, untiring help, not a burden. What
should they do without her? To see her lying in the creaking, jolting
telega, with the fierce sun smiting her, was maddening to her mother.
They came at length to the last stage before they could reach a
hospital. Two days' march would bring them to it, and there they must
leave Marfa and the friendly convict Anna. Every one of the little
band of Stundists dreaded the day when Khariton and Tatiania must bid
farewell for ever to their daughter, and abandon her to a lonely death.
Khariton marched all day with bowed-down head and speechless lips.
Tatiania wept bitter tears. Sergius and Michael walked side by side,
now and then clasping one another's hands, but unable to talk together,
as they usually did. Even little Clava, whom they carried by turns, was
very quiet and languid, as if she understood their sorrow.
Marfa was carried into the overcrowded kamera, unventilated, and
reeking with foul air, and heated with the sultry sun which had beaten
upon the low roof all day. The convoy captain was a humane man, and
allowed some of the exiles to sleep outside on the ground of the
prison-yard. But within the kameras the men and women could hardly
breathe; and the dying girl lay panting on the plank sleeping-platform.
But even that was comfort compared with the jolting telega. Her mother
lay beside her, and little Clava crept close to her on the other side.
Her father and Alexis, Sergius, and Michael stood near; and in that
corner of the kamera a comparative stillness prevailed; for their
fellow-exiles had learned to respect the Stundists. And one of them was
dying.
"The end is coming, thank God!" said Anna, turning away and leaving
Marfa alone with her own people.
She was quite conscious now, but too weak to lift her hand or turn her
head towards her mother, whose sobs filled her dying ear. She could see
them who stood at her feet, and a very peaceful smile came over her
wasted face.
"Father," she said faintly, "tell mother I'm really going home."
"I'm here, my darling!" sobbed Tatiania, putting her arm across her.
"Home you know," she repeated; "not to Knishi—but to be with the Lord.
He says, 'To-day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.' It's better than
living."
She could hardly gasp out the words, but her voice was clear, and they
heard her distinctly amid all the din and racket of the crowded kamera.
Once more she smiled very peacefully upon them, her eyes resting upon
each one with a look of recognition.
"You will all come," she murmured; "I shall be looking out for you."
She closed her tired eyelids, and seemed to fall asleep in her mother's
arms. All night she lay there, breathing softly, but as the first rays
of light dawned, they saw her spirit pass away in peaceful silence.
It was the third day, the day for resting twenty-four hours, and so
they were able to see the body laid decently away in the grave. The
cemetery of the little Siberian village lay near the étape, and all the
free exiles were at liberty to go to it, though none of the men, being
convicts, could attend Marfa's funeral. All the Stundist women and
children went.
The open plain surrounding the cemetery was bright with flowers, and
the hum of bees filled the air. It was too hot for the birds to sing.
Many of the graves had black crosses at the head, and were fenced
in by gaily-coloured rails. The letters I.H.S. were painted on one
of the arms of the crosses, and on some of them there was a rude
representation in white paint of the Lord crucified.
As yet, in this far distant and isolated village, with leagues of
uninhabited country surrounding it, there was no inclination to refuse
burial to a Stundist. The old parish priest was willing, so that he
got his dues, to let them bury their dead as they pleased. In the case
of paupers, such as this dead exile must be, it was usual to let the
relatives dig the grave and lay the body in it; and in course of time,
when a sufficient number were interred, the funeral service was read
over all the graves together. Michael and Sergius dug Marfa's grave.
The women and children stood round the grave in silence, whilst the
boys lowered the rude coffin into it. They were all still alive, those
who had left Knishi, but they were emaciated and broken down, the
shadows of their former selves. Katerina carried her baby in her arms,
but the tiny face that looked up at her was starved and shrivelled,
with dull, solemn eyes, and a tremulous, unsatisfied movement on the
lips that would never learn to speak. Little Clava was thin and wasted,
and every day made her a lighter weight for Michael and Sergius to
carry across Siberia.
There was no man to pray, but Matrona stood at the head of the grave,
and read, in a voice faltering with old age and pity, these words—
"And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which
are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they?
"And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are
they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes,
and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and
night in His temple; and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell
among them.
"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the
sun light on them, nor any heat.
"For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and
shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes."
So they buried Marfa thousands of miles away from her beloved home.
She who had never been separated from her own people for a single day,
was to lie in a grave that not one of them could visit and weep over.
To-morrow they would be already miles away from this sacred spot, and
the end of their journey would place still more thousands of miles
between them and the lonely grave.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PRISON HOSPITAL
TWO days later the exiles reached the city prison, larger than the
roadside étapes, which possessed a hospital. Anna Grigorovna had been
looking forward eagerly to the hour when she would be delivered from
the suffocating dust, the burning sun, and the jolting cart, and lie
down in a quiet cot in a hospital ward, which she would never leave
again. She had kept herself aloof from her fellow-convicts, and there
would be no painful last farewells.
The last evening, when they reached the half-way étape, she sought
the company of the Stundists. It had become the custom, as far as
possible, for the better class of exiles to keep together in the
kameras, avoiding the drunken and more degraded convicts. The Stundist
men alone mingled freely with them, seeking earnestly any opportunity
of lifting them a little out of the deep mire of their debasement. The
band of exiles had been so long together, that they knew one another
as intimately as the inhabitants of the same village. On the whole,
the Stundists, both men and women, were regarded favourably by their
fellow-exiles, to whom they were always ready to render any kindness.
Anna Grigorovna, who had seldom spoken to anyone, seemed to-night
anxious to talk with the kindly comrades who must leave her for ever
to-morrow. She sat on the edge of the nari, where Tatiania was lying
speechless and tearless, and listened attentively to Alexis as he
explained to her the simple creed of his sect.
"It is very beautiful," she said, with a sigh; "you believe that in
very truth Jesus Christ, being equal with God, left His throne in
heaven and came down to this earth, becoming a poor working-man, and
dying a shameful death for our sakes. So He sacrificed all for our
salvation."
"We believe it," said Alexis; and Khariton bowed his head in assent.
Tatiania lifted up her trembling hand; and Michael and Sergius cried,
"Yes, we believe it!"
"You believe," she went on, "that He who was crucified Himself knows
all your sorrows and sufferings;—nay! I've heard you say He is here,
seeing all and knowing all."
"Yes," answered Alexis; "because He said, 'Lo, I am with you alway,
even unto the end of the world.'"
"You believe," she continued, "that without any priest, or any form of
prayer, you may ask God Almighty for all you want, as a child asks his
father."
"We believe it," replied Alexis, "but with this reservation, that what
we ask is in accord with His will. A child may ask for a scorpion or
for a burning coal."
"Would to God I could believe as you do!" said Anna, with a sob. "Do
you know that I, too, have sacrificed all, and given up my life for the
sake of the people?"
"We know it," answered Alexis; "and God knows it. Be sure He who made
the greatest sacrifice of all will not overlook it. He is not far from
you, and you are drawing nigh to Him."
It was the evening of the next day when they reached the prison, where
there was a hospital. It stood in one corner of the high stockade which
enclosed all the prison buildings, a low-roofed kamera, very much like
the rest. There was to be the usual third days' halt here, and the next
morning the prison-yard was thronged with exiles. The men lounged under
the walls, smoking and gambling, whilst the women washed and mended,
or crouched on the ground gossiping. It was intensely hot again, and
all were glad to rest as quietly as possible. Before the day was over,
Michael and Sergius heard their names called in a shrill voice. A woman
was standing at the door of the hospital, and they ran to her.
"A convict who came in here last night wants to see you," she said,
looking with open admiration at the two sturdy, sunburnt boys; "she
says she is fond of boys, and I don't wonder at it. We don't see many
of your sort here."
They followed the woman into a filthy corridor, where the floor was
thickly covered with all kinds of sweepings and slops from the wards.
A noisome stench pervaded it, even worse than the foul air of the
kamera to which they were so well used. With the tainted atmosphere of
disease and rotting refuse was mingled the sickening odour of drugs and
liniments. Michael and Sergius could hardly breathe, but they followed
the woman in silence, keeping their lips closely shut.
But if the air was poisonous in the corridor, it was far worse in
the women's ward. There were a number of low, narrow cots, placed so
close together that there was barely room to pass between each pair of
them, and as the suffering women lay, they breathed and coughed into
each other's faces. But those who lay in the cots were well off, for
the dirty floor was strewn with wretched creatures wherever there was
sufficient space for them. These were packed as closely as the convicts
in the kameras, and could not stir without disturbing their companions
on either side. There was no ventilation except a few holes in the
walls, for the windows would not open, and the cots were ranged against
them. There was a dim light only, for the glass panes were thick with
dust, and had, moreover, a coat of white paint obscuring them. In the
grey gloom, surrounded by pallid and fevered faces, the boys were at a
loss to find Anna, until they heard the racking cough with which they
had grown familiar during Marfa's illness. They stepped carefully among
the crowd of sick folk.
Anna was stretched on the ground, almost under a cot. A thin straw
palliasse lay below her, but the sheet which had been thrown over
her was ragged and bloodstained. It was impossible for her to raise
herself, even when her throat and chest were most convulsed with
coughing. She was choking now; and Michael knelt beside her, and put
his arm under her head, until the paroxysm had passed away.
"This is hell!" she gasped, as soon as she could speak.
"Man makes it, not God!" cried Michael. Father Cyril's letter came
into his mind, and he said in a low voice, "'If I make my bed in hell,
Thou art there!'"
The dying woman looked up at him with anguish in her eyes.
"Thank God, Marfa died before we came here!" exclaimed Sergius, looking
round with horror at the agonised forms and distorted faces of the
women, whose mouths were open, gasping for breath in the suffocating
atmosphere, and whose staring, feverish eyes wandered hopelessly in
search of relief.
In a corner, on a layer of straw, five children were huddled together.
The eldest was about seven years old, the youngest about five months.
They were tossing to and fro, and wailing with the peculiarly piteous
cry of ailing children. Sergius went to them, and sat down on the floor
with the baby in his arms, after he had soothed the elder children, and
given each of them some tepid water to drink.
"Their crying maddens me," said Anna; "all night long they were
moaning, and I could do nothing for them, poor little creatures! We
were locked up all night, with no nurse to help any one of us. One of
the women died in the night, and lay there till the morning. Michael,
this is the worst hell of all! I prayed to God to let me die too, but
He did not hear me."
"He must have heard you," Michael answered, "because He is here."
"Not here! Not here!" cried Anna.
"I'm only a boy, and I hardly know how to say it," answered Michael,
"but if I was here, I'd rather think God was here too, knowing all
about me, and all I had to bear, than think that the devil was reigning
here, with nobody stronger than he was, like the Czar."
"But how can God let it be?" she asked.
"We don't know yet," replied Michael, looking round with appalled eyes,
"but this I do know, I'd rather be here than be one of the people who
send us here. God knows them too! Oh, I wish my father could come and
pray for you!"
"Do you pray for me," she said; "God will listen to an innocent soul
like yours. Beseech Him to let me die this minute! Beseech Him to send
the angel of death to sweep this place of all its misery. Let us all
die at once, and then something will be done. But we go one by one, and
nobody cares."
Her voice fell into sobs.
Michael was still kneeling beside her, and over him hung the yellow,
withered face of an old woman, in the cot above listening eagerly to
what was being said.
"I dare not ask God that," he answered; "our Lord does not teach us to
pray for things like that. He bade us say, 'Thy kingdom come. Thy will
be done.' I can say our Lord's Prayer for you."
"Say it," she whispered.
The boy's clear young voice sounded distinctly through the ward, as he
lifted up his head, and said "'Our Father!'"
The moans and cries ceased for the time, and pallid faces were turned
to him. Some of the parched lips murmured the familiar words, as
the women recalled the years when they were children, and said this
prayer at their mothers' sides, in the old church at home. For a
very brief space there was a lull in their misery—a moment or two of
forgetfulness. They too, even they, had a Father in heaven.
Anna lay passive, with tears stealing down her cheeks.
"That is good," she said, when the prayer was ended. "After all, I
shall soon know the great secret. Michael, I have a commission to
charge you with."
She begged him to let her friends know that she was dead, as soon as
he could, but not to pain them by details of her misery. He repeated
the address she gave to him, and called Sergius to commit it to memory.
Then Anna lifted up her feeble hand and touched his cheek.
"Kiss me!" she said. "I have a young brother Michael like you at
home. Oh, how he will miss me, and mourn for me! Kiss me, and bid me
good-bye."
CHAPTER XXIII
MONTH AFTER MONTH
A GREAT change came over Tatiania. Instead of being a woman of many
moods, she had now but one—an almost silent but peaceful resignation.
Day after day she paced silently along the hot and dusty road, with
downcast head, and feet that grew ever more languid. She never grumbled
at the heat and weariness, and she greeted Khariton, when he joined
her at the étapes in the evening, with a placid smile. To Sergius and
little Clava she was more tender than ever in their happy days at home.
For now she knew that neither she nor Clava could live through the
march that lay before them. In some roadside jail they must lie down to
die, and she began to long for the time to come.
With the rest of the Stundist band, the joy of martyrdom was constantly
growing and deepening. A sense of triumph filled their inmost souls.
They had proved to themselves, beyond a doubt, that their love for
Christ and truth was stronger than any other love. A secret peace,
passing all understanding, filled their minds. The hymns they sang
night and morning were full of an enthusiastic gladness. They chose
hymns of praise in preference to any others. Their voices were well
harmonised, and the melody of their hymn tunes attracted their
fellow-exiles. These, especially the women, sometimes joined in the
singing; and it was not often that the convoy-guard interfered with
them. The Stundists gave no trouble; on the contrary, they exercised a
wholesome influence over the whole company.
Little Clava was gradually losing all her frolicsome and merry ways,
and she became a lighter burden to the boys week after week. They had
never let her travel with the other little ones in a closely packed
telega, where they fought together, and cried and screamed all day long.
Michael and Sergius were saddened. The long march, which had now
lasted many weeks, was not without its charm for them. They did not
shrink from its hardships. True, they were often hungry and thirsty,
but that was the common lot of poor travellers. They were dirty and in
rags, that was little and inevitable. They marched barefoot, that was
their custom in the summer. They were quite prepared to endure greater
hardships than these. They were passing through strange scenery, which
had great charms for them. Now winding through the gloomy shades of
vast forests; then crossing steppes which seemed boundless; creeping
along the margin of swift rivers, and being rowed across them on rude
ferryboats; climbing up steep mountain-paths, and going down again into
beautiful valleys. They marched from twenty to twenty-five miles a
day; not often more quickly than at the rate of two miles an hour, on
account of the convicts burdened with leg-fetters, the heavy waggons,
and the women walking in the wake of the men. Ten or twelve hours a day
they were out in the open air, with the bright, though burning, blue of
the cloudless sky above them.
Michael and Sergius, hardy as young bears, enjoyed these long marches.
Besides all this, the enthusiasm of the Stundist band filled their
hearts. The sober triumph of the men rose to rapture in the boys.
Still, they could not shut their eyes to the grief and misery which
perpetually surrounded them. The faces of the exiles, burnt to
blackness by the sun, wore a look of stolid despair, into which
they had sunk after the first rage and anguish at their position
had subsided. Here was a small batch of human beings, some of them
dangerous criminals, cut off from all association with the outer world
by a living wall of armed soldiers, some of whom were irreclaimable
brutes. As they marched on, their living prison walls moved with them,
uttering stern threats and menacing oaths. Already each one knew all
his comrades, and all that those comrades chose to tell. A profound
and stupefying dulness fell upon them. Day after day they marched on
like men in a dream; the only break in the monotony being the change
of guards at various stages. To-day was like yesterday, and to-morrow
would be as to-day.
They knew, too, that, isolated and solitary as they were, there was
another band of banished men and women, precisely like themselves,
pacing the same road only a few days in advance; and that behind them,
week after week, hearts as heavy and hard as their own were beating
along the same dolorous way. For scores of years this sad procession
had been passing along the Great Siberian Road. They had left traces of
themselves, messages written on the dirty walls of the étapes, many of
which were undecipherable from age.
The boys' spirits could not fail to be touched by this apathy of
hopeless wretchedness. They could feel for it, though they did not feel
it themselves. What amazed them was that most of the exiles turned a
deaf ear to all the teaching of the Bible, which filled the Stundists
with divine courage and strength. They could not hear the heavenly
music or see the heavenly light which filled their own souls.
Yet a certain lethargy fell upon them. They walked for hours side
by side in silence, only now and then glancing sympathetically at
one another, as they took in turns the burden, alas! very light now,
of little Clava, who was growing smaller and weaker every day. She
scarcely ever set her foot to the ground now.
"What are you thinking of?" asked Sergius one day, after a long
silence. The jingle of the clanking chains and the creaking of the
cart-wheels had become insupportable to him.
"I began," answered Michael, "by wishing God would let me bear all
these troubles, and let the rest go free, but a voice in my heart said
to me that could not be, every man must bear his own burden. Then the
thought came to me, that was just what our Lord felt, when He looked
down from heaven, and saw all the misery and all the oppression under
the sun. So He came, and He did bear our griefs and carry our sorrows.
Then the same voice told me He was bearing them now, even in heaven, at
the right hand of God. Surely, if He shares our troubles, we can bear
them. We are following our Captain, and must be like brave soldiers,
fighting manfully under His banner."
"Yes," said Sergius, stepping out more energetically; "look at my
father and yours, Michael. Always same, brave and faithful. But my
mother! And little Clava! We can't expect them to feel like soldiers.
They feel the hardships worse than we do. Katerina's baby is dead; and
another baby died last night while were asleep. They have put it there,
in the baggage-waggon. Only the strongest children will reach the end
of the journey."
"Where will the other children go?" asked Clava, with her languid head
resting on his shoulder. "Where shall I go, Serge?"
Sergius could not speak, but Michael answered in a cheerful, reassuring
tone—
"Why, my little darling," he said, "you know they go to heaven, where
there are beautiful gardens, and happy places for little children to
live in. Marfa is there; and the Lord Jesus takes the little ones into
His arms, and wipes away all their tears, and there is no more crying
for ever and ever!"
"For ever and ever!" repeated the child, with a wan smile. "But,
Michael, do you hear the children crying in the telega? Why doesn't the
Lord Jesus take them all away into His beautiful garden, and keep them
there for ever and ever? Oh, Michael, I wish He would take me!"
"Do you want to go?" asked Michael.
"If father and mother and Serge and you could go too," she said
wistfully; "I'd be so alone by myself."
"But Marfa is there," Michael replied.
"Ah, Marfa! I forgot," she said, in a tone of content.
They plodded on in silence after this short conversation, until the
midday halt was called, when Michael carried little Clava to her
mother, and Sergius followed with their bag of coarse food, of which
neither Tatiania nor her child could eat much.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE EXILES' BEGGING SONG
SO the protracted, monotonous march went on; the only change, a change
of guards. Some of these made the life more wretched than others;
and now and then a captain would compel the whole cavalcade to make
a forced march in quicker time than usual, if business or pleasure
awaited him in the town they were approaching. Of the towns the exiles
saw nothing, but in the villages on their route they were allowed to
beg from the inhabitants; for the allowance of money made to each
person by the Government was a pitiful pittance, quite too little to
sustain life on the merest necessities.
As they drew near to a village, the chained prisoners let their fetters
clink and jingle as loudly as possible, to call attention to their
passing by. The shrill ring formed an accompaniment to the convicts'
begging song, which each man sang, not in unison, but in an almost
tuneless chant, which, however, had a heart-shaking modulation of its
own.
"Have pity on us, O our fathers!
Don't forgot the unwilling travellers,
Don't forgot the long-imprisoned.
Feed us, O our father!—Help us!
"Feed and help the poor and needy!
Have compassion, O our fathers!
Have compassion, O our mothers!
For the sake of Christ, have mercy
On the prisoners—the shut-up ones!
Behind walls of stone and gratings,
Behind oaken doors and padlocks,
Behind bars and locks of iron,
We are held in close confinement.
We have parted from our fathers,
From our mothers;
We from all our kin have parted,
We are prisoners;
Pity us, O our fathers!"
This mournful chant rang on far in advance, and the pitiful notes
brought many a peasant to the door, with half a loaf of bread or a few
handfuls of meal. The Stundists were usually deputed to beg, as they
could be trusted not to secrete any alms that might take the shape
of money or tobacco. Alexis, with his grave and noble face, and old
Matrona, whose bowed shoulders and wrinkled features appealed strongly
for pity, were the most successful suppliants. The placid and grateful
old woman often moved the peasant women to tears.
"You're too old to go on étape, mother," they said.
"I go with my only son," she would answer.
"God pity you both!" exclaimed the peasants.
"He pities us, and loves us too," said Matrona, with her peaceful smile.
When the midday halt was called, the food collected by the way was
divided among them all. A rough sense of fairness and comradeship
prevailed among this band of murderers, robbers, and criminals of
various kinds and degrees; besides the political prisoners and
persecuted Stundists. They slept under the same roof, and traversed
side by side the same road; their lives were absolutely similar, as far
as the Government could make them.
The autumn came, and with the rain the dust disappeared. For a short
interval the long-drawn-out pilgrimage was more endurable. The weather
was still warm, and the sunshine was soft and genial. The leaves
were still upon the trees. The vast, unfenced cornfields were bare.
Innumerable flocks of birds fluttered over the stubble, feeding on the
grain which had been too ripe to carry. In the villages the gifts were
more bountiful with the abundance of the harvest. Flowers lingered in
dells and hollows, where the frosty night-breeze passed above them.
The convict band felt this cheering change. There was a less languid
stepping out, and they were better fed. The children began to laugh and
play again; and even the women looked less wretched and exhausted.
But the autumnal rains grew heavy and persistent, and still the endless
journey continued. The shoes provided for the convicts had fallen to
pieces a week or two after they started; and they had tramped barefoot
through the hot dust. One shirt of coarse linen was given to them once
in six months; these were in rags. Their coats and trousers were also
of grey linen, and were equally tattered. The voluntary exiles were
scarcely better off, though they wore their own clothes. But each was
allowed only a small bag for carrying all the possessions they wished
to take with them into exile. Many of them had sold what they could
spare for food. Under the pitiless rain, drenched to the skin, they
travelled on, the chilly breeze benumbing their ill-fed and emaciated
bodies, and the mud, half-frozen, oozing through their worn-out shoes.
Nor was there much relief when they gained the shelter of an étape, for
they could not dry their saturated rags, nor had they any change of
clothing. They must sleep as they were on the wooden platform, in their
drenched and dirty garments; the natural warmth of so many closely
packed human beings producing a malarious steam, added to the already
foul air. Shivering with cold, yet seething in a reeking atmosphere,
the miserable creatures could not rest in sleep.
[Illustration: THE PROCESSION CRAWLED ACROSS THE SNOWCLAD PLAINS.]
Presently the rain changed to snow; the first snowstorm of the winter
coming swiftly down upon them from the north. They were weather-bound
for a few days, so blinding and baffling were the thickly-falling
flakes. Then hunger set in; such hunger and starvation as had never
yet befallen them, for no provisions were laid up for the exiles, and
the peasants from whom they bought their food could no more go to them
than they could march along the road. The convoy captain allowed them
a scanty share of the soldiers' rations, just sufficient to keep them
alive, but he could do no more for them. Without food or fire, in
clothes that dried upon their bodies, huddled together, they passed the
miserable days and nights.
At last the snowstorm ceased, and a sharp frost set in. A number of
peasants came with rough sledges, judging rightly that all the women
and children, and some of the convicts, would be unable to walk the
next stage. The winter had come upon them so early and so unexpectedly
that even the guards were not prepared. The convicts were in the rags
of their summer clothing, and barefoot, but at the next forwarding
prison winter garments would be given out.
But to the half-famished men and women the next few days were bitter,
under the gloomy sky, with an icy wind whistling around them. In dead
silence, except for the jingling of their chains, the procession
crawled slowly and weariedly across the snowclad plains. The prisoners
kept closely together, to avoid being frozen to death, but not a word
did one man say to his fellow. In the telegas, and the sledges also,
the women were speechless, in a half stupor; and only now and then the
children uttered a cry at the death-like apathy of those around them.
Michael and Sergius kept as near as they could to the telega where
Tatiania was crouching, with little Clava on her lap. But they too were
appalled at this universal stupefaction, and could not speak of it to
one another.
They reached at last the forwarding prison, where winter stores were
kept. They were to rest there for a few days to recover strength, for
several of the older convicts had broken down on the way. It was a
great relief to them all. Tatiania, who had seemed near unto death,
revived a little.
"Khariton," she said one night, as she lay beside him on the nari, "you
know that little Clava and I are going to leave you soon?"
"Yes, dear wife," he answered.
"And you will not pray to our Lord to keep us back?" she said.
"No," he replied, with a sharp pain at his heart.
"It's time for me to give up what Alexis trusted me with," she
whispered in his ear. "I've kept it safe; nobody has suspected. But if
I die on the road, they'll find it, and you'll lose most of it—perhaps
all."
"But who will take care of it for us?" he asked. "Matron is too old;
who could expect her to live to the end? We have still many weeks to
travel, and all the women are failing."
"Let the boys take charge of it," she continued, still whispering,
"fifty roubles to Michael, and fifty to Sergius. They are both as wise
and prudent as men. Oh, they've been a great comfort to us, good boys!
There 'll not be too much to divide among you when you reach Irkutsk;
only there you'll soon get work."
"I will ask Alexis to-morrow," said Khariton.
"Then my mind will be quite easy," she murmured; "I should have died
to-day, only I prayed the Lord to spare me until I could give up my
trust. Now I shall have nothing to think of but how blessed we shall be
when we are all together again, with the Lord. We were very happy in
Knishi, husband!"
"We were," he replied with a sob.
"We might have been happy in Irkutsk," she went on, "but I'm worn-out,
body and mind. I long to get away out of this world. You'll let Clava
and me go?"
"God's will be done!" he said.
CHAPTER XXV
SLEEP AND DEATH
TO Michael and Sergius it was a solemn charge to be entrusted with the
funds on which the Stundists were to subsist when they reached their
journey's end. To be sure, the convicts would still have the miserable
pittance allowed by the Government, but this would not suffice for the
women and children who accompanied them. Tatiania found an opportunity
the next day to stitch the rouble notes into the boys' coats. It was
a busy day; the baggage-waggons were unloaded, and winter clothes
got out. But they were damp and mildewed, for the rain and snow had
saturated the bags. The convicts receive their winter equipment from
the Government stores, which were at least dry and warm. They set out
again in renewed spirits.
It was well for the Stundists that Tatiania's precaution had been
carried into effect. A day or two after they started, and were crossing
the exposed steppe, over which a searching and freezing north wind was
blowing, Sergius and Michael went as usual at the midday halt to carry
food to Tatiania and Clava, who now never left the telega. The child
was sleeping, and Tatiania was very drowsy.
"Are you well, mother?" asked Sergius.
"Quite well, dear boy," she answered. "I've no more pain; and I'm not
tired even. But oh, so sleepy! Tuck the cloak over us, my son."
Sergius carefully folded the sheepskin cloak over her and Clava, and
bent down to kiss the pallid faces. Both were chilly.
"The captain says we shall reach Irkutsk before Christmas," he said
cheerily, "if we are not delayed by more storms."
"That's good news," she answered sleepily; "I'm glad for your father's
sake. Be good like him, my Sergius."
During the short afternoon a light fall of snow and sleet came on.
Every one of the cavalcade was covered with a fine, crisp powder. The
telegas looked like silvered chariots; and the horses drawing them were
beautifully white. Every blade of grass, and the bare stubble of the
cornfields, was delicately frosted over. It was a white procession,
long-drawn-out, passing through a white landscape. Towards the north
the sky was of a livid darkness; and the captain of the convoy ordered
a quick march.
"How beautiful it is!" exclaimed Michael.
"But it's terrible!" said Sergius.
They reached the half-way étape before the telegas came up, and were
ready to lift down Tatiania and little Clava. They had not stirred
since Sergius tucked the sheepskin round them; nor did they move when
he lifted it off, and called "Mother!"
They were fast asleep, in a profound and peaceful slumber, little Clava
locked in her mother's arms, never more to wake again to this world's
pain and anguish. No trouble like this could befall them, the boys said
to one another the next day, as they followed the telega which carried
the dead bodies to the nearest cemetery; nothing worse could happen.
Yet in their inmost hearts there lurked a dream of other losses.
Khariton looked fearfully ill to-day; and Alexis did not seem much
better. Each one of the Stundist band was terribly cast down. Their
wives and children were so exhausted and feeble they could hardly
hope, nay, they could hardly wish, they would live to reach Irkutsk.
Every now and then there were delays, made absolutely necessary from
snowstorms, which made it impossible to continue the march for days
together. Then came the alternative misery of semi-starvation. They
never had enough to eat, but in these weather-bound intervals Famine
laid its skeleton hand upon them. Christmas was past before they
reached Irkutsk.
This was the end of their calamitous journey. Here Paraska's husband,
Demyan, was already established, and probably awaiting their release
under police regulations. In this place they would probably be allowed
to settle down, thousands of miles from their native village. The
Stundists gathered together, in sad and solemn thanksgiving. Of the
nine women who had elected to go with them into Siberian exile, four
were lying in scattered graves along the route, never to be visited by
those who loved them. Of the fourteen children, only five were left;
Michael and Sergius being two of them.
Even while the survivors sang their usual evening hymn, "Oh, happy band
of pilgrims!" the tears rolled down their rugged and wasted faces, and
their voices faltered.
"We praise Thee, O Lord!" said Alexis.
"We praise Thee!" echoed the others.
"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!" said Alexis.
"They are blessed!" was the response.
"Blessed are ye when men persecute you for Christ's sake," he continued.
"We are blessed," they answered.
Then Alexis opened his Bible, and read these words—
"'The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs
and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and
gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
"'I, even I, am He that comforteth you: who art thou, that thou
shouldest be afraid of a man that shall die, . . . and hast feared
continually every day because of the fury of the oppressor, as if he
were ready to destroy? and where is the fury of the oppressor?
"'The captive exile hasteneth that he may be loosed, and that he should
not die in the pit, nor that his bread should fail. But I am the Lord
thy God, that divided the sea, whose waves roared. The Lord of hosts is
His name.
"'And I have put My words in thy mouth, and I have covered thee in the
shadow of Mine hand.'"
Then Alexis turned the leaves to the New Testament, and read again—
"'Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ:
"'By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we
stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God.
"'And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that
tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience,
hope;
"'And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad
in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.'"
Over the faces of the women there stole an expression of placid
resignation. The men looked at one another with exultation in their
eyes. What were these light afflictions compared with the glory that
would follow?
CHAPTER XXVI
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
THEY expected their release every day. The band of exiles who had
marched together for so many months was broken up, and scattered to
various places of exile, excepting those criminals who were sentenced
to the mines. But the Stundists seemed to be overlooked. Demyan was
aware of their arrival, and sent in messages of welcome. He had already
provided a shelter for them, and obtained promises of work in Irkutsk.
At last one morning they were summoned to the prison-yard, where a
party was being made up for the Kara Mines. Was it possible that they
were doomed to that place of horrors? The men were again chained to
other prisoners, with leg-fetters; the women and children were placed
in telegas; and once more, over ground frozen many feet deep, and with
the thermometer, even at noonday, several degrees below zero, they set
out on their dreary march, uncertain now what their destination might
be.
They crossed to the eastern side of Lake Baikal, into a wild and
desolate region, at this time lying under a thick cover of snow. But
the second time they reached an étape, a few days after quitting
Irkutsk, their fellow-prisoners started on without them. The captain of
the convoy, which was now returning to Irkutsk, waited some time for
the arrival of a police officer to take charge of the Stundists, but
growing impatient at his delay, and afraid of the short day leaving him
before he could reach a shelter, he called Alexis to him.
"You are a trustworthy man," he said, "and I must leave you to report
yourselves at the police station. They will tell you under what
conditions you are to live here. It's not a cheerful spot. Have you any
complaint to make to me?"
"Not any, sir," answered Alexis respectfully.
"Then God go with you!" he said.
"And with you!" replied the exiles.
They watched the convoy until they were hidden in the frosty fog. Then
they turned towards the village, which lay about half a mile away. At
the barrier a wretched old man came out of a hut which looked like a
huge snow-stack, and challenged them. Alexis explained who they were;
whilst Michael and Sergius tried to decipher the inscription on a
rotten post. They made out, "thirty-four houses, sixty-five males." The
women and children did not count in the population.
But it was a small place. The houses were log-huts, and were scattered
in two long, straggling lines on each side of the road. They too looked
like edifices built wholly of snow. It was evident that extreme poverty
prevailed. Such of the inhabitants as appeared in the street had a
Mongolian cast of features, and seemed uncouth and savage.
The Stundists marched to the police station, and gave their names,
and the paper entrusted to them by the convoy captain, to the village
Ispravnik. He was certainly a Mongol. He looked at each one of the
men keenly, as if to make sure of knowing them again; and told them
they must report themselves to him once a week, and whenever he chose
to summon them. The women and children stood outside the station,
shivering in the freezing air.
"Where are we to go, sir?" asked Alexis.
"Just where you please," answered the police officer; "you're free to
live where you like in this village, but nowhere else."
"Are there any houses to let?" Alexis inquired.
"None that I know of," said the man; "you see, brother, it is a very
little place. There are two or three families in every house already."
"Can we find lodgings?" asked Alexis again.
"You can go and try, brother," he answered; "you are free, and the
people are free. They may lodge you if they please."
Then began a weary search for shelter. At some of the huts the
inmates would not even open the door, for fear of letting in a blast
of freezing wind; they shouted to them through the frosted windows
there was no room for them there. There were no young children in
the homeless band, but the five women and the two girls who had
survived the terrible journey were suffering from the intense cold.
Their spirits, too, were depressed at the sight of the savage and
inhospitable spot to which their husbands had been exiled for several
years. Some of them would have wept but for fear of the tears freezing
on their eyelashes. Khariton Kondraty silently thanked God that his
wife and daughters had been mercifully taken from him.
At length, after traversing the village from end to end, they returned
to the hut where a withered bush frosted over delicately proclaimed the
village inn. They were quickly admitted, and the door closed behind
them. The atmosphere was almost as foul as that of the kameras they had
slept in, but they had grown used to it, and this roof was at least a
shelter. Here they could rest and warm themselves, and get food to eat.
The innkeeper was a Jew, and more intelligent than anyone they had yet
seen. But he could not tell them of any hut or barn, or shed even,
where they could find a refuge. Nor could he tell them of any place
where more than one could be lodged. The dwellings were all too full
already. No work could possibly be had until the thaw came, and then
strong labourers might earn a few pence a day on the common lands. No
one wanted any women, he said; there were women enough and to spare.
At last he bethought himself of a half-ruined hut at the extreme end of
the village, which had been empty for some years, ever since a whole
family had been horribly murdered by some runaway convicts from mines.
The innkeeper gave the details of the crime, with zest; and the women
shuddered as they heard them.
"Folks here say the spirits of the dead people have never left the
spot," he added; "they'll not go till murderers are punished. But you
can have it for small rent if you dare."
The men went off, as soon as they had finished their meal, to inspect
the place. It was a fair-sized hut, and the log walls and great stove
were in tolerable repair, but the frozen snow showed white through the
clunks in the roof. There were some out-buildings that also needed
restoring. But little could be done before the thaw came.
There were thirteen of them; the nine men and the four boys who had
outlived their hardships. They were gaunt, haggard, and emaciated; the
women they had left in the inn were almost skeletons. Yet as they stood
under the ragged roof, they lifted up their hands, and in solemn words
dedicated themselves afresh to the service of their Lord. Here they
would make homes; and here, too, should there be a church where they
could worship God according to their conscience.
They decided, if possible, to find lodgings for the women; and to live
together in this hut till they could put it in repair. The prospect
lying before them was not cheerful, but the present was better than
the past. They would have to endure hunger and cold and poverty of the
greatest, but they would no longer witness the unutterable wretchedness
and wickedness of the kameras. The misery they had passed through was
stamped indelibly on their memories.
"There's one good thing," said Michael, "we may write what letters we
like. The Ispravnik cannot read."
"Are you sure of it?" asked Alexis.
"Yes," answered Michael; "he held the list of your names upside down,
and pretended to check them off, as if he was reading them. I'll begin
a school as soon as the people know us a little."
"It is against the law," said his father; "and we are a law-abiding
people."
CHAPTER XXVII
DEMYAN'S TIDINGS
THE weeks of winter crept slowly by. But at last the thaw came, and the
hut the men had occupied was deluged with melting snow.
By this time the new settlers had become favourably known to the
inhabitants, and there was no difficulty in getting temporary lodgings
whilst they repaired the haunted hut. With the coming of the spring,
fresh hope and energy took possession of them. But their funds, however
carefully husbanded, were melting like the snow. They were very near
parting with their last rouble.
They were busily at work one day, mending the damaged roof, when a
strange peasant came up, and gazed at them for a minute or two in
silence.
"Khariton!" he cried at last, "Don't you know me?"
Khariton sprang down the sloping roof and over the low eaves, and
clasped the stranger in his arms.
"It's Demyan!" he shouted.
He was a Knishi man who had been banished during the first persecution
some years ago. They all knew him except Alexis and Michael. Until his
banishment they had worked and worshipped together. It was a great joy
to meet again.
"How vexed I was to hear you'd been sent on from Irkutsk!" he said.
"There was work for you there, ready. But we soon found out where
they'd sent you; and as soon as we could make a little collection, I
just stole a march, and came out to bring it."
"But if they find you out!" exclaimed Khariton.
"Well, somebody must run a risk," he said doggedly; "we could not leave
you to perish in this wilderness. You could not get our collection—it's
only thirty roubles——without somebody venturing. But I want news. Tell
me about Paraska."
"She is hoarding up every kopek to get enough money to join you," said
Alexis.
"And she never found our little boys?" he said sorrowfully. "Oh, it was
cruel!"
"They are quite lost sight of; we could find no trace of them,"
answered Alexis. "Even Father Cyril—a good man—could hear nothing of
them."
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "That's the Batoushka Paraska speaks of. I've a
letter from her, with Knishi news. But I must be quick, it's four days'
journey here, and four back. I reported myself last Monday, and I must
not be later than Wednesday or Thursday in showing up again. Oh, here's
Paraska's letter! I was to tell you,—
"'Father Cyril has been sent away from Knishi, thanks to Father Paissy.
He was not permitted to take Velia with him—'"
"Who is Velia?" Demyan inquired.
"Read on!" cried Alexis.
"'He was compelled to leave her behind with the widow of Father Vasili;
and folks say she is going to marry again to old Okhrim, the Starosta.
If possible let Michael know at once—'"
"Who is Michael?" asked Demyan again.
"He is my son," said Alexis; "and Velia is my little daughter."
"All the children under ten years of age were taken from us," said
Khariton; "and Velia was adopted by Father Cyril. This is terrible
news!"
Every man there saw at once the threatening meaning of it. The tender,
delicate child had been put into the hands of a tyrannical and
unscrupulous woman; and possibly into the power of a brutal and cruel
man, who would vent upon her his bigoted hatred of her people. Alexis
fell down on his knees, and groaning, hid his face in his hands.
"Oh, my God! My God, save her!" he cried in a tone of anguish.
The letter had been written nearly four months ago. Thousands of miles
stretched between them and the desolate child. Already she must have
endured a winter of misery. What could be done for her?
"I must go, father!" exclaimed Michael. "If I have to beg my way, I
must go. And oh, I'll save her, father! Velia, little Velia!" And the
boy's voice rose into a passionate cry, as if he would make her hear
him across all the space that divided them.
The affair had to be settled speedily, for if Michael went, it was best
that he should go as far as Irkutsk with Demyan, before the roads were
broken up by the thaw.
"Let him come with me," said Demyan; "we've got friends in Irkutsk.
They'll give him letters to other friends on the way. We'll get a few
more roubles together. And as soon as he catches up the railway, he'll
spin along. He'll get to Knishi before next winter; and the summer is
better. Yarina will befriend her, be sure of that."
"You must go, my boy," said Alexis, "but you must make your way first
of all to Odessa, and get your kinsman there to help you. At any rate
he will help you with money."
In a few hours Michael had said farewell to his father, and the whole
band of Stundists. In a short time they would be settled in their new
dwellings, and begin to make decent homes of them. "The winter's woe
was past," and new hopes were springing up. But for this bad news
Michael felt that life even in the Trans-Baikal might be full of
gladness.
Sergius accompanied Michael as far as possible along the route to
Irkutsk. They had much to say to one another, but for the last mile or
so they were speechless. Knowing they could not meet again for years,
if for ever, they embraced each other silently, and in silence each
went on his way.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE SEED OF THE CHURCH
THE news in Paraska's letter was true.
A revulsion of feeling had been brought about by the persecution that
had made a clean sweep of the heretics from Knishi. As the crowd which
collected to be spectators of the departure of the women and children
saw their terrible distress, and heard their cries of lamentation
on being driven from their old homes, a wave of pity and sympathy
spread from heart to heart. They had only a vague idea of what exile
to Siberia really meant; no one had ever returned to Knishi from that
distant bourne, but it had always been the most fearsome threat held
over them from infancy. What had these old neighbours, these brothers
and sisters and cousins, done to deserve such a doom? They had always
shown themselves kind and friendly, and ever ready to help in any time
of trouble. And if they were somewhat conceited and crazy about their
new religion, was that so wicked as to merit the loss of home and
property?
The women especially began to brood over the question. The Stundist
children under ten years of age, who had been distributed among the
Orthodox families, were more intelligent and obedient than the others.
In school they almost formed a class apart, several of them could read
well, and these had, as usual, little Testaments of their own.
Copies of the New Testament began to appear as if by magic in the
dwellings. The travelling colporteurs, who carried in their packs
Testaments from the great Bible depot in Odessa, found many customers
in Knishi. There was something attractive in listening to the Gospels
read in one continuous narrative, instead of the detached fragments
they heard in the church services. Here was the whole history. It
was quite true what the Stundists said: there was not a word about
confession, or the priest's dues, or the blessing of the houses and the
fields, or the many feasts, when it was unorthodox to labour. The men
liked to hear of this, but the women loved most to hear how the Lord
Jesus treated the women and children.
There was a general movement of the slumbering intellect and conscience
of the peasants; and Father Cyril was astonished at some of the shrewd
questions put to him on doctrinal points. His own teaching favoured
the movement. The persecution, shortsighted as all persecution is, was
having its usual results.
Time after time, and by cautious degrees, Velia fetched the Bibles and
hymn-books hidden in the roof of the hut in the forest, and distributed
them among the Stundist children, who were as truly orphans as if their
parents were really dead. Some of them had been so young when they were
taken away that the remembrance of their parents perished in a few
months. But most of them had been present when the carts carried off
their weeping mothers, and nothing could ever efface the memory of that
scene from their hearts. There was still a root of the Stundist heresy
left in Knishi.
Yarina, the daughter-in-law of Okhrim, had been most touched and
shocked by the banishment of the inoffensive Stundists. She had
married, some years before, Panass, Okhrim's only son, who had proved
an unkind and neglectful husband. But he was dead, and left her with an
only child, a girl. At Father Cyril's urgent request, she had adopted
two of the Stundist children to bring up with her little daughter.
Secretly she was attaching herself to the Stundist faith, but she did
not dare to avow it, for the sake of her child. Besides, Father Cyril's
character, and the sermons he preached, still attracted her to the
Orthodox Church.
The mental sufferings of Father Cyril during the persecution were
greater and deeper than words could tell. He believed it to be
mischievous as well as unchristian. The utmost limit of persecution
he could find in Christ's teaching, was, "Let him be unto thee
as a heathen man and a publican." This did not open the door to
imprisonment, flogging, deprivation of civil rights, and exile. For how
did Christ deal with the outcast classes? His own dealings with the
publicans were full of forbearance and sympathy. He had visited them
in their houses, and ate with them publicly. He had not driven away
the heathen woman who besought Him to heal her daughter; or refused to
see the Greeks, who came to Philip, saying, "Sir, we would see Jesus."
Nay, when the disciples wished to call down fire from heaven on the
Samaritans who refused to receive them into their town, He rebuked
them, saying, "Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of. For the
Son of Man hath not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them."
The utmost that could have been permitted by the law of Christ, was to
leave the heretics alone. "Let them be as publicans and heathens."
Father Cyril could not himself think of the Stundists as heathens. He
mourned over their separation from the Church, and believed they were
mistaken in withdrawing from it. But he could not shut his eyes to
their sobriety and integrity, their loyal submission to every law that
did not go against their conscience, their faith and charity; and,
more than all, their surrender of everything that makes life pleasant
to man for the sake of their religious faith. He could not trust
his own people to show equal devotion to their Church under similar
circumstances.
Father Cyril and his wife did their best to make Velia happy. The girl
was very affectionate, and responded warmly to the love they displayed.
Father Cyril bestowed upon her more caresses and indulgences than he
might have done if she had gone to him under happier circumstances. The
little Stundist orphans left in his charge in the village gave him more
anxious thought and care than all the rest of his flock. He felt more
responsible to God for their welfare. Could he bring them back into the
safe fold of the Church?
But Velia was not young enough to be made Orthodox. She was nearly ten
years old when she was forcibly taken away from her own home, and she
had been trained in the Stundist faith from her earliest childhood.
The traditions of her mother's ancestors, the Scotch Covenanters, had
been the fairy tales told to her by Michael, long before she could
grasp their meaning. They had played at being persecuted whilst they
were children—it was no new thing to her. But now she understood what
it meant. These real persecutions linked her to the children who
had suffered so long ago in Scotland; the mysterious tie of blood
relationship awoke within her. She too would die rather than forsake
the faith of her father and his people.
"My Velia," said Father Cyril one day, after the village schoolmistress
had been complaining of her, "could not you, to please me, bow to
the holy icon, and cross yourself when you go to school? The teacher
complains of you and some of the other children. They will all do as
you do, dear child."
"Oh, I cannot!" she cried, with tears. "If I could, I'd do it to please
you. But I know it's wrong, and God would be displeased. I must obey
God."
"My child, they are nothing but signs," urged Father Cyril. "Surely
you love the Lord Christ, and couldn't you, to show your love to Him,
use the sign of the cross on which He died for us? And you reverence
the Mother of Christ—cannot you bow to a representation of her? All
these actions are only symbols. I have seen you kiss the keepsakes your
father and Michael gave you. Do these things in remembrance of our Lord
and His Mother."
Velia stood looking into his face with an air of perplexity and
hesitation.
"Oh, it does not mean that to them!" she answered, pointing towards the
village. "They really pray to the icon as if it was God; and they cross
themselves out of fear, not for remembrance. They think they will have
bad luck. I cannot do it; no, never! But oh, I wish I could, to please
you!"
The girl stooped down and kissed his hand fondly.
Father Cyril sighed, but said no more. He told the schoolmistress
gently not to observe the Stundist children too closely. They would
conform in time, if they were discreetly dealt with.
But Okhrim, the Starosta, was one of the managers of the school, and
the zeal of the teacher led her to take her complaint to him.
"How can I teach religion," she asked, "if these little pagans defy
me? I've punished, and punished, but they won't bow to the holy icon,
and it's the Mother of God herself. And all the Batoushka says is, 'Be
gentle.'"
Okhrim's eyes sparkled, and his hard mouth twitched. The lust of
persecution had taken possession of him, and he must gratify it, even
by persecuting children.
"So our Batoushka says, 'Be gentle!'" he snarled. "I'll be gentle with
him! He's unorthodox himself—teaching the folks all sorts o' nonsense,
and telling the men it's a sin to drink much vodka. We don't want
doctrine like that here."
The village inn belonged to Okhrim, and since Father Cyril's influence
had been felt the receipts had fallen off seriously. The church was
filled, but the inn was comparatively empty. Okhrim hated the priest as
fully as he hated the Stundists. At the first favourable opportunity,
he drove over to Kovylsk, and going to the consistory, humbly asked for
an interview with Father Paissy, through whose efforts Stundism had
been rooted out of Knishi.
Shortly afterwards Father Cyril received a mandate to appear before his
archbishop, who had always shown himself very friendly to him. But it
was not the archbishop who received him, it was his old fellow-student,
Father Paissy, who owed him many a grudge, and who treated him with
scant courtesy.
"Father Cyril," he said sharply, "we thought we had destroyed, root and
branch, the damnable heresy in your parish. But I am informed it is not
so. I hear you are bringing up a Stundist girl as your own daughter in
the church-house itself."
"She is a delicate child," answered Father Cyril, "scarcely eleven
years of age; quite unfit for a rough life among the common peasants."
"Yet you must place her elsewhere," said Father Paissy; "we cannot
permit a parish priest to make his house a refuge for heretics."
"Let me beg of you to leave her with me for a few years!" exclaimed
Father Cyril. "Who knows whether love and kindness may not bring her
back to the Church? She is a mere child, Father Paissy, most docile and
tractable. In time—yes, in time, she may come back to us."
"Was her father Alexis Ivanoff, that dangerous agitator?" asked Father
Paissy.
"Yes," he answered reluctantly, "but he was banished to Siberia in the
early spring; and Michael, his only other child, went with him. She has
not a soul related to her in the village. All the other children have
relatives who can take some care of them. There has not been time yet
for her to forget. But time does wonders. Let the child remain under my
care and my instruction, and by and by she will comprehend the truths
of our holy Orthodox Church. She will learn none of them by living with
a peasant."
"Oh, I don't care to make the girl a theologian," said Father Paissy,
with a sneer; "it will be sufficient for her to conform because she
must. The people ought to obey the Church, without asking why."
"Alas! Too many of them do," thought Father Cyril; "and they only come
to church and to confession because they must."
"I will make a servant of the girl," he said aloud; "and we will forego
the monthly payment made for her. It would be dangerous to place her
into a peasant's family, for she is thoroughly versed in all the
Stundist doctrines."
"We have considered all that," replied Father Paissy, "and we will
place her where she can do no harm. The archbishop requires you to
deliver up this Stundist girl to the widow of your predecessor, who is
still living at Knishi. She is a pious woman, though not over-learned.
I am acquainted with her, and I have already apprised her of the
archbishop's decision."
"The old Matoushka!" exclaimed Father Cyril in a tone of dismay. She
bore the character of a virago; and there was not a woman in the
village who would work for her.
"Yes; the most suitable person to deal with the girl," replied Father
Paissy. "Before you go, take a friendly warning from me. We hear you
secretly favour these ignorant and impious heretics. We hear also
that you interfere too much with secular affairs. There are several
complaints lodged against you; we had none in Father Vasili's time.
Take care, Father Cyril; take care!"
CHAPTER XXIX
A YOKE OF BONDAGE
THE long white line of the road to Knishi, running straight up to the
distant horizon, lay before Father Cyril, as he drove slowly along it,
lost in thought. He was very unhappy, and his heart felt like lead.
There was not a home in Knishi where he would not rather have placed
Velia than with the old Matoushka. He knew her to be a hard, mean, and
hypocritical woman; very devout, for she never failed to be present at
mass every day. But he felt that she hated him for the many changes he
had made in Father Vasili's slovenly performance of his duties, though
she paid him exaggerated deference as her priest. She came often to
confession— a religious duty more painful to him than to her. How could
he give up the dear child, Velia, to her?
There was, too, a painful sense that he was held in the iron hand of
tyranny. He had never felt it before, and the touch penetrated to
his very soul. It was a sin against humanity to give the child up to
this woman; his conscience rebelled against it. Was it not also a sin
against God?
Father Cyril dropped his reins, and let his horse crawl on slowly at
its own pace. Here was the question of questions—the question that
had sent his parishioners into banishment. The tyranny man exercised
over man, piercing to the very thoughts of the heart—was it a thing
to be endured? "No!" said the Stundist. "We stand fast in the liberty
wherewith Christ has made us free."
But Father Cyril found himself bound fast under a yoke of bondage. It
made him very miserable to feel its weight as he had never done before.
He knew there was no help for him. He must do a thing which his soul
and his conscience abhorred. The child would be taken from him by
force, if he did not give her up.
It was heartrending to him to tell Velia of the doom that was
pronounced against her. He took her on his knee, and pressed her head
tenderly against his breast, not daring to look upon her face as he
broke the painful news to her. He felt the little heart beating fast
against his encircling arm, and the convulsive clasp of her small hand.
At last she spoke.
"Father Cyril, is it true?" she asked.
"Yes, yes!" he said.
"Oh, if father and Michael only knew!" she cried. "They'd save me."
"They could not, my darling," he answered, tears stealing down his
cheeks; "the Government is too strong, and the Church is too strong,
for feeble folks like us to resist them. We must submit. I will do all
I can for you, and watch over you; and you shall come here as often as
possible."
"The old Matoushka will not let it be!" cried Velia in despair.
Father Vasili's widow lived a little way on the other side of the
church, near to the cemetery, in a log-hut she had had built for
herself when her husband died. She was very well off, thanks to her
own thrift, and her clever faculty for squeezing gifts and dues out of
the parishioners during Father Vasili's life. But she chose to live as
if she was in the deepest penury. She had never kept a servant, but
now she was growing old, she had to pay a woman—when she could get
one—to do her washing and cleaning. To give her her due, her house was
far cleaner than the peasants' huts. For some months she had coveted
the possession of Velia and the three roubles a month paid for her
maintenance. Now she had got her, her chief aim was to make her do as
much work and to cost as small a sum as possible.
She had a secondary aim—that of making Velia into an Orthodox
Christian. She never missed going to church, and thither Velia was
bound to accompany her. Father Cyril, at the altar, saw the strong old
woman take hold of Velia's reluctant hand, and make the sign of the
cross with it, and force the girl to bend her head before the icon. The
action scandalised him, and Velia's miserable face tormented him. It
was in vain he remonstrated with the old Matoushka; she was only too
glad to be able to wring his heart.
Father Cyril found himself powerless to soften Velia's lot. The
woman was cruel, but not with such manifest cruelty as to arouse the
indignation of the neighbours, and give him sufficient ground for a
representation to the archbishop, and a petition to get Velia placed
elsewhere. He knew she suffered from a want of nourishing food; and
as the winter passed by he saw that she went shivering about in very
deficient clothing. He felt that he should have to stand by, his hands
tied, and his tongue silenced, whilst the child he loved was dying by
inches. He made an effort to induce the old Matoushka to allow Velia
to come to his home once a week, by promising to provide her with wood
split ready for her stove—a task too heavy for the little girl.
"She may go if she'll go to confession," said the old Matoushka.
"That, of course, you could not forbid," replied Father Cyril.
But Velia could not be prevailed upon to go to confession. Her father
had thought it wrong, she hardly knew why, but that was enough.
Father Cyril appealed to Yarina; and Yarina, who was the richest woman
in Knishi, invited the old Matoushka to spend a day with her, and bring
Velia to play with her children. The old Matoushka went, but she locked
Velia up in a closet to which there was no window. The girl was her
slave, and no one should interfere between them. The Starosta, Okhrim,
was on her side, and both of them triumphed over Father Cyril. They
held fast a scourge to flog him with. For Velia's sake, he gave up the
useless conflict.
It was almost a relief to Father Cyril when he, found himself, through
the influence of his wife's relatives, transferred to a larger and more
important parish on the other side of Kovylsk. He could do nothing for
Velia, and her misery was greater than he could bear to witness. No
letter had reached him from Alexis, and he did not know how to find out
his place of exile. Besides, what could Alexis do? The knowledge of his
child's position would only torture him.
Father Cyril could not even bid the girl farewell, except in the
presence of the old Matoushka, who would not let Velia go out of her
sight. He drew the child to him, looked into her appealing eyes,
kissed her forehead, and tearing himself away took refuge in his
church, where, before the altar, he prayed long and fervently for the
conversion of the misguided Stundists to the Orthodox faith.
After Father Cyril was gone, Velia's life was a blank despair.
To children there is no hope in the future, for they can foresee
nothing. The daily glimpse of Father Cyril in church, the fond and
pitying glance he never failed to give to the eager, miserable little
face always turned to him; the sight of the young Matoushka and her
children—all these had been something to look forward to, day by day.
They had been what Velia lived by, the scanty food on which her young
heart fed. Now this food was taken away, she grew hungry, with a
desperate hunger, for the sight of a beloved face. There was no face to
be seen in her world save the harsh, forbidding visage of her mistress.
It was the gossip of the village that the old Matoushka was about to
marry Okhrim, the Starosta. This was not true, though Okhrim went
often to visit the widow. Neither could ever arrive at a satisfactory
knowledge of how much property the other possessed. Their conversation
was always of money, or of the almost as interesting topic—the Stundist
heresy. Both were supremely Orthodox. When Okhrim was there, Velia
hardly dared to breathe. She crept into the darkest corners, and made
herself as small as possible. Nothing amused Okhrim more than to force
the trembling child to make a profound obeisance to the "Mother of
God," a really handsome icon which occupied the place of honour in the
hut. It proved how devout the priest's widow was.
"She'll make a good Christian yet," he was wont to say, with a sneering
smile which frightened Velia more than his worst oath.
"She's a stubborn little toad!" responded the mistress viciously.
By day Velia scarcely knew a moment's rest. The old Matoushka was
a strong old woman, and she had never had a child of her own. She
did not know, and she did not wish to know, the limits of a child's
strength. As long as Velia could move, she must be kept to work. When
she could work no longer it was time for her to go to bed, on a ragged
mattress behind the oven. It was warm, but it swarmed with crickets and
cockroaches. Velia worked till her young limbs ached, and her eyes grew
dim with sleep, before she could resolve to seek rest. But every night
nature compelled her to succumb, and creep exhausted to her dreaded bed.
So the long dreary months of the winter wore slowly away—those bitter
days and nights when her father and brother were marching across the
icebound wastes of Siberia, often congratulating themselves that Velia
was safe, and cherished as a daughter in Father Cyril's home. The girl
cried after them incessantly in her heart, though her tyrant knew
nothing of it. It is terrible, but children are sometimes too sad for
tears or cries.
CHAPTER XXX
VELIA'S TYRANTS
A STUNTED, emaciated, broken-spirited child, dumb, and not opening her
mouth, was Velia when the spring came. Yarina's heart ached for her,
but she could show the girl so little kindness! Her house was quite a
mile away, on the farther side of Knishi; and the old Matoushka did
not welcome visitors, unless they brought in their hands gifts worth
having. Yarina was rich, and the old Matoushka was obsequious to her,
but she gave her no chance of seeing Velia alone; and the warm clothes
she brought for the girl lay in a chest till there was a chance of
selling them.
The summer brought out-of-door work for Velia. It was better for her
than the dark, cold days of winter, when she was always under the lash
of her mistress's tongue. But in every other way her lot was unchanged,
and the toil was even harder. She had never been at school since Father
Cyril left.
The priest who had succeeded him was one of the old sort—a man after
Okhrim's own heart, except that he was very eager after dues, and
extorted a great deal more money from his parishioners than Father
Cyril received. The new Batoushka could drink like a man, said Okhrim;
and was a sharp hand at making bargains. The drinking shops prospered,
and the congregation in church dwindled. But there were little secret
meetings in the village for reading the Bible, where the seed sown by
Father Cyril, as well as by the Stundists, was springing up. Many of
the people in Knishi knew now the difference between true religion and
the imitation of it. But the chance of a real revival of religion in
the Orthodox Church was gone from Knishi.
Yarina felt it more deeply than anyone else, and her heart yearned
after her old friends the Stundists. She felt speechless indignation at
the thought of their sufferings. She longed to hear them sing praises
as if God was really listening to them, and praying as to a real Father
ready to give good gifts to His children. There were many besides
herself who remembered them with affection, and almost with remorse.
There was no man now like Alexis, to whom they could go for intelligent
counsel, or the friendly settlement of disputes. There was no woman
like Matrona, or Tatiania, to watch beside the dying, and pray for them
with simple, heartfelt prayers, which the passing soul could join in.
The last days of harvest were come, and every man and woman, except
Yarina, were busy in the golden harvest-field, when one evening, as
the air grew cooler, she strolled down her garden to the margin of the
river, which formed one of the boundaries of it. She was quite alone,
for the children were gone with the servants to the harvest-field. A
tall, thin, overgrown lad was hiding among the thick forest of reeds,
but crept away as she came into sight.
"Come out! I see you!" she called, in spite of the fact that she saw
nobody. "I see and hear you. Come out, or I'll send for the Starosta."
Still there was no sign of any human being. She could hear the joyous
twittering of birds, and the distant lowing of cattle feeding along the
banks of the river, the swish of the current and the rustling of reeds,
but there was no other sound. Yet she was sure someone was near her.
"Come out," she said gently, "and I'll help you, if you need help.
Perhaps you are hungry, I will bring you food. Even if you are a thief,
I am sorry for you."
The reeds parted, and a face looked up to her.
She thought she had seen it before, but was not sure. It was a thin,
pinched face—one that had been burned black under a scorching sun,
and made pallid by cold and hunger. But the deep blue eyes that gazed
beseechingly into her own touched some chord of memory.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Michael Ivanoff," he answered.
"Oh, heavenly Tsaritza!" she exclaimed.
The next moment she took the wayworn face between her hands, and kissed
the sunburnt forehead.
"I'm come back to save Velia," said Michael, with a sob of joy.
"Thank God!" she cried. "You're none too soon. But oh, we must be
careful! Stay, while I fetch you something to eat."
She ran hastily to the house, and brought back with her a
knitting-basket and a stool. She could sit knitting on the bank of the
river without anyone suspecting she had a companion hidden among the
reeds. This artifice she had learned when she was a girl.
So Michael, lying out of sight, ate his food, of which he was sorely in
need, and told the story of the journey to Eastern Siberia.
Yarina wept bitter tears, and flew into a passion of anger and horror
as she listened. So many of her old friends dead—murdered, she called
it—and the children! Nine of them, did Michael say? Was it true? Oh,
the pity and the shame and the sin of it!
"Where are you hiding now?" asked Yarina.
"Every night I go to the haunted hut," he said; "there's no danger of
being found there. But all day long I linger here, on the chance of
seeing Velia alone, but I have not seen her yet."
"You will never see her alone," said Yarina gloomily.
"I must!" he exclaimed. "I've money enough, if we can once get out of
Knishi and reach Kovylsk. My mother's cousin in Odessa has given me
money, and got somebody's passport for me. Only Velia will have to
travel as a boy. I've got boy's clothes for her."
"But how to get her out of that old harridan's clutches!" exclaimed
Yarina.
They discussed plans as long as they dared, until they heard the voices
of the harvesters coming home in the bright moonlight. One thing only
was settled, that Yarina should conceal enough food for every day among
the reeds. Michael had been living on berries. It was a great thing to
be supplied with food. He could afford to wait longer than he could
have done otherwise.
But day after day passed by, bringing no chance of seeing Velia alone.
The harvest was gathered in, and concealment among the reeds became
more risky. The men had time to fish in the river; the children were
playing about; and very soon the cutting of the reeds would begin. Then
it would be impossible to hide among them.
Now, too, came the autumnal washing of clothes, after the harvest
was over and before the winter set in. Troops of women and girls
carried great bundles, hanging upon yokes, down to the little wooden
pier, where the washing was done in the river, amid much laughing and
gossiping. Michael was obliged to keep out of sight round a bend of the
stream two or three hundred yards away. He could hear their voices,
and often catch the words. Yarina stayed by the pier hour after hour,
apparently watching her maid, but in reality hoping for a chance to
speak to Velia, if the old Matoushka sent her down with any washing.
But the old Matoushka had no intention of exposing her rags to the
criticism and derision of her neighbours. She reflected that she was
the widow of a priest. Waiting till the bulk of the merry party had
gone home with their dripping burdens, she went down to the pier, with
Velia dragging after her, broken-hearted and despairing. The harvest
had brought no joy to her, for she had not been permitted to speak to
one of her old neighbours and friends.
The poor girl knelt down on the wet planks, and stooped over the water,
washing the old clothing with her wasted hands and arms. The last
peasant had gone, muttering a sulky "Good-night" to the old Matoushka.
They were quite alone now. Behind Velia was her oppressor—the hard
woman to whom she was a slave, and from whom she could not escape. A
terrible winter lay before her; for in this, the misery of children is
greater than that of beasts—that they can foresee as well as remember.
Life was a confusing mystery and an intolerable burden to her. Why did
not God let her die? Her misery had taken such hold upon her that she
had forgotten even the prayers her mother had taught her. Only the
Lord's Prayer, which she heard daily in the church, remained in her
memory, but even that was now connected in her mind with blows and
curses.
The night was falling fast, but a lovely light was still lingering
where the sun had gone down, and was reflected with changeful opal
colours on the swift stream. She paused for a moment to look round, and
then, as if some mischievous hand had snatched it from her, the old
petticoat she was washing floated away down the shining river.
Velia sprang to her feet, and stood paralysed with terror for an
instant or two. She heard the loud breathing of the old woman close
beside her, and felt rather than saw the heavy hand lifted against
her. With an agonised shriek, caring no longer what became of her, she
sprang into the rapid current, which flowed under the end of the pier.
To her dying day, the old Matoushka was not sure that her blow had not
thrown her in.
Michael heard the cry, and saw a girl floating rapidly down towards
him. In an instant, he plunged into the water, and dragged her out of
the dangerous current into his hiding-place among the reeds. There was
scarcely light enough for him to see the face, and this was not the
sweet, smiling face of his young sister. Yet some hope, mingled with
fear, set his pulses throbbing. Could this girl be Velia?
He did not know what to do. If he lingered, the life might leave the
half-drowned frame, but if he called for aid, both of them would be
discovered. He laid his hand on her heart to feel if it was beating,
and in the bosom of her ragged dress, he found a Testament. No doubt it
was Velia! No one but a Stundist girl would carry a Testament about her
in secret. God had brought her to him as if by a miracle.
He would not stir, but he prayed fervently for direction. Was it a
fancy, or did he really feel his mother's hand on him, restraining him?
There was a sense of her soothing presence upon him, as there had been
before in Knishi. No; he must keep silent. The water, heated all day
by the sun, had not been very cold, and he held Velia closely pressed
to him in his arms. As soon as it was quite dark, he saw a lantern
moving hither and thither in Yarina's garden, and her clear voice came
distinctly to his ear.
"No," she said, "it's not any use searching for it any longer. All of
you go in, and get to bed. I'll stay out a little while."
But before Yarina came, he felt Velia stirring in his arms, and
breathing with long-drawn sighs. She had not been many minutes in
the water, and had become unconscious rather from fright than from
drowning. Michael laid his hand gently on her mouth.
"Keep silent! Oh, keep silent!" he said. "I am here—Michael, your big
brother."
"Are we dead?" she whispered, as she opened her eyes on the thick
tangle of reeds. "Are we dead and buried?"
"No! Hush!" he answered. "We are in Yarina's garden."
Yarina herself was cautiously drawing near, swinging her lantern,
and calling the cat in a loud voice. When she was sure everyone had
returned to the house, she came on quickly.
"Michael!" she called softly.
He parted the reeds, and came towards her, carrying Velia in his arms.
They listened to the girl's account of how she had flung herself into
the river, but she could not say whether or no her mistress had pushed
her.
"But she will rouse the neighbours to seek you!" cried Yarina. "They
will come at once to search the river banks. And who knows! Okhrim
squints askance at me, as if he suspected me of being one of you. He
can't bear my adopted little ones. They may search my house, and all
over the place. Michael, you and Velia must get away to the forest at
once."
The village was already sinking into stillness and darkness, except the
inn, where the window was still lit up. But they avoided the street as
much as possible, and stole along little by-paths familiar to them. It
was not so late that the watch-dogs were in full vigilance, and they
only growled a little in the fold-yards. The sky was full of stars so
bright as to cast their shadows before them as they stepped southwards.
All the pleasant yet weird sounds of night accompanied them; the
shrill sighing of the wind across the stubble of the cornfields; the
drowsy twittering of the birds, roused a little by their passing
footsteps; the melancholy cry of the owls flitting past them in pursuit
of the night-moths; the bats were zig-zagging through the sweet air,
especially over the ponds, and a thin white mist hung all over the
land. Michael and Velia walked on hand in hand, almost speechless, but
immeasurably happy. It seemed to them as if they were wandering in some
utterly strange country, and, exhausted as they were with the perils
and the strong emotions of the last few hours, they only felt a joy
beyond words.
CHAPTER XXXI
RESCUED
THE forest was dark with a blackness that blotted out every object. But
here they were absolutely safe till morning. There was not a man in
Knishi who would dare to enter it. Michael lighted Yarina's lantern,
and guided Velia to the hut. His dreamy joy was changing into a clear,
rejoicing triumph over the success of his perilous undertaking. He had
rescued his sister, and the rapture of a saviour was his. True, there
were perils ahead, but none like those through which they had already
passed.
He made Velia lie down on his bed of dried leaves, but he slept little
himself, his brain was too busy with exciting thoughts. All the past
events crossed his memory—the happy life for a few years in Knishi,
whilst the spirit of persecution slumbered a little; the goodness of
Father Cyril, and the opposition he made to further persecution; the
secret meetings for worship held in this haunted hut; the long fatal
journey to Siberia; and the condition of the exiles, when he left them,
just before the close of winter. All that was in the past, but it is a
past which will never die out of his memory, and which will come back
to him in every hour of quiet thought.
Before the first gleam of day, he roused Velia, for they were to meet
Yarina at a corner of the forest past which the road to Kovylsk ran. In
the glimpses they caught of the sky when they reached any opening of
the trees, they saw the stars growing pale. Velia pressed closely to
Michael's side as they drew near to the fearfully-haunted place. It was
a grave in a deep ravine, and a tall, thin column of mist rose from it,
wavering as if half alive. Trembling among the thick trees, which were
still black with night, it had a mysterious and sinister appearance.
Michael threw his arm round Velia, and bade her shut her eyes until
they were well past the accursed spot.
At last they reached the outskirts of the forest. The sun was not
above the distant horizon yet, but a sweet, soft light was everywhere
diffused, a light without shadows. There was a murmur all about them
of the awakening day. Michael turned towards the east, where dwelt his
father and all his comrades, and watched the growing dawn. The same
sun was already shining upon them, and the same Father in heaven was
watching over them all.
It was not long before, in the stillness, they heard the shrill,
complaining sound of creaking wheels; and Yarina came up driving alone
in her dilijans. There was no time lost in climbing up beside her, for
they were all anxious to put as great a distance as possible between
themselves and Knishi. Yarina had heard nothing of any search after
Velia.
Now, in the long, slow progress over the rough road, there was time
enough for telling all the story of their lives since Michael and Velia
were separated. Yarina listened, and often the tears filled her eyes.
Why, these were children who were talking, young creatures who had
never sinned against the laws of man, and not much against the laws of
God. Yet they had suffered more than the worst of criminals ought to
suffer.
It was true, then, what Father Cyril had once said
incautiously—persecution was the weapon of the devil. Yarina left her
dilijans at an inn, and accompanied Michael and Velia to Markovin's
door, there bidding them good-bye, before ringing his bell. She kissed
Velia again and again, and pressed her lips on Michael's forehead,
sobbing and weeping.
"Tell them out there, in Siberia," she said, "that I'll not let my
adopted children forget their own fathers and mothers. They shall hear
all about it when they are old enough. I'm almost a Stundist myself,
but I haven't got the spirit of a martyr, God forgive me!"
Neither had Markovin the spirit of a martyr. Nevertheless, he received
his unwelcome visitors very kindly; taking care, however, to send a
message to the presbyter of the church in Kovylsk that they were with
him, and must be forwarded on their way immediately.
Michael noticed that the curtain which had formerly hung before the
icon had been taken away, and a twinkling lamp burned in front of it.
It was a significant sign that the spirit of persecution was abroad in
Kovylsk, and that Markovin quailed before it.
Two days later Michael and Velia reached the railway station from which
the exile party had started on their cruel journey. But they were going
south now, instead of north. The train was almost due, and Michael ran
with his passport in his hand to get their tickets.
The clerk glanced doubtfully at the passport, and pushed it back. "Not
in legal form," he said curtly.
Michael's heart sank within him. How it was not legal he did not know,
but any delay was dangerous.
At that moment Velia uttered a cry of joy, and he saw her rush away and
fling her arms round a priest in a shabby cassock.
"Father Cyril!" she exclaimed. "Father Cyril!"
In a moment the priest took in the situation. Here was Velia, disguised
as a boy; and yonder was Michael, turning away from the ticket clerk,
distressed and perplexed. He took the passport from him.
"It is not visé'd properly," he said. "These two young people," he
added, pleasantly, to the clerk, "have been parishioners of mine till
a few months ago. I can vouch for them. Where are you going to?" he
inquired of Michael.
"Odessa—to our cousin," gasped Michael.
"So am I," said Father Cyril. "Three tickets for Odessa, if you please."
The clerk knew Father Cyril by sight, and had heard him spoken of
highly. Besides, it was impolitic to get into collision with a priest.
He gave the tickets with an obsequious smile.
As the train went on to Odessa, Father Cyril, like Yarina, had ample
time to hear the whole of the long and dreary story each had to tell.
Velia sat on one side, with his arm about her, and her head resting
on his shoulder, where she slept during the night. Michael was on
the other hand, but the boy was too anxious to sleep. They talked in
quiet and subdued voices; and as Father Cyril listened to them, his
convictions grew deeper that persecution was as much a blunder as a
crime. It had driven Nicolas back to the Orthodox Church, and made a
coward and a hypocrite of him, but those who had gone into exile would
never be won back.
Father Cyril did not lose sight of Michael and Velia until he had seen
them safe on board a vessel bound for Glasgow. Michael's exultation at
their escape was blended with grief at quitting his own country.
"I shall come back again when I am a man," he said earnestly, again and
again; "not to your parish, Father Cyril, but to places where they are
never taught anything true about God. I can't let my own people live
and die in darkness, can I? So I must come back."
"Let it be as God wills," answered Father Cyril; "surely the Church
will awake to her duties."
He watched whilst the vessel steamed slowly away amid the crowded
shipping, and then turned back into Odessa, sad at heart. These young
heretics were very dear to him.
CHAPTER XXXII
A LETTER FROM SIBERIA
WHEN the old Matoushka saw her little victim carried swiftly away by
the current, she stood paralysed, watching till Velia was out of her
sight. Had she thrust the child in? She could not answer the question
to herself. What could she do now? There was not a creature in sight.
The nearest house was Yarina's, but it was on the other side of the
river, and the bridge across was nearly half a mile off. The body would
have sunk, or drifted far away, before she could get any help.
How she reached her hut, trembling and tottering under her load of wet
clothing, she hardly knew. She sat down and did nothing. It crossed
her mind that she would have to account for Velia's disappearance, but
she had not strength sufficient to drag herself into the village. She
swallowed a small glass of vodka, yet that did not give her courage
enough to face the inquiries and remarks of her neighbours. Well, it
would be of no use now. The girl was drowned. What will be, will be!
Doggedly she set about getting her supper, but she could not rid her
mind of the vision of the girl drowning. She lit one wick of her lamp,
but the corners of the hut were very dark, and she soon lighted all
three. The silence was alarming; there was no frightened footfall or
pitiful sigh in the hut. The old Matoushka tried to laugh away her
own fancies, but in the stillness she could hear the terrified scream
uttered by Velia when she fell into the river.
It was a great relief when she heard the familiar footstep of her
friend Okhrim. He entered the illuminated hut, blinking as he came in
from the darkness.
"Ah!" he said. "Why, Matoushka, are you having a feast?"
"No, no," she answered; "I'm in great trouble. I've something serious
to tell you."
"Velia drowned!" he exclaimed, when she had finished her account. "Do
you know what folks are sure to say?"
She could guess very well what would be said. Okhrim chuckled inwardly,
and said to himself, "Now I have her between my finger and thumb."
"You're sure you didn't push her in?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied in a tremulous voice.
"Do you think they'll believe that?" he asked again.
She did not answer.
Okhrim sat silent for some time, lost in thought. Then he looked at her
with triumphant cunning.
"I advise you to let her disappear," he said. "Clava disappeared from
the church-house in Father Cyril's time, and why shouldn't Velia? Wake
up to-morrow and find her gone. Go at once and tell the Batoushka; and
come to me as Starosta. If the body is found, it will account for the
disappearance. I'll report it to the authorities at Kovylsk."
"Oh, you're a true friend," she said, sobbing.
She fetched out her best vodka, and brought some bread and cheese, and
sat by, not able to eat, and marvelling silently at a man's appetite.
After it was satisfied, Okhrim resumed the conversation.
"And now," he said, "you'll let me have that little sum I want to
borrow."
"What interest will you give me?" she asked timidly.
"We'll settle that by and by," he answered, with a sneer. It would not
be necessary now to marry the old widow. He could squeeze what money he
liked out of her.
Some months after Michael and Velia reached Scotland, they received the
following letter from their father:—
"BELOVED CHILDREN,—Grace be with you, mercy, and peace from God the
Father and from the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of the Father, in truth
and love. Let us first praise God for His tender mercies both towards
you and towards us. Our kinsman in Odessa has written me concerning
you. May the blessing of God Almighty rest upon him and Father Cyril!
I long to hear from yourselves that you prosper and are in health, and
that your souls prosper.
"I charge you, my beloved son, that you use all diligence in your
studies; especially that, as far as possible, you learn something of
healing, that when you return to us, you may be like Luke, the beloved
physician. This knowledge will be useful to you wherever your 'lost' is
cast. Let my well-beloved Velia learn all that a woman should know: how
to nurse the sick, teach and bring up children, make garments, guide
the house, and glorify the Lord in doing little things. These things
do, and you will gladden your father's heart.
"For ourselves, the loving-kindness of our God towards us is
marvellous. I will write you particulars. He has given us favour in
the eyes of our neighbours; more especially of the police officer and
Starosta, who is a Mongol, and cares nothing about our religion. I do
all his writing and accounts for him; and he deals pleasantly with
us. We have made a decent home—or homes, rather—of the hut and its
barns; and we live in great harmony and peace together. Katerina has
another child to comfort her for the babe she lost on the journey. All
the rest are well both in body and soul. As we are dwelling not far
from the frontier of Mongolia, Khariton Kondraty and his son Sergius
are learning the Mongol language, to the intent that when our term of
banishment is over, they may go forth, even as our Lord sent His first
disciples, to preach the kingdom of God. He said, 'Freely ye have
received, freely give.' It is the bread of life and the water of life
they will give to a hungered and thirsty nation.
"Rejoice, my children, Paraska has joined her husband, Demyan. She
came to Irkutsk in the service of the Countess Nesteroff, whose son,
Valerian, is in exile in Saghalien. Paraska came herself to tell us,
and to bring news of our dear little ones left behind in Knishi. They
stand fast, poor lambs! in our faith; all but the infants who were too
young to know anything of it. Yet we trust them to Him who took little
children into His arms, blessing them. Paraska further told us that
Paul Rodenko's wife, Halya, has joined him in Saghalien; and that his
letters are full of courage, and thanksgiving to our Father in heaven.
There, as well as here, there are souls eager to listen to the glad
tidings of salvation; and in every place of banishment whither our
people go, the Lord's name is magnified. Is not this better than houses
and lands, and the honour and praise of men? 'I will be a Father unto
you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.'
Remember these words, my beloved ones. Our term of banishment will
end in 1904. What we shall then do, God alone knows. But if it be His
will, I will meet my son at Odessa—a young man then—and we will confer
together how we can serve both our Lord and our country. For Russia is
dear to us all; the people are our people; the Czar is our ruler, whom
God has set over us. We are ready, not only to be in bonds, but to die
for Russia. We dedicate ourselves and our children to the well-being of
our fatherland. God save Russia!
"May the blessing of God rest upon all your mother's kindred! We
cannot recompense them, but they shall be recompensed by Him who said,
'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.'
"Now, my beloved, 'unto Him that is able to keep you from falling,
and to present you faultless before the presence of His glory with
exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty,
dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.'"
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