In the name of all drunkards,In the name of every bottle,In the name of all the fools,In the name of all buffoons,In the name of all the grapes,In the name of all the hops,In the name of all the casks,In the name of all the hogs,In the name of all tobacco,In the name of all pothouses,Homes of our father Bacchus.Amen.”
In the name of all drunkards,In the name of every bottle,In the name of all the fools,In the name of all buffoons,In the name of all the grapes,In the name of all the hops,In the name of all the casks,In the name of all the hogs,In the name of all tobacco,In the name of all pothouses,Homes of our father Bacchus.Amen.”
In the name of all drunkards,
In the name of every bottle,
In the name of all the fools,
In the name of all buffoons,
In the name of all the grapes,
In the name of all the hops,
In the name of all the casks,
In the name of all the hogs,
In the name of all tobacco,
In the name of all pothouses,
Homes of our father Bacchus.
Amen.”
The assembly shouted:
“Axios!—He is worthy.”
The pope was then enthroned on the barrels. Just above his head hung a small silver Bacchus astride of a cask. Bending it towards himself the pope conveniently could draw brandy either into his glass or straight into his mouth.
Not only the members of the convocation but all the other guests approached His Holiness in their turn. They bowed low before him and received, instead of a blessing, a blow on their head with a pig’s bladder soaked in brandy, and then partook of the pepper brandy offered in a huge wooden spoon.
The priests chanted:—
“O most honourable father Bacchus, born of the burnt Semele, reared in Jupiter’s thigh, dispenser of the joys of the Vine! We call on thee in the company of all this most drunken assembly. Multiply and direct the steps of this world-wide-ruling prince-pope so that he may walk in thy ways. And thou, most glorious Venus——”
Here followed obscene adjurations.
At last the guests sat down to table. Opposite the prince-pope sat the real chief ecclesiastic; Feofan Prokopovitch had taken his place, Peter next to him, then Theodosius; Alexis sat opposite the Tsar his father.
The Tsar began talking over with Feofan the news which had just reached them of the thousands of Raskolniks who had burnt themselves alive in the forests of Kerjenetz and Tchernoramensk, near the Volga. The drunken songs and shouts of the buffoons hindered the conversation.
At a sign from Peter the priests stopped short in their chant in honour of Bacchus; all were hushed, and in this sudden silence Feofan’s voice was heard saying:—
“What cursed madmen, what frantic martyrs! insatiable in the vanity of their desire for torture! They throw themselves into the flames of their own free will, flinging themselves recklessly into the abyss of hell, showing others the way. To call them mad were too little; there is no adequate name for such an evil! May all disown them and spit on them.”
“But what can be done with them?” asked Peter.
“It ought to be explained to them, your Majesty, in an exhortation, that not every suffering is acceptable before God, but only suffering ordained by law. For the Lord does not simply say, ‘Blessed are the persecuted,’ but, ‘Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.’ And such persecution for righteousness’ sake can never threaten Russia, which is an orthodox country; it is impossible for such a thing to happen——”
“Explain to them?” cried the superseded Theodosius, with a malicious smile, “of what use in the world would that be? The jaws of apostates should be broken. If in the Old Testament it was ordained that rebels must be put to death, how much is this so in the New Testament, where direct truth takes the places of images and shadows? Better is it for heretics themselves, better to die; to kill them is an act of kindness; the longer they live the more they sin, and the more seductions they invent to mislead. There is not much difference between killing a sinner with weapons or with prayer.”
“That is a bad argument,” calmly replied Feofan, without looking at Theodosius. “Cruelty is more liable to exasperate than to subdue folks bent on being martyrs. People must be brought to the Church, not by force and fear, but by the charity of the Gospels.”
“True, true,” agreed Peter; “we do not wish to hinder freedom of conscience, and gladly leave each individual to work out his own salvation. In my opinion let every man believe what he pleases; if arguments fail to convert him, fire and sword will prove utterly useless. And the maniacs for martyrdom neither benefit the country, nor themselves receive the crown of glory.”
“Slow and sure, everything will settle itself by degrees,” rejoined Feofan. “Nevertheless,” he added in a subdued voice, leaning over to the Tsar, “it would be as well to impose a double tax on the Raskolniks, so as to bring back to the Holy Church those who are afraid of fines. Also, when punishment is inflicted, some obvious civil transgression, other than their heresy, should be found, and then, having flogged them and torn their nostrils, they should, according to law, be sent to the galleys; yet when thereis no obvious civil fault exhortations alone should be resorted to.”
Peter acquiesced with a nod. The Tsar and the priest understood each other.
Theodosius looked as if he would reply, but said nothing; a sarcastic smile distorted his little face, which resembled the snout of a bat, and he shrank back into himself, green with rage, as if he had taken poison. Well he understood what “exhortation” meant. Pitirime, the bishop sent to Kerjenetz to convert the Raskolniks, had only recently reported to the Emperor: “They have been tortured with exceeding cruelty; even their entrails came out.” And the Tsar in his ukase forbade that father Pitirime should be blamed for his “apostolic work.” It is easy to speak about love, but in reality, as the Raskolniks complained, “Dumb teachers stand in the torture chambers, in their hands they hold the knout instead of the Gospels, and fire takes the place of Apostles to instruct them.”
This was, however, the same ecclesiastical policy of dissimulation Theodosius himself had been preaching; but Feofan had out-run him and he felt his reign was over.
“There is nothing to be astonished at,” continued the prelate in a loud voice, “if uncultured peasants, in their extreme ignorance, err from the right way and commit mad acts. What is astonishing is that among the great nobles, among the Tsar’s servants, some are to be found, who in their wisdom and feigned humility are worse than Raskolniks. It has come so far that even the most worthless insolently take part in vile actions. Already the scum of the people, unprincipled men, born for nothing else than to be fed by the labour of others, rise up against their Tsar, against the Lord’s Christ. When they receive their daily bread, they ought to wonder and say, ‘Whence cometh this to us?’ The story of King David is repeating itself; David, against whom the blind and lame rebelled. Our pious monarch who has done so much for Russia, by whose providence all have received security and honour, has only earned himself a bad name, and his life is full of sorrows. Having prematurely aged himself by hard toil, and when unmindful of his health, thinking only of thecountry’s welfare, he is rushing, as it were, on to his death, there are yet those who say, ‘He lives too long.’ O sorrow, shame on thee, thee, O Russia! let us beware lest the whole world say of us: ‘The Tsar is worthy of such an empire, but the people are unworthy of such a Tsar.’”
When Feofan had finished, Peter said:—
“God, who sees my heart and conscience, knows how dear to me is my country’s welfare. But the diabolic work against me. Never has a ruler been confronted with so many attacks and calamities as I have. Foreigners say I govern slaves. But English freedom is out of place here. It would do as much good as peas thrown against a fortress wall. You must first know a people before you can decide how to govern them. It is difficult for any one to judge me who does not know everything. God alone knows the truth. He is my judge——”
Nobody listened to the Tsar. All were drunk. He stopped without having said all he meant to say, made a sign, and the priests resumed the hymn to Bacchus, the fools began shouting. The “Spring Chorus,” imitating the different birds, from the nightingale to the warbler, was so piercing that the walls re-echoed with its shrill noise.
Everything went on as usual. The guests drank and ate till they lost their senses. The dignitaries fought, pulled one another’s hair, and then making peace rolled together under the table. Prince Shakhovskoi, knight of the burlesque order of Judas, received for money, boxes on the ear. An old boyar, who refused to drink, had brandy poured down his throat through a funnel. The Kniaz-Pope vomited, from the height of his throne, over the wigs and coats of those sitting under him. The drunken fool, the princess-abbess Rjévskaya, danced skittishly, catching hold of the bottom of her skirts, and sang in a husky voice:—
Shin, shen shivargen!Once, once, again!Speed, speed, speed, round,Burn! burn!
Shin, shen shivargen!Once, once, again!Speed, speed, speed, round,Burn! burn!
Shin, shen shivargen!
Once, once, again!
Speed, speed, speed, round,
Burn! burn!
The guests whistled and stamped in time, making a frightful dust.
Everything was just as usual. Yet Peter felt weary of it all. He drank as much as possible of the strongest English pepper and brandy on purpose to get drunk. Yet he did not succeed. The more he drank, the more weary he became. He rose, sat down, rose again; he wandered among the bodies of drunken guests, strewn like corpses on a battlefield, and could not find rest. His heart began to beat in mortal anguish. Should he run away, or should he drive away this rabble?
When the cold cheerless light of the winter morn mingled with the stinking gloom and the dim light of candles burnt-down, the human faces grew yet more hideous, more beast-like, monstrous, fantastic.
Peter’s gaze was arrested by his son’s face.
The Tsarevitch was drunk. His face was deadly pale. The long thin tufts of hair stuck to his sweaty brow, his eyes had grown dim, his lower jaw hung down. He was trying not to spill his wine, but the fingers which held the glass trembled like those of an inveterate drunkard.
“Wine is not like grain, once spilt it can’t be picked up,” he muttered raising his glass. He drank it, made a face, cleared his throat, and wanting to take the taste away by a salted mushroom, vainly sought to catch one with the fork. He did not succeed, gave it up, took a piece of black bread and began to chew it slowly.
“Dear friend, am I drunk? tell me the truth, am I drunk?” he repeatedly asked Tolstoi who was sitting close by.
“Drunk, quite,” asserted Tolstoi.
“Now that’s all right,” continued the Tsarevitch, hardly able to move his thick tongue. “What does it matter to me? As long as I don’t taste wine, I have no craving whatever for it; but once I taste it, were it only a glass, I am lost. I can’t refuse whenever it is offered. It’s well I am not violent when drunk.”
He laughed a low drunken laugh and suddenly turned to his father.
“Daddy, daddy, why are you so sad? Come here, let us have a drink together! I will sing to you a song. You will be more cheerful, really!”
He smiled at his father, and there was something familiar, sweet and child-like in that smile.
“An imbecile, a simpleton! How is it possible to kill such a one!” thought Peter, and suddenly a wild, terrible pity clutched his heart like a beast.
He turned away, pretending to be listening to Feofan, who was telling him about the establishment of his Holy Synod, yet heard nothing. At last he called an orderly and told him to get horses ready to start at once for Petersburg; meanwhile he again began striding up and down, weary and sober, among the drunkards. Unconsciously, as though drawn by some magnet, he approached the Tsarevitch and sat down next to him, but turned his head, pretending to be engrossed in a conversation with Prince James Dolgorúki.
“Daddy, daddy,” the Tsarevitch gently touched his father’s hand. “Why are you so sad? Does he offend you! Ram a pike down his throat! that’ll finish him.”
“Who ishe?” Peter turned to his son.
“How do I know, whoheis?” answered Alexis with a smile which made even Peter shudder. “All I know is that now you are yourself again, and that other, the devil knows who he is, a mere pretender, a beast, a were-wolf——”
“Alexis, Alexis, what’s the matter with you?” Peter looked closely at him. “You should drink less.”
“Whether I drink or not, die I must! Better, then, drink and die! For you also it will be better if I die; it will save you killing me,” and again he grinned, quite like a fool, and suddenly began singing in a low, scarcely audible voice, which seemed to come from a distance:—
A maiden, I will wanderThrough the fields of peace.And there blue flowers I’ll gather,For the blue flowers are his:And coming back towards the river,Into a wreath my spoil I’ll twine,And throw this little wreath of mineTo the stream, remembering my lover.
A maiden, I will wanderThrough the fields of peace.And there blue flowers I’ll gather,For the blue flowers are his:And coming back towards the river,Into a wreath my spoil I’ll twine,And throw this little wreath of mineTo the stream, remembering my lover.
A maiden, I will wander
Through the fields of peace.
And there blue flowers I’ll gather,
For the blue flowers are his:
And coming back towards the river,
Into a wreath my spoil I’ll twine,
And throw this little wreath of mine
To the stream, remembering my lover.
“I had a dream lately, daddy; Afrossinia was sitting at night on a snow-covered field; naked and sad to look at, as though dead, and she was rocking a babe which alsoseemed dead. She was singing with tears in her voice this very song:
It sinks, it sinks, does my blue wreath!It sinks, sinks, does my heart’s breath!The flowers have gone to their deathWith him, who was my light!”
It sinks, it sinks, does my blue wreath!It sinks, sinks, does my heart’s breath!The flowers have gone to their deathWith him, who was my light!”
It sinks, it sinks, does my blue wreath!
It sinks, sinks, does my heart’s breath!
The flowers have gone to their death
With him, who was my light!”
Peter listened, and pity, wild, terrible, cruel pity, gnawed at his heart like some fierce beast.
The Tsarevitch sang and wept. Then he laid his head on the table, knocking over the wine glass. A blood-red stain spread on the tablecloth. He put his hand under his head, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Peter gazed for a long time at this pale lifeless face resting on the blood-red stain.
The orderly entered and announced that the horses were ready. Peter got up, he glanced for the last time at his son, bent over him and kissed his brow. The Tsarevitch did not open his eyes, yet in his sleep he smiled at his father with just that tender smile, as when a child the father used to take him in his arms asleep.
The Tsar left the hall unnoticed. The orgie continued. He took his place in the carriage and started off for Petersburg.
In the forest along the Vetlouga there stood a Raskolnik settlement of the “Old Believers” called “the Bank of Mosses.” The roads leading to it were impassable on account of the swamps. It was not an easy task to get there in summer, along the narrow raised paths, which led through thickets quite dark even in the day time. In winter it was accessible on snow shoes.
According to the legend of its origin, three monks from the forests of Olonetz, near the lake Tolveoye, had come here after the destruction of their monastery by the Nikonians; they had followed the lead of a miraculous icon of the Virgin, which had gone before them, suspended in the air. On the spot where the icon descended to the earth they built a hut, and began to live the austere life of hermit monks. They tilled the ground and, burning down the wood along the ridges, sowed rye-corn among the ashes. Disciples collected around them. When the three old men died, they did so on the same day, at the same hour, saying to their disciples: “Children, continue living in this blessed retreat. You may roam far and wide but you will not come across another refuge like it. It has been predestined for the foundation of a large and glorious monastery.”
The prophecy was fulfilled; the settlement grew in thethickly wooded dale, like a lily of Paradise under the protection of the Virgin.
“A miracle!” cried the settlers. “Holy Russia has grown dark while the gloomy regions of the Vetlouga have become radiant; the desert has been peopled with saints who have assembled there like the six-winged seraphim.” It was here that, after long roaming in the forests of Kerjenetz and Tchernoramensk, Father Cornelius, the prophet of the Red Death, and his disciple the runaway Tichon Zapólsky, son, as the reader will remember, of a Streletz rebel, had taken up their abode.
One night in June, not far from the settlement, on a steep rock overhanging the river, a fire was burning. The flames lit up the lower branches of a pine to whose trunk an old Raskolnik’s brass icon was nailed. Two persons were sitting near the fire; the young girl-novice Sophia, and the lay brother Tichon. Sophia had been in the wood searching for a young calf which had strayed; Tichon was returning from a distant hermitage, whither Cornelius had sent him with a letter. They had met by chance at the crossing of the two paths, late at night, when the gates of the monastery were closed; and they decided to await the dawn together near the fire. Sophia watching the flames was singing in a low voice:—
Christ Himself, the blessed King of Heaven,Speaks to us His children, thus:“Let not yourselves be conqueredBy the seven-headed snake, the Evil One.Rather flee and hide in caves and mountains,Where build up large piles of faggots—Pour burning sulphur over them—And burn thereon your earthly bodiesFor your glorious faith in Me!Short your suffering, My beloved!To reward you I will openAll my Father’s Heavenly Mansions;I will take you into Heaven,Where we all shall dwell together.”
Christ Himself, the blessed King of Heaven,Speaks to us His children, thus:“Let not yourselves be conqueredBy the seven-headed snake, the Evil One.Rather flee and hide in caves and mountains,Where build up large piles of faggots—Pour burning sulphur over them—And burn thereon your earthly bodiesFor your glorious faith in Me!Short your suffering, My beloved!To reward you I will openAll my Father’s Heavenly Mansions;I will take you into Heaven,Where we all shall dwell together.”
Christ Himself, the blessed King of Heaven,
Speaks to us His children, thus:
“Let not yourselves be conquered
By the seven-headed snake, the Evil One.
Rather flee and hide in caves and mountains,
Where build up large piles of faggots—
Pour burning sulphur over them—
And burn thereon your earthly bodies
For your glorious faith in Me!
Short your suffering, My beloved!
To reward you I will open
All my Father’s Heavenly Mansions;
I will take you into Heaven,
Where we all shall dwell together.”
“So it shall be, brother,” concluded the young girl, fixing on Tichon a long steady look, “he who will be burned shall be saved. It is well to burn for the love of Christ!”
Tichon remained silent. He watched the moths fluttering round the fire till they perished in the flames, and remembered Cornelius’ words: “Like gnats and midgets, the more you try to kill them the more in numbers come! So the sons of Russia shall cast themselves by thousands into the Red Death!”
“What are you thinking about, brother?” the girl asked. “Are you afraid of the furnace? Courage! Despise it! fear not! The pain won’t last a moment! and quick! the body will release the soul! The fear lasts only while waiting, but once in it all is forgotten. When it begins to burn, you will see Christ, with legions of angels, drawing the soul out of the body; and Christ our Hope blesses the soul, endows it with a divine power, and no longer heavy, but as on wings, it flutters about with the angels, like a bird, rejoiced to have escaped its prison! Long it had cried unto the Lord; ‘Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name.’ And now what it asked for has been granted. The prison is burning in the furnace, and the soul like a pearl, like pure gold, is soaring up to the Lord!”
Such joy shone in her eyes, that she might have been already beholding what she was describing.
“Tichon, Tichon dear, don’t you wish for the Red Death, or do you dread it?” she repeated with a caressing whisper.
“I am afraid to do wrong, Sophia. Surely it cannot be God’s will that men should perish so? Are you certain that it is not the lure of Satan?”
“What are we to do, then? We are driven to it by necessity!” She clasped her thin, pale hands, the hands of a child.
“We cannot escape, we cannot hide ourselves from the dragon, neither in the mountains nor in caverns, nor in the chasms of the earth; he hath empoisoned the earth, the water, the air. Everything is defiled, and accursed.”
The night was still. The stars shone like the innocent eyes of children; the crescent of the waning moon rested upon the black tips of the fir trees. The soothing cry of the night-jar rose through the mist from the bog below. The pine forest exhaled a dry, warm, resinous perfume.Near the fire a lilac harebell, lit up by the red glare of the flames, bent on its stalk as if nodding its delicate, drowsy little head.
The moths continued to flutter round the fire and perish in the flames.
Tichon closed his eyes, wearied by the fire-glow. He remembered one summer’s noon, that scent of the pines, in which the fresh smell of apples seemed mingled with the aroma of myrrh; a glade, sunshine, bees buzzing round clover, snail-trefoil, and pink silene; in the middle of the fine glade stood a weather-beaten, half-rotten, wooden cross, probably indicating the last resting-place of a saintly hermit. “Fair Mother Solitude”—he began to repeat his favourite poem. God had answered his prayers. He had brought him to this quiet resting-place. He knelt, and burying his head in the tall grass, kissed the ground and prayed:—
Oh, wondrous Queen, Mother of God!Earth, thou bountiful mother of all.
Oh, wondrous Queen, Mother of God!Earth, thou bountiful mother of all.
Oh, wondrous Queen, Mother of God!
Earth, thou bountiful mother of all.
and, looking up towards the sky, he continued:—
Descend, thou glorious Mother, from thy hall,Thou wondrous Queen, mother of God.
Descend, thou glorious Mother, from thy hall,Thou wondrous Queen, mother of God.
Descend, thou glorious Mother, from thy hall,
Thou wondrous Queen, mother of God.
The earth and the sky had become one. In the heavenly countenance, radiant as the sun, the countenance of the woman with glowing eyes and fiery wings, Saint Sophia, the Wisdom of God, he saw a countenance familiar to him upon earth, one he longed yet feared to recognise. He rose and went further into the wood. How long and how far he no longer remembered. At last he saw a small round lake; the steep banks covered with firs were reflected in the water like one uninterrupted green wall. The water, thick as resin, green as the pine needles, was so still it was hardly noticeable, and seemed an opening into Hades. On a stone, close to the water, sat the young novice Sophia. He recognised, and yet saw she was a stranger. She had a wreath of white flowers on her flowing hair, the black habit was a little raised, her bare white feet were dipping in the water, her eyes had a drunken look in them. And gently swaying to and fro, looking at the underground kingdom of the water, she sang a gentle song, one of those whichare sung on St. John’s eve at the old revels among the bonfires:—
Loved sun, so fair and bright,Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!Dear flowers bursting in the night,Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!Earth, earth, fertile Mother of all.
Loved sun, so fair and bright,Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!Dear flowers bursting in the night,Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!Earth, earth, fertile Mother of all.
Loved sun, so fair and bright,
Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!
Dear flowers bursting in the night,
Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!
Earth, earth, fertile Mother of all.
There was something ancient and wild in this song, which recalled the sad plaintive notes of a yellow-hammer in the lifeless hush of noon before a storm. “A water nymph!” thought he, daring neither to move nor breathe. A twig snapped under his foot. The young girl turned round, shrieked, jumped off the stone and fled back to the wood. Nothing remained save the ever widening circles round the wreath which had fallen into the water. He felt terrified as if he had really witnessed a sylvan apparition, an infernal mystery. And remembering the human likeness in the heavenly countenance, he recognised Sister Sophia, and the prayer to the “Mother of all” seemed a mockery. He never confided to anybody what he had seen near the Round Lake, but the vision often returned to his mind, and in spite of all his struggles against this temptation he could not overcome it; at times even in his purest prayers he would see the human face as it were through the heavenly countenance.
And now Sophia, continuing to look at the flames with a fixed and wistful gaze, was singing about St. Cyros, the child martyr, whom the infidel king Maximian had cast into a glowing furnace.
Fair Cyros in the furnace stands,Chanting the song of cherubim.Green grass is growing at his feet,Bestarred with florets blue and sweet.He feels no fire, but with them plays,His garment like the sun ablaze.
Fair Cyros in the furnace stands,Chanting the song of cherubim.Green grass is growing at his feet,Bestarred with florets blue and sweet.He feels no fire, but with them plays,His garment like the sun ablaze.
Fair Cyros in the furnace stands,
Chanting the song of cherubim.
Green grass is growing at his feet,
Bestarred with florets blue and sweet.
He feels no fire, but with them plays,
His garment like the sun ablaze.
Tichon too was gazing at the fire, and it seemed to him he recognised the song’s celestial flowers in the blue heart of the flames. Blue as the sky they seemed to promise an inexpressible blessedness; yet to reach that heaven the red flame had to be passed through.
Suddenly Sophia turned to him, laid her hand on his,brought her face so close to his that he felt her breath come and go, ardent and passionate, like a kiss, and began to whisper in a persuasive murmur:—
“Together, together, we will burn, my brother, my beloved! Alone I fear it; with you it will be easy! Together we will go to the marriage feast of the Lamb.”
She repeated with infinite tenderness in her voice, “We will burn, we will burn!” Across her pale face, and in her black eyes, which reflected the glow of the flames, again there flitted that ancient, wild expression, which he had felt in her song near the Round Lake.
“We will burn, Sophia!” he murmured with terror. She drew him as the flame draws a moth.
The sound of footsteps was heard on the path which led along the precipice below.
“Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us sinners,” said a voice.
“Amen,” responded Tichon and Sophia.
The newcomers were pilgrims. They had lost their way in the wood, and narrowly escaped being engulfed in the bog; perceiving the light of the fire, they had after considerable difficulty found their way to it.
They sat down round the fire.
“Is it far to the monastery, friends?”
“’Tis just here at the foot of the hill,” answered Tichon, and looking steadfastly at the woman who put the question, he recognised Vitalia, the same who led the life of a migrant bird, roaming, flying everywhere, whom he had met two years ago in Petersburg on the oak-rafts of the Tsarevitch Alexis, on the night of the Venus festival. She too recognised Tichon and was delighted. With her was her inseparable companion Kilikeya the possessed; the runaway recruit Petka Gisla, whose hand, branded with the government stamp, the mark of the Beast, had withered; and the old boatman, Simple John, who, waiting for Christ’s coming, sang every night the song of the coffin-liers.
“Whence come ye, Orthodox folk?” asked Sophia.
“We are pilgrims,” answered Vitalia, “we wander everywhere, persecuted by the heretics; we have no abiding city, we are waiting for the New Jerusalem. We are now coming from Kerjensk. Cruel persecutions aregoing on there now. Peterin, the fierce wolf, the vampire of the church, has destroyed seventy-seven monasteries and cast out the holy monks.”
They began telling about the persecutions.
One old father had been flogged in three torture chambers, his ribs had been broken with iron tongues, he was dragged by the navel, and then (it was a very cold winter) he was stripped and ice-water was poured over him until icicles reached from his beard to the ground; at last he found death in the flames.
Others were tormented in iron collars, collars which draw head, hands and feet all together; with the result that the spine and the limbs were dislocated, and blood spurted from the mouth, nose, eyes and ears of the martyrs.
Others were forced to partake of the Lord’s supper by having a gag put into their mouths. The soldiers dragged a youth to church, laid him on the bench, the priest and deacon approached with the vessel. He was held down, his mouth was opened and the wine poured in. He spat it out. Then the deacon dealt him such a blow with his fist, that his lower jaw was broken. The lad died from this blow.
One woman to escape the persecutions made a hole in the ice, pushed her seven small children under, and then drowned herself.
A pious husband had his pregnant wife and three children baptized and killed them that very night in their sleep. In the morning he came to the authorities and said:—
“I was the executor of my family, you will be my torturers; they suffered from me, I shall suffer from you, and together we martyrs of the Old Faith will be in heaven.”
Many escaping from Antichrist sought death in the flames.
“They do well. This self-immolation is acceptable to the Lord. Even God cannot save those who fall into the hands of Antichrist. The pains are unbearable, no one can resist him. Better burn here than be cast into the eternal flames,” concluded Vitalia. “Yes; there is no means of escape but by fire or water.”
The stars grew dim. Pale streaks appeared among the clouds on the horizon. Through the mist, the river windingamong the limitless woods glittered like dull steel. On the river bank at the foot of the precipice the monastery was slowly emerging out of the gloom. It was surrounded by a palisade which gave it the appearance of an ancient wooden fortress. A large wooden gateway, surmounted by the image of Christ, opened upon the river. Inside the palisade stood a group of buildings with raised ground floors, vestibules, corridors, closets, attics, summer rooms, turrets, watch towers with narrow windows like fortress barbicans, and steep wooden roofs. Round these clustered a smithy, a tailor’s shop, a tanyard, a cobbler’s shop, a hospital, a school, and a place where icons were painted. The chapel, dedicated to the Virgin of Tolveoye, was also a simple building of logs, only larger than the rest, surmounted by a wooden cross and a shingled dome; near it was the belfry which stood out black against the pale sky.
A faint plaintive sound came floating through the air; this was the summons to early mass. Instead of bells, knockers were used,—oak boards hung on ropes made of twisted ox-sinews, a huge three-sided nail being used to hammer them. According to tradition Noah had summoned the animals to the ark in similar fashion. In the responsive silence of the woods the sound rang singularly sweet and sad.
The pilgrims, looking towards the holy monastery, last refuge of the persecuted, crossed themselves.
“Holy, Holy, Holy New Jerusalem, may God’s glory descend upon thee,” chanted Kilikeya. A transfiguring joy lit up her pale, waxen face.
“All the monasteries have been destroyed; this one alone has remained untouched,” remarked Vitalia; “the Queen of Heaven has evidently taken it under Her holy protection. It is written in Revelation: ‘And to the woman were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness.’”
“The Tsar’s arm is long, but it won’t reach as far as this,” said one of the pilgrims.
“This is the last refuge of ancient holy Russia,” concluded another.
The sound died away, all remained quiet. It was thesilent hour, when, according to tradition, the waters remain motionless, the angels pray, and the seraphim move their wings in holy awe before the throne of the Most High.
Simple John, sitting with his arm round his knees, his motionless eyes fixed on the brightening east, sang his eternal song:—
A coffin of pinewood treeStands ready prepared for me,Within its narrow wallI’ll await the judgment call.
A coffin of pinewood treeStands ready prepared for me,Within its narrow wallI’ll await the judgment call.
A coffin of pinewood tree
Stands ready prepared for me,
Within its narrow wall
I’ll await the judgment call.
And again, as on the rafts at Petersburg on the night of the Venus festival, the talk turned upon the end of the world, and Antichrist:
“Soon, soon! He is already at the door,” began Vitalia. “Now we just manage to get along; but when Antichrist has come our lips will be sealed, and only in our hearts shall we be able to cling to God.”
“It is terrible, terrible,” moaned Kilikeya.
“I have heard,” continued Vitalia Avilka, “a runaway Cossack from the Don, relate a vision he had in the steppe: three men came to his hut, all exactly alike in countenance, they spoke Russian, but with a Greek accent. ‘Whence come ye,’ he asked, ‘and whither do ye go?’ ‘From Jerusalem,’ they answered, ‘and from the Lord’s Sepulchre to Petersburg, to see the Antichrist.’ ‘What Antichrist?’ he asked. ‘He whom you call Tsar Peter; he is the Antichrist. He will conquer Constantinople, and collect the Jews and take them to Jerusalem where he will reign. And the Jews know he is the real Antichrist. And with him has come the end of the world.’”
Again all remained silent, as though in expectation. All at once from the dark forest there came a long cry, like that of a weeping child; it probably was a night-bird. A tremor passed through them.
“Friends, friends,” stuttered Petka, his voice shaking with gasps, “I am afraid. We speak of him, the Antichrist, and perhaps he is here in the wood near us! See how we all are troubled.”
“Fools, fools, blockheads!” suddenly cried a voice like the angry growl of a bear. They turned round andsaw a man whom they had not noticed before. He had probably come out of the wood while they were talking, had sat down on one side in the shade, and had remained silent. He was a tall stooping man, with grizzled red hair. His face could hardly be discerned in the morning twilight.
“The Tsar Peter makes a poor kind of Antichrist; he is a drunkard, a vagabond, a profligate,” continued the old man; “a pitiful Antichrist! The Last of the Devils will go about his work differently; he will have more brain than Peter.”
“Abba, Father,” prayed Vitalia, trembling with fear and curiosity, “enlighten our darkness with the light of truth. Tell us everything you know about the coming of the Son of Perdition.”
The old man groaned; at last after considerable difficulty he succeeded in rising to his feet. There was something heavy, awkward, and bear-like in his whole frame. A boy led him by the hand up to the fire. Under the shrivelled touloupe or sheepskin coat, which he obviously never took off, he wore two stone slabs hung on iron chains, one in front, the other at his back. He had an iron cap on his head, round his loins an iron belt, somewhat like a hoop, to which was riveted a large ring. Tichon remembered Capitone the Great, a saint of Mourom, also had a ring like this fastened to his belt, which by means of a hook in the ceiling was all his rest. He used to sleep hanging by a rope from the hook.
The old man seated himself on the roots of a pine and turned his face eastward. In place of eyes he had two bleeding wounds. The nails which studded the inside of his cap had entered his skull, and had caused him to go blind. His whole face was terrible to look at, but his smile had remained tender as that of a child.
He began to talk, as if beholding with his blind eyes what he was describing:—
“Friends, my poor friends, what has frightened you? He himself has not yet come; nothing has either been seen or heard of him. He will have many precursors; there have been, are, and will be many. They are smoothing his way, and when they have prepared all things andremoved all obstacles then he himself will appear. He will be born of an unchaste woman, and Satan will enter into him; and the Deceiver will in all things be like unto the Son of God: he will be chaste, meek, gentle, and kind, he will heal the sick, feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and comfort the mourners. There will come to him those who were bidden and those who were unbidden, and they will make him ruler over all nations. And he will collect his forces from the east even unto the west; his white sails will cover the sea, his black shields the earth. He will say: I will gather the world into my hand like a nest, and rob it as I would steal the abandoned eggs. And he will do great wonders; move the hills, walk on the waves, bring down fire from heaven, cause devils to appear like angels of light, and armies of numberless spirits. The Prince of Darkness, radiant as the sun, will rise up to heaven and descend again upon the earth with great glory, the trumpets will sound and much crying and wondrous singing will be heard. And he will sit in the temple of God saying: ‘I am God!’ and the people will bow before him saying: ‘Thou art God; there is none other God but thee!’ And the abomination of desolation will stand in the holy place. And then earth shall wail and the sea lift itself up in sighing; the heavens will keep back their dew and the clouds their rain; the sea will be filled with gloom and stench, the rivers will dry up, the sources be exhausted, and people will die from hunger and thirst. And they will come unto the Son of Perdition and say: ‘Give us meat and drink,’ and he will mock and insult them. And they will recognise that he is the Beast, and they will flee from his sight, yet no place will give them shelter. And darkness will compass them round. Pangs and sorrows shall take hold of them. Living beings will look like the dead; women’s beauty will fade; man shall behold them without emotion, and man’s natural force will abate. Silver and gold may be scattered in the markets, yet no one will gather it up. Men will die of their grief, they will bite their tongues and shall blaspheme the living God. The powers of the heavens shall be shaken, and then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in Heaven. He is coming. Even so! Come, Lord Jesus. Amen, Amen!”
He finished and turned his empty orbits towards the east, as if beholding on the horizon, in the towering dark clouds, steeped with blood and gold, that which was as yet withheld from the others. The fiery streaks unfurled in the sky like the fiery pinions of seraphim prostrate in the glory of the coming Lord. A glowing dazzling ball rose over the wall of the dark forest; its rays, split by the pointed tips of the black firs, sparkled in iridescent hues. The flames of the fire grew dim before the radiance of the sun. The earth, the sky, the waters, leaves, birds, the whole creation together with the heart of man shouted with great joy, “Even so! Come, Lord Jesus!”
Tichon experienced his old familiar feeling; the fear and the joy of the End.
Sophia crossed herself at the first appearance of the sun, invoking the baptism of fire, the eternal sun, the Red Death. But Simple John alone remained sitting as before, his arms clasped round his knees. He gently swayed to and fro, and looking towards the east, the dawn of day, he sang about the last setting, the end of days:—
Ye hollowed oak-trunks, ye will proveFit house for us who on earth do move;Night approacheth, endeth Day,And Death his scythe doth layTo the root of all that live....
Ye hollowed oak-trunks, ye will proveFit house for us who on earth do move;Night approacheth, endeth Day,And Death his scythe doth layTo the root of all that live....
Ye hollowed oak-trunks, ye will prove
Fit house for us who on earth do move;
Night approacheth, endeth Day,
And Death his scythe doth lay
To the root of all that live....
A meeting of the brethren had been convoked at the monastery to discuss Avakoum’s controversial epistles.
The zealous priest had sent to his friend the old Monk Sergius in Kerjenetz a letter relating to the Holy Trinity, with the superscription:—
“Receive, Sergius, this eternal Gospel, written not by my hand, but by God’s.”
He asserted that the substance of the Holy Trinity is divided into three co-equal distinct natures. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, each have their separate place, sitting on three thrones as three heavenly kings. Christ sits upon a fourth throne, apart, co-regnant with the Holy Trinity. The Son of God, born of the Virgin, is not hypostatized.
The deacon Theodore accused Avakoum of heresy. Old Onouphry, the disciple of Avakoum, formulated a similar accusation against the deacon Theodore. The followers of Theodore, “Con-substantialists,” called the followers of Onouphry “Tri-substantialists,” and they called each other liars. A schism rose; ardent love gave way to hatred; the monastery was invaded by lying and evil thoughts.
To end these discussions a meeting had been called at “the Banks of Mosses.” Old Onouphry being dead, his disciple Father Hierotheus, now the head and teacher of his school, was summoned to defend himself.
They met at the house of Mother Golendoukha. Her abode was outside the enclosure of the monastery, in a clearing in the midst of the forest. The Onouphriansrefused to enter into discussion within the monastery, fearing a quarrel which might end badly for them, their enemies being superior to them in numbers.
Tichon was present at the meeting. Old Cornelius had stayed away.
“What is the use of talking,” he said. “We must burn. In the fire, the truth will be revealed.”
The abode of the Golendoukha, a spacious hut, was divided into two parts; a smaller one to live in and a larger one for prayer. All round on the log-built walls were shelves on which were placed holy icons, sacred lamps, and candles glimmering before them. Woodcock tail-feathers were hung on the candlesticks to be used as extinguishers. Benches ran along the walls. Massive books, bound in wood or leather, with brass clasps, and manuscripts, the oldest treatises of the great masters of the desert, written on papyrus, lay upon the benches.
Though it was noon the room was dark and oppressive. The window shutters with leaded panes of dull fish-bladder were closed. Only through the chinks here and there entered shafts of light, which made the flames of lamps and tapers appear red and dim. The air was saturated with a smell of wax, leather, sweat, and incense. Through the open door the gloomy woods and the glade flooded with sunshine were visible.
Monks in black cassocks and hoods thronged round Father Hierotheus, who stood before the pulpit in the centre of the chapel. He looked sedate and well fed, with a pasty face, white as the holy loaves; his blue eyes, slightly squinting, had different expressions; one showed Christian humility, the other philosophic presumption. He had a persuasive voice, “like a sweet-singing ousel,” folk said. He was dressed with care; his cassock was of the finest cloth, he wore a velvet kaftan, and the cross on his breast was set with rubies. His sandy and slightly grey hair exhaled attar of roses. Among the shabby monks and moujiks from the forest, he appeared as a real boyar or a Niconian bishop.
Father Hierotheus was a learned man; he had absorbed knowledge from books as a sponge absorbs water. But his enemies affirmed that his wisdom was not from God;they said he had two doctrines: the one orthodox, which he proclaimed for all; the other heretical and secret, which he revealed only to the elect—for the most part to the rich and noble. Simple and poor folk he attracted by munificent alms.
From dawn till noon the dispute ran high, but with no results. Father Hierotheus always managed to avoid committing himself. Much as the monks tried they could not convict him.
At last, in the heat of the controversy, a disciple of Father Hierotheus, Brother Spiridon, a quick-eyed, dark little man with temples in curls, like Jewish ringlets, suddenly sprang forward and shouted at the top of his voice:—
“The Trinity sit together, the Son on the right, the Holy Spirit on the left of the Father. On separate thrones without confounding themselves, sit the three Heavenly Kings, while Christ sits on a fourth apart from them!”
“You split the Trinity into four,” cried the terrified monks.
“And you make one lump of it, one single Person! The Trinity is not one, but three! three! three!” roared Father Spiridon, thrusting up his hands as though he were felling with an axe. “Believe in the threefold Trinity! Without fear divide the Indivisible, the one into three; Christ makes a fourth.”
And he went on explaining the difference between essence and substance. The substance of the Son is within, the essence sits at the Father’s feet.
“God became Man not by His substance, but alone by His essence. Had he come down in His substance He would have scorched the universe, and the womb of the Pure Mother could not have borne the wholeness of God; it would have been consumed.”
“Oh, erring, worldly brother!” supplicated the fathers, “listen to your conscience, apprehend God. Cast out from yourself the root of heresy, go no further. Repent, beloved brother!” the monks implored him, “Who told you this thing, and where did you see whether the three Heavenly Kings sit separate and not confounding themselves? Neither the angels nor the archangels cansee Him, yet you say, ‘They sit not confounding the persons.’ Why was your tongue not burnt for saying this?”
But Spiridon continued to shout:
“Three, three, three! I will die for my belief; even fire could not burn it from my soul.”
Seeing they could do nothing with him, the monks returned to Father Hierotheus,
“Be straightforward! tell us plainly what do you believe in! The Trinity in Unity or the Trinity in three distinct persons?”
Father Hierotheus remained silent and smiled disdainfully. It was evident that from the height of his learning he looked down upon these simple-minded men, these beggars, with utter contempt.
But the monks—like gnats—assailed him and more insistently.
“Why don’t you reply? are you deaf? Like the slate-coloured dragon, you have stopped up your ears to the counsels of the ancient Church!”
“He has hardened his heart like a Pharaoh!”
“You do not seek to live peaceably with us monks, you think yourself too far above us. You have broken the law of love.”
“Rebel! Tempter of Christians!”
“Back! What do you want of me!” Father Hierotheus at last burst out, his patience exhausted, receding imperceptibly towards the door. “Don’t press me! You will not be called to account for my opinions. Whether I shall be saved or no, what matter is it to you? You live by your lights, we live by ours; we have nothing in common. I pray you let me alone.”
Father Provost, an old man, hoary, thick-built and muscular, brandished his knotty staff in the face of Father Hierotheus:
“Mad heretic! when the judge pummels you with a stick like this, you will soon decide which is your faith; the Trinity in Unity or the Trinity in three distinct persons.”
“Peace be with you, my brethren in Christ!” said a gentle voice, so unlike the others that every one heard it. It was Father Missail, a hermit, who had come from adistant desert, a great saint, “young in years but old in wisdom.”
“What are you about, beloved fathers? Is it not the devil who rouses and fills us with hatred against our brethren? And nobody seeks the waters of life to quell Satan’s fire, only pitch and dry sticks to feed it. Verily, brethren, I have never seen such hate, even among the Niconians! If they get to know about this and begin to persecute us again, they will no longer sin before God, and the tortures they will inflict upon us will be but the beginning of the eternal torments.”
All suddenly were hushed as if awakening to reality.
Father Missail knelt and bowed first to the whole assembly, then to Father Hierotheus.
“Forgive me, brethren! Forgive me, beloved brother! Great is your learning; you have a fiery spirit, have mercy upon us simple-minded folk, and put aside these literary controversies, for the sake of charity!”
He rose and was going to embrace Hierotheus. But the latter forestalled him, and fell down on his knees before Father Missail.
“Pardon me, father! Who am I? A dead dog. How can I know more than your Holy Assembly? You say I have a fiery spirit. You make my soul vain. I, a man, am like the frogs which dwell in the marshes. I fill my belly like a pig. But for the Lord’s help my soul would go to hell. I can hardly breathe under the passions which oppress me. Oh! sinner that I am! And you, Missail! may God bless you for your words!”
Father Missail with a gentle smile again stretched out his arms to embrace Father Hierotheus. But the latter rose and repulsed him, with an expression of such anger and pride on his face that all were alarmed.
“God reward you for your admonition of me,” he continued in a voice suddenly changed and vibrating with fury: “for instructing and exhorting us poor ignorant folk! But it were as well, friend, to know the measure of your strength. You soar high; may you never come toppling to the ground! Who madeyoua teacher? Who madeyoua master? Nowadays every one teaches, and there is no one left willing to be taught. Woe unto us who livein this evil time! You are but a child, and yet you presume much. Really, we have no desire to listen to you. Teach them who are contented with such teaching, but keep off us, if you please. Fine teachers truly! One threatens us with his stick, the other tries to smooth matters over by ‘love’! What is the good of ‘love’ if based on the ruins of truth? Even Satan loves his faithful. As for us, we love Christ, and hate His enemies. Rather death, than union with impious apostates! I am innocent, and the very dust of this place on my feet I shake off before you, for it is written, ‘Better one who doeth the will of the Father than a multitude of sinners.’”
And taking advantage of the general confusion, Father Hierotheus, protected by his acolytes, swiftly passed out.
Father Missail went apart and began to pray in a low voice, repeating again and again: “Calamity threatens! Calamity threatens! Shield us, Holy Virgin!——”
But the monks began to shout and quarrel more wildly than before.
“Spiridon, you infidel, listen: the Son sits on a throne at the right hand of the Father!” “Well, that is right, leave him there!” “No, he drags the Son off the throne, and puts him down at His Father’s feet!”
“Cursed, cursed, cursed, Anathema! If an angel reveal what is not in the Scriptures let him be anathema!”
“You ignoramuses! You know not how to discuss the Scriptures! What is the good of wasting time or argument on you, village blockheads!”
“God has blinded you for standing up against Truth! Curse you, may you perish!”
“May we have nothing to do with you, either in this world, or the next!”
All spoke together, and no one listened. Now not only those who believed in the Unity of the Trinity disputed fiercely with those who believed in the three distinct Persons, but brethren of the same persuasion were ready to shout themselves hoarse over mere nothings: the swinging of the thurifer in the shape of a cross; the eating of garlic on Annunciation-day, the crossing of the legs during confession. Babel was let loose. Every comma and iota in the old books roused wrathful disputations.
“May not a little fault in copying engender a great heresy?”
“We will die for one letter!”
“Learn what is written in the old books, and repeat the Lord’s prayer unceasingly, this is all that is required.”
“Theodore, God’s enemy, thou dog of Hell! distinguish the Lord’s cross from that of Peter.”
“Christ’s cross hath a foot-stock!” Brother Julian tried to prove with a hoarse voice (he was the Reader at “Bank of Mosses.”) Usually quiet and meek, he now raged like a madman, with foam in his mouth, swollen veins on his temples, and bloodshot eyes.
Father Trophilius, another Reader, came to his help. He jumped up, like a flying-fish out of the water; his neck was stiff as a rod, he quaked and trembled from excessive zeal, his teeth chattered; his voice was like that of an infuriated camel, terrible, untameable in its passion.
He was no longer trying to prove anything, he only used bad language and got the same in return. They had begun with theology, they ended with mere scurrility.
“Satan has set up his house inside you.”
“You black scamp, you have sold your soul for a bottle of brandy!”
“Erring beasts!”
“Listen, hark ye about the Trinity!”
“What is there worth listening to? It is impossible to make out your meaning. It is like mat-weaving when the ends have got lost.”
“I proclaim heavenly mysteries, I am inspired!”
“Stop your rubbishy ravings!”
“Cursed, cursed, Anathema!”
This council of peasants in the forest of the Vetlouga resembled in many respects the Council of the Churches held at the Imperial Court of Byzantium in the time of Julian the Apostate, fourteen centuries before.
Tichon watched and listened. It seemed to him that these were not men who were discussing about God, but beasts who sought to devour one another. The peace of his beloved desert had been destroyed for ever.
Voices were heard from outside the windows. Mother Golendoukha, Mothers Merope and Onleya looked out andsaw that a crowd was coming out from the wood beside the monastery. It was then remembered that during a religious dispute at Kerjenetz how some laymen, labourers and boatmen who had been bribed, came to the hut where the meeting was held, and fell upon the monks with pitchforks, clubs and axes.
Fearing lest something similar might happen now, the women rushed into the chapel, and bolted the door with the strong oaken bolts, just as the crowd was already knocking and calling out:—
“Open! open!”
They shouted something else besides, but Mother Golendoukha, who had assumed the command, was a little deaf and could not hear; the rest of the women ran hither and thither, cackling like scared hens. They were also prevented from hearing by the shouts inside the chapel, where the monks, oblivious of what went on around them, continued quarrelling.
Father Spiridon was declaring that Christ had entered the Virgin through her ear, and had come out inexplicably through her ribs.
Father Trifily spat in his face. Then Spiridon caught hold of Father Trifily’s beard, pulled off his hood, and was going to strike his bald head with a brass cross, when Father Provost knocked the cross out of his hand with a club.
An Onouphrian Reader, the sturdy young fellow Arhipka, rushed at Father Provost and dealt him such a blow on the temples with his fist that the old man fell down unconscious. A battle royal began. The monks appeared to be possessed by demons. In the suffocating gloom, scarcely lit up by the dim light of the holy lamps and shafts of sunlight, fearful faces rushed to and fro; the fight was carried on with clenched fists, leather straps, rosaries, torn books, leaden candlesticks and burning candles; bad language, scoffs, moans, and groans, howls and shrieks resounded in the air.
Meanwhile from without the knocks continued, with shouts:—
“Open! open!”
The wooden wall trembled under the blows; one of the shutters was hewn off.
Mother Onleya, puffy and pale as paste, sank down on the floor, and began to shriek so piercingly that all were frightened.
The other shutter cracked and gave way; through the burst fish-skin pane appeared the head of Father Minos, harness-maker to the monastery; his eyes were protruding as he shouted:—
“The soldiers, the soldiers are coming! You fools, what did you lock yourselves up for! Come out, be quick!”
All grew dumb. The fists raised, or the fingers clutching the hair of an adversary, remained suspended, petrified.
Dead silence ensued. Only Father Missail went on wailing and praying. “Calamity has come upon us! Mother of God, be gracious unto us!”
Coming to their senses they rushed to the door, opened it and ran out.
From the crowd, which had collected in the clearing, they learnt the terrible news: soldiers with priests and clerks, were making their way through the forest. They had already destroyed the neighbouring monastery, and to-day or to-morrow they might appear at “the Bank of Mosses.”
Tichon saw Father Cornelius surrounded by a number of hermits, peasants and children from the neighbouring villages. “Lose no time, O faithful ones!” exhorted the monk, “bravely thrust yourselves into the fire. Surfer for the Lord’s sake! Leap into the flames. ‘Here, devil! take my body, you have nothing to do with my soul!’ Now our persecutors bring us fire and wood, earth and axe, knife and gallows; but there in heaven angelic songs and praise and joy are awaiting us. When our bodies shall be brought to life by the Holy Spirit, then shall we come forth from the earth, like children from their mother’s womb. Prophets and Patriarchs, none will be freed from trial, all have to pass the river of fire, only we shall be free; we shall have burned here. We shall be purged because we enter the flames of our own free will. We shall burn like candles, a sacrifice to God! We shall bake like sweet bread for the Holy Trinity. We will die for the love of the Son of God. More radiant than the sun is the Red Death——!”
“Rather burn, than fall into the hands of Antichrist!” shouted the frenzied crowd.
The women’s and children’s cries rose even above the men’s.
“Run, run into the flames; let us burn! Flee from the tormentors!”
“Now the monasteries are burning,” continued the monk, “but after awhile villages and towns will kindle in their turn. I would have loved to set Nijni on fire myself; I would rejoice to see it burn from end to end. One day the whole of Russia will burn with us!”
His eyes glowed with a strange light. They reflected that last fire which shall destroy the world.
When he had finished the crowd dispersed over the glade and in the outskirts of the wood.
Tichon for some time kept wandering about the groups, listening to what was said. He believed all were going mad.
One peasant said to another:—
“The kingdom of heaven itself is falling into your lap, and you hesitate. Your children are small, your wife young, you love them, you do not desire to perish, but how do you enjoy life with them? A sack, a pot, and bast shoes is your little all. Even your wife herself yearns for the martyr’s fire; and you, a man, are more foolish than a woman? Suppose you live to marry your children and to console your wife! What then? What else but the grave? Whether you burn or no, die you must one day.”
A monk was persuading another monk: “Expiation for our sins is slow and wearisome—ten years’ public penance, endless fasts and prayers! Enter now the flames; and there is an end to your penance! neither work, nor fasting one hour will bring you to heaven. The fire will purge away all sins. Once burnt you are free from all!”
One old man was calling to another:—
“Come, friend, you have lived long enough. It is time to go into the other world, even if only as the lowliest of martyrs.”
The lads playfully said to the girls:—
“Come into the fire! In the other world we shall have golden dresses and red boots, nuts, honey and apples in plenty.”
“It will be well for the young children to burn,” said the monks; “they will avoid sinning, marrying and having children; their purity will remain uncorrupted!”
Others spoke of the great burnings in ancient days; of how, in the Paleostrovsky Monastery, where two thousand seven hundred people had burnt themselves together with the old monk Ignatius, a miracle had taken place. When the church took fire, after the thick smoke had gone off, Father Ignatius, cross in hand, rose through the cupola, followed by all the other monks and a multitude of people in shining garments and great glory. They went up the road to heaven, and passing the gates, disappeared.
And another recounted how in the Poodoyhski churchyard, where nineteen hundred and twenty persons were burnt, the soldiers on guard saw a luminous pillar descend from heaven, many-hued like a rainbow; three men in cassocks, radiant as the sun, came down from it and went round the place three times; one blessed it with the cross, the other sprinkled it with holy water, the third swung the censer. Then they entered the pillar again and ascended into heaven. After this, on the eves of special festivals, many believers saw at that same place wax candles light themselves and heard ineffable singing.
A peasant of Pomone said he had himself had yet another vision. He had lain unconscious in a fever and suddenly saw a moving wheel of fire, and on that wheel tortured men were wailing: “Here are those who refused to burn themselves, but live after the flesh and served Antichrist. Go thou and preach self-burning to all people.” A drop fell upon his lip from the wheel; he awoke, his lip had inflamed. Then he preached to the people: “It is good to burn alive; this sign on my lip is the stigma made by the dead who refused to burn.”
Then the woman Kilikeya sitting on the grass sang about the wife of Alleluja. When the Jews, sent by Herod, sought to kill the child Jesus, the wife of Alleluja hid him and threw her own child into the furnace instead.