"I am going to leave you for a little. I have to think."
He looked at me. His eyes beamed, his eyelashes fluttered, and my heart answered him, trembling. I had seen little of friendship, but I knew how to value it.
"You are a good man," I said to him.
He became embarrassed, lowered his eyes, and I also was confused. We stood opposite each other, silent; then separated. He called out after me:
"Don't go too far. You will lose your way."
"Thank you."
I turned into the wood, chose a place and sat down. From the distance came the voices of the children. The thick, green wood resounded with their laughter and it sighed. The squirrels squeaked over my head, the finches sang.
I wanted to explain all to my soul; all which I knew and which I had heard these days, but everything melted within me into a rainbow, and it enfolded me and carried me on as it floated quietly along, filling my soul. It grew infinitely large, and I lost myself in it, forgetting myself in a light cloud of speechless thought.
At night I reached home and said to Mikhail that I would like to live with them some time, until I learned their faith. For this reason I wished Uncle Peter to find some work for me in the factory.
"Don't hurry so," he said. "You ought to rest and read some books."
"Give me your books," I said, for I trusted them.
"Take them."
"I have never read worldly books," I said. "Give me what you think I need; for instance, a Russian history."
"It is necessary to know everything," he answered, and looked at the books affectionately, as at the children.
Then I buried myself in study, reading all day long. It was difficult for me, and painful. The books did not argue with me. They simply did not wish to know me. One book especially tortured me. It spoke about the development of the world and of human life. It was written against the Bible. Everything was stated simply, clearly and positively. I could find no loophole in this simplicity, and it seemed to me that a whole row of strange powers were around me and that I w as among them like a mouse in a trap. I read it twice, read it in silence, wishing to find some flaw in it through which I could escape to liberty. But I found none. I asked my teacher:
"How is it? Where is the man?"
"It seems to me, too," he said, "that this book is not true, but I cannot explain where it is wrong. Still, after all, as a guess at the plan of the world, it is very pretty." I liked it when he answered: "I do not know; I cannot say." And I stood very close to him, for evidently in this lay his honesty. When a teacher decides to be conscious of his ignorance, it must be that he has some knowledge.
He knew much that was unknown to me and which he related to me with marvelous simplicity. Once he told me how the sun and the stars and the earth were created, and he talked as if he himself saw this fiery work, done by an unknown and wise hand. I did not understand his God, but that did not trouble me. The principal force of this world he called some kind of matter, but I placed instead of matter God, and all went smoothly.
"God is not yet created," he said, smiling.
The question of God was a standing source of argument between Mikhail and his uncle. As soon as Mikhail said God, Uncle Peter would get angry.
"He has begun it again. Don't you believe him, Matvei. He has inherited that from his mother."
"Wait, Uncle. The question of God for Matvei is the principal question."
"Don't you believe it, Mishka. Send him to the devil, Matvei. There are no Gods. It is a dark wood—religion, churches and all such things are a dark wood, where robber bandits live. It is a hoax."
But Mikhail insisted obstinately. "The God about whom I speak existed when men unanimously created Him from the stuff of their brains, to illumine the darkness of their existence. But when the people were divided into slaves and masters, into little bits and pieces; when they lost their thought and their will-power, God was lost, God was destroyed."
"Do you hear, Matvei?" Peter would cry out happily. "He is dead! Long live his memory!"
His nephew looked straight into his face, and lowering his voice, continued:
"The main crime which the masters of life have committed is the destruction of the creative power of the people. The time will come when the will of the people will again converge to one point, and then, again, the unconquerable and miraculous power will arise and the resurrection of God will take place. It is He whom you seek, Matvei."
Uncle Peter waved his hands like a wood-cutter.
"Don't believe him, Matvei. He is wrong."
And turning to his nephew, he stormed at him:
"You have caught church thoughts, Mishka, like stolen cucumbers from a strange garden, and you confuse people with them. When you say that the working people are called to renew life, then renew it, but don't gather up that which the priests have brought up from their holes and dropped!"
It interested me to listen to these people, and their mutual respect and equality surprised me. They argued with heat, but they did not offend each other with evil language and abuse. At times the blood would mount to Uncle Peter's head, and he would tremble; but Mikhail only lowered his voice and seemed to bend his large opponent to the earth. Two men stood opposite me, and both of them denied God out of the fulness of their sincere faith!
"But what is my faith?" I asked myself, and found no answer.
During my stay with Mikhail the thought about the place of God among people sank and lost its strength and dropped its former boldness and was supplanted by a quantity of other thoughts, and instead of the question, "Where is God?" stood other questions: "Who am I, and why? Wherefore do I seek God?"
I understood that it was senseless.
In the evenings workingmen came to Mikhail and interesting conversations took place. The teacher spoke to them about life and explained to them the laws which were bad. He knew them remarkably well and explained them clearly. The workingmen were mostly young men, dried up by the heat of the factory. Their skins were eaten by soot, their faces were dark, their eyes sorrowful. They listened with serious eagerness, silent and frowning, and at first they seemed to me morose and servile. But later I understood their life better and saw that they could sing and dance and joke with the young girls.
The conversations of Mikhail and his uncle were always on the same subjects—the power of money, the abasement of the workingmen, the greed of the masters and the absolute necessity of destroying divisions of men into classes.
But I was no workingman and no master. I was not in search of money, and they laid too much stress on capital, and thereby lowered themselves. At first I argued with Mikhail, pointing out that man's first duty was to find his spiritual birthplace and that then he would see his own place on earth, and he would find his freedom.
I spoke briefly, but with heat. The workingmen listened to my speech good-naturedly and attentively, like honest judges, and some of the elder ones even agreed with me. But when I finished Mikhail began with his quiet smile and annihilated my words.
"You are right, Matvei, when you say that man lives in mystery and does not know whether God, that is, his spirit, is his enemy or his friend. But you are not right when you say that we, who are arbitrarily bound in the chains of the terrible misery of our daily toil, can free ourselves from the yoke of greed without destroying the actual prison which surrounds us. First of all we must learn the strength of our next-door enemy and learn his cunning. For this we must find each other and discover in each other the one thing which unites each with all. And this one thing is our unconquerable, I can say miraculous, strength. Slaves never had a God. They raised human laws which were forced on them without, to Godhood, nor can there ever be a God for slaves, for He is created from the flames of the sweet consciousness of the spiritual relationship of each toward all. Temples are not created from gravel and debris, but from strong whole stones. Isolation is the breaking away from the parental whole. It is a sign of the weakness and the blindness of the soul, for in the whole is immortality and in isolation inevitable slavery and darkness and inconsolable yearning and death."
When we spoke this way it seemed to me that his eyes saw a great light in the distance. He drew me into his circle and every one forgot about me, but looked at him with happiness. At first this offended me. I thought that they misunderstood my thoughts and that no one was willing to accept any one's thoughts but Mikhail's. Unnoticed I would go away from them, sit down in a corner and quietly hold council with my pride.
I made friends with the pupils. On holidays they surrounded Uncle Peter and me like ravens around sheaves of corn. He would make some toy for them while I was bombarded with questions about Kiev, Moscow and everything I had seen. Often one of them would ask me a question which would make my eyes bulge out in astonishment. There was a young boy there called Fedia Sachkof, a quiet, serious child. Once when I was going with him through the wood, speaking to him about Christ, he suddenly said in a firm tone:
"Christ did not think of remaining a small boy all his life—for instance, a boy of my age. If He had done so, He could have lived and still have accused the rich and aided the poor, and He would not have been crucified. He would have been a small boy, and they would have been sorry for Him. But the way He did it, it is as if He had never been here."
Fedia was about eleven. His little face was white and transparent, and his eyes were critical.
There was another boy, Mark Lobof, a pupil of the last class. He was a thin, quick-tempered, sharp fellow, very impudent and a bully. He would whistle low, and pinch, beat and push the children. Once I saw him persecuting a small, quiet boy until the latter burst into tears.
"Mark," I said to him, "suppose he fought you back."
Mark looked at me, laughed and answered:
"He won't fight. He is gentle and good."
"Then why do you hurt him?"
"Just so," he answered.
He whistled and then added: "Because he is gentle."
"Well, suppose he is?" I asked.
"What are the gentle ones made for?"
He said that in a remarkably quiet tone, and it was evident that at twelve years old he was already sure that the gentle people were created for insults.
Each child was wise in his own way, and the more I was with them the more I thought about their fate. What did they do to deserve the wretched, offensive life which awaited them?
I reminded myself of Christa and my son, and remembering them, angry thoughts arose in my soul. Do you not forbid the women free birth of children because you fear that they might give birth to some one dangerous and inimical to you? Do you not violate woman's will because her free son is terrible to you, since he is not tied to you by any bonds? You have time and the right to bind your children whom you have brought up and equipped for the affairs of life; but you fear that nobody's child whom you have denied your supervision may grow up into your implacable enemy.
There was such a nobody's child in the factory. His name was Stepa. He was black as a beetle, pockmarked, and without eyebrows. His eyes were little and sharp, and he was quick at everything, and very gay.
Our acquaintance began with his coming up to me one holiday and saying:
"Monk, I heard you are illegitimate. Well, so am I." And he walked alongside of me.
He was thirteen, had already finished school and was working in the factory. He walked along, blinked his eyes, and asked:
"Is the earth large?"
I explained to him as best I could. "Why do you want to know?" I asked.
"I need to know. Why should I stick in one place? I am not a tree. As soon as I learn the locksmithing trade, I am going far into Russia, to Moscow, and farther still. I am going everywhere."
He spoke as if he were threatening some one. "I am coming!"
I watched him closely after this meeting. He had a serious streak in him. He was always where Mikhail's comrades talked, and he listened and squinted his eyes as if taking aim where to send himself. He had a special way of playing tricks. He teased only those who stood near to the boss.
Once at dinner, he said: "It is dull here, monk."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but they are a rotten lot. Work and trouble, nothing more. As soon as I learn my trade I am going to get out of here, quick."
Whenever he spoke of his future wanderings his eyes became large and he glanced boldly and had the look of a conqueror, who staked his all on his own strength.
I liked this creature, and I felt something mature in his speech. "He won't get lost," I thought to myself as I looked at him.
My soul ached for my own son. How was he and what was going to happen to him on this earth?
There was a quiet growth of new feelings within me. I felt that each man sent out to me a sharp, thin ray which touched me unseen and imperceptibly reached my heart. And I accepted these hidden rays ever more willingly.
At times the workingmen assembled in Mikhail's rooms, and then I felt that a burning cloud formed from their thoughts, which surrounded me and carried me strangely upward with itself.
Suddenly every one began to understand me more and more. I stood in their circle, and they were my body and I was their soul and their will, and my speech was their voice. And at times it was I that was a part of the body, and I heard the cry of my own soul from other mouths, and it sounded good when I heard it. But when time passed and there was silence I again remained alone and for myself.
I remembered my former communion with God in my prayers. Then I had been glad when I could wipe myself out from my memory and cease to exist. In my relationship with people I did not lose myself; instead I grew larger, taller, and the strength of my soul increased many-fold. In this, too, lay self-forgetfulness, but it did not destroy me. It quenched my bitter thoughts and the anguish of isolation.
I realized this mistily and vaguely. I felt that a new seed was growing in my soul, but I could not understand it. I only knew that it pulled me determinedly toward people.
In those days I worked in the factory for forty kopecks a day, carrying on my shoulders heavy trays of iron, slag and brick. I hated this hellish place, with its dirt and its noise and its hubbub, and its heat which tortured the body.
The factory had fastened itself onto the earth and pressed itself into her and sucked her insatiably night and day. It was out of breath from greed and groaned and spit out of its red-hot jaws fiery blood drawn from the earth. It cooled off, grew black, then again began to melt iron and to boil and thunder, flattening out the red iron and squirting up sparks and trembling in its whole frame, as it pulled out long strips like nerves, from the body of the earth.
The wild labor seemed to me something terrible, something bordering on the insane. This groaning monster, devastating the lap of the earth, was digging an abyss under itself, and knowing that some day it would fall into it, screeched eagerly, with a thousand voices: "Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
In fire and noise, under a rain of burning sparks, blackened men worked. It was no place for them. About them everything threatened to burn them by fiery death or to crush them by heavy iron; everything deafened and blinded. The unbearable heat dried up the blood, but they did their work quietly, walking about with a masterly confidence, like devils in hell, fearing nothing and knowing nothing.
They lifted small levers with strong hands, and all around and above them hands and jaws of enormous machines moved quietly and terribly, crumbling the iron. It was hard to know whose mind and whose will reigned here. At times it was man who controlled and governed this factory according to his wishes. But other times it seemed that all the people and the whole factory were subject to the devil and that he laughed aloud, triumphantly and horribly as he saw the mad and difficult rush created by greed.
The workers said to one another: "It is time to go to work." Were the men masters of their work, or did it drive and crush them? I did not know. Work seemed difficult and masterful, but the human mind was sharp and quick. Sometimes there would ring out amid this devilish noise of whirring machines a victorious and care-free song. I would smile in my heart, remembering the story of Ivan the Fool, who rode on a whale up to heaven to catch the wonder-bird, Phoenix.
The people in the factory, though they were not friendly to me, were all bold and proud. They were abusive, foul-mouthed and often drunk; yet they were free and fearless people. They were different from the pilgrims and the tillers of the soil, who offended me with their servile, confused souls, their hopeless complainings and their petty cheatings in their affairs with God and themselves. These people were bold in thought, and although they were hurt by the slavery of their labor, and grew angry with one another and even fought, yet if the bosses ever acted unfairly, thereby rousing their sense of justice, they would stand together against them as one man.
And those workingmen who followed Mikhail were always among the first, spoke louder than the rest and seemed to fear nothing. Formerly, when I did not think about the people, I did not notice men; but now as I looked upon them I wished to detect differences, so that each one might stand out separately before me. I succeeded in this and yet not entirely. Their speech was different and each one had his own face, but their faith-was the same and their plans were one. Without haste, friendly and sincerely, they were building something new. Each one of them, among his fellows, was like a pleasant light; like a meadow in a thick wood for the wanderer who had lost his way. Each one drew to himself the workingmen who were wider awake than the rest, and all these followers of Mikhail were held together by one plan, and they created a spiritual circle in the factory, a fire of brightly burning thoughts.
At first the workingmen were not friendly to me. They shouted and made fun of me.
"Oh, you red-haired fly! You cloister-bug! You foul one! Parasite!"
At times they struck me, but this I could not stand, and in such cases I did not spare my fists. Though people admire strength, still one cannot gain esteem and attention through his fists, and I would have had to bear many beatings were it not that at one of my quarrels a friend of Mikhail's, one Gavriel Kostin, interfered. He was a young metal pourer, very handsome and respected by the whole factory. Six men had come up to me and their looks boded ill for my back. But he stood next to me and said:
"Why do you provoke a man, comrades? Is he not as much a worker as the rest of us? You do wrong, and against yourselves. Our strength lies in close friendship."
He said these few words, but he said them so well and so simply, as if he were talking to children. The friends of Mikhail always made use of every incident to spread their ideas.
Kostin embarrassed my opponents and the words touched my heart also. I began to talk.
"I did not become a monk," I said, "to have much to eat, but because my soul was starved. I have lived and I have seen that everywhere labor is endless and hunger common; that everywhere there is swindle and fraud, bitterness and tears, brutality and every kind of darkness of the soul. By whom was this arranged? Where is our righteous and wise God? Does He see the infinite and eternal martyrdom of the people?"
A crowd collected about me and listened earnestly to my words. I finished and there was silence.
Finally, the head model-maker, Kriokof, said to Kostin:
"That monk there sees things deeper than you and your comrades. He has taken hold of the root of the matter."
It pleased me to hear these words. Kriokof slapped me on my shoulder and said:
"You have spoken well, brother, but all the same cut your hair by a yard. Such a mane catches the dirt and looks funny."
And some one called out:
"And is in the way in a fight."
They were joking. Evidently their wrath had passed. Where there is laughter, there is man; the animal is gone.
Kostin took me aside. "Be careful with such words, Matvei," he said. "You can get into prison for them."
I was astonished. "What!"
"In prison," he laughed.
"Why?"
"For criticizing."
"Are you joking?"
"Ask Mikhail," he said. "I have to go to work now."
He went away.
I was very much astonished at his words. I could hardly believe them, but in the evening Mikhail confirmed them. All evening he told me about the cruel persecutions. It seemed that for such speeches as I had made thousands of people suffered death, were sent to Siberia and to the mines; yet, though the slaughter of Herod was in no way diminishing, the faithful were ever increasing in numbers.
Something grew and became clear in my soul, and the speeches of Mikhail and his comrades took on another meaning, for, first of all, if a man was ready to give up his freedom and even his life for his faith, it meant that he was a sincere believer, and he resembled the early martyrs who followed the laws of Christ.
Mikhail's words grew connected and blossomed out and came close to my soul. I do not mean to say that I understood his words at once and fathomed their depths, but for the first time that evening I felt their close relationship to my heart, and the whole earth seemed to me a Bethlehem saturated with the blood of children. I grew to understand the keen desire of the Virgin Mother when, looking upon hell, she asked of the Archangel Mikhail: "Oh, Archangel, let me suffer in this fire. Let me take part in this great agony." Only that here I did not see sinners, but righteous ones, wishing to destroy the hell upon earth, for the sake of which they were serenely prepared to undergo all suffering.
"Perhaps there are no longer holy anchorites," I said to Mikhail, "because man is not going away from the world, but toward the world."
"The true faith," he answered, "comes out in a true movement."
"Take me into this movement," I begged of him.
Everything burned within me.
"No," he answered. "Wait a while and consider it. It is still too soon for you. If you, with your character, should fall into the enemy's noose at present, you would be entangled in it uselessly and for a long time. On the other hand, you ought to go away after what you have said. There is much that is still not clear to you, and you are not free enough for our work. Its great beauty has captivated and allured you, but though it is displayed before you in its whole strength you stand before it as if you were standing in a square room from which you can see the temple being built, in all its immensity and beauty. But it is being built quietly and evenly day by day, and if you are not familiar with the whole plan, the sublime temple will disappear and vanish from your vision, and the vision, which was not deep in your soul, will vanish and the labor of building will seem beyond your strength."
"Why do you quench my ardor?" I asked him with pain. "I have found a place for myself and was happy when I saw that I could be useful."
He answered me calmly and sadly:
"I do not consider that you are capable of living by a plan which is not clear to you, and I see that the consciousness of your relation to the spirit of the working class has not yet arisen in your soul. You have been sharpened by the friction of life, and you stand in advance of the thought of the people. You do not look upon yourself as one of them, but it seems to me that you consider yourself a hero, ready to give alms to the weak from the overflow of your strength; that you consider yourself something special, living for yourself, and that in yourself is the beginning and end, and that you are not a link in the exquisite and immense unending chain."
I began to understand why he sent me back to earth and unconsciously felt that his words were right.
"You should begin wandering again," he said, "to look upon the life of the people with new eyes. Do not take books along with you. Reading will give you nothing. You do not yet believe that it is not human intelligence which is found in books, but the infinite diversity of the striving of the soul of the people toward freedom. Books do not seek to master you, but give you the weapon for emancipation; you do not yet understand how to hold this weapon in your hand."
He spoke truly. Books were strangers to me at this time. I was used to church writings, but I could not grasp worldly thought except with great difficulty. The spoken word gave me much more than the written. The thoughts which I gathered from books lay on the surface of my soul and were quickly effaced and melted away by my fire. They did not answer my principal question: What was the law which governed God, and why, if man was made in His image, did He degrade him against His will? And, moreover, whose was this will?
Side by side with this question, not antagonizing it, lived another. Was God brought down from heaven on this earth, or was He raised from earth up to heaven by the strength of the people? And here arose the burning thought that the creation of God was the eternal work of the whole people.
My heart was cut in two. I wanted to remain with these people, yet something pulled me to go away and prove my new thought and to search for this unknown something which robbed me of my liberty and confused my spirit.
Uncle Peter urged me also: "You ought to go away for some time, Matvei. There has been some dangerous talk about your speech."
And soon things decided themselves without my control. One night a messenger came on horseback from a neighboring factory with the announcement that gendarmes were making house searches in their place and that undoubtedly they would soon be here.
"Ah, it is too soon," said Mikhail with anger.
There was a hurrying and scurrying to and fro and Uncle Peter cried to me:
"Go, Matvei, go! You have nothing to do here. You did not make the soup and you needn't eat it."
Mikhail insisted, looking straight into my face.
"You had better go away from here. Your presence will help very little and may do some harm."
I understood that they wanted to get rid of me, and it hurt me. But at this time I felt that I was afraid of the gendarmes. I did not see them, yet I feared them! I knew that it was not right to leave people in their need, but I succumbed to their will. They sent me away.
I went up the mountain to the wood through underbrush, between tree stumps. I stumbled as if I was held by my heels. Behind me a young boy hurried along, Ivan Vikof, with a great pack on his back. He was sent to hide books in the wood.
We ran forward to the edge of the wood. He found a hiding place and buried his burden. He was calm, but not I.
"Will they come here?" I asked him.
"Who knows?" he answered. "Perhaps they will come here. You must hurry."
He was an awkward boy, and he looked as if he were hacked out from an oak-tree with an ax. His head was large, one shoulder was higher than the other, his long arms were out of proportion, and his voice was sad.
"Are you afraid?" I asked him.
"Of what?"
"That they will come and take you."
"If they only don't find what I have hidden, I don't care what they do."
He arranged the books with care in the pit, covered them over, smoothed the earth down and threw brush upon it. He sat down on the ground, and seeing that I was getting ready to go away, he said:
"Some one will come with a note for you. Wait." "What kind of a note?"
"I don't know."
I looked out from the trees into the valley. The factory breathed heavily, like a strong man who is being choked. It seemed to me that men were being pursued in the streets and that in the darkness they ran after one another; they fought, they snarled in anger, ready to break each other's bones. And Ivan, without haste, was getting ready to go down.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"They will take you."
"I am not long in the movement, and they do not know me. And if they take me, there is no harm done. People come out wiser from prison."
Here some one loudly and clearly asked me: "How is it, Matvei? You are not afraid of God, and yet you fear the gendarmes."
I looked at Ivan. He was standing and gazing down thoughtfully.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"You read many books in prison."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
There were several lies that were rotting within me, and shameful questions shot up with piercing sparks. The night was cold, but I burned.
"I am going with you."
"You must not," Ivan said sternly. "They will certainly arrest you. This whole trouble began on account of your speech."
"How?"
"A priest in Verkhotour gave it away."
I sat down on the ground and said to myself:
"Then I have to go."
But fear took hold of me.
"Some one is running," Ivan whispered low.
I looked down from the mountain. Thick shadows were crawling over it. The sky was clouded, the moon in its last quarter now showed itself, now hid itself in the clouds. The whole earth about me moved, and from this noiseless movement something oppressive and fearful fell on me. I watched the torrents of shadows which flowed over the earth and which covered up the undergrowth and my soul with black veils.
A head moved among the brush, jumping like a ball among the branches. Ivan whistled low and said:
"It is Kostia!"
I knew Kostia. He was a boy of about fifteen, blue-eyed, blond and weak. He had finished school two years ago. Mikhail was preparing him to be his assistant.
I understood that I was thinking about these little details on purpose, for I wanted to put my thoughts aside and stifle my shame and my fear.
Kostia arrived panting, his voice broken.
"They have arrived. They have asked for you, Monk. Here, Uncle Peter wrote a note and told me to take you to the Lobanofsky monastery. Let us go."
I rose and said to Ivan: "Good-by, brother. Greet them all for me and ask them to forgive me."
But Kostia pushed me and commanded me severely:
"Go along! Whom are you greeting? They are all taken like hens for the market."
We went along. Kostia went ahead, telling me in a low voice all that he saw below, and I followed him. But I was pulled from all sides, by my hands and the skirts of my coat, as if some one were asking me:
"Where are you going? You have entrapped people and you yourself are escaping."
I spoke aloud, to myself: "So on account of me people were lost!"
The boy answered: "Not on account of you, but on account of truth. Are you truth? What a queer fellow!"
His words were funny and he himself was small, but still they struck home. I wanted to set myself right before him, and I laid out my thoughts as a beggar lays out the crumbs from his bag.
"Yes," I said, "it is evident that a great untruth lives within me."
He muttered, answering each one of my words like a conscience:
"Why great? You must always have something greater in you than any one else."
"Those are not his words," I thought. "He has copied them from some one."
"Kostin was right when he called you a bell tower. But you are not the kind that rings only for mass, but one which rings by itself, because it was built crooked and the bells are badly hung."
He remained silent, and then he added:
"I don't like you, Monk. You are so strange."
"How?"
"I don't know. Are you really a Russian? I don't think you are good."
At any other time I would have become angry, but now I was silent. I became suddenly weak, tired unto death. Night and the wood were around us. Between the trees the gray darkness fell thickly and became dense. It w as difficult to tell which was night and which was tree. The moonbeams glistened above, broke themselves upon the body of the darkness and vanished. It was quiet. All these people, beginning with Juna, bore no fear. Some were filled with anger, others were always gay, and most of them were quiet, modest people, who seemed to be ashamed to show their goodness.
Kostia walked along the path, and his blond head shone like a light before me. I recalled the youth of Bartholomew, the God-child Alexei and others. No, that was not the right!
My thoughts were like water-hens in a puddle, jumping from stump to stump.
"Have you read the 4 Lives of the Saints'?" I asked the boy.
"I read them when I was little. My mother made me. Why?"
"Did you like those chosen ones of God?"
"I don't know. Ponteleimon I liked; and George also. He fought with the dragon. But I don't know what good it did the people to have dozens of them made holy."
Kostia grew in my eyes.
"If a Czar's daughter or a rich man's daughter believed in Christ and underwent martyrdom for her belief, neither the Czar nor the kingdom were ever better to the people for it? It is not spoken of in the legends that the tyrant Czars became good."
Then, after a silence, he said:
"Nor do I know of what good Christ's martyrdom was. He wanted to conquer suffering, and what came of it?"
He grew thoughtful and then added:
"Nothing came of it."
I wanted to embrace him. Pity arose in my heart for Kostia, for Christ, for all the people who remained in the village, for the whole human world. And what of me? Where was my place? Where was I going?
The darkness of the short night was lifting, and from above a quiet light came through the branches of the pine trees.
"You are not tired, Kostia?"
"I?" the small boy answered proudly. "No. I like to walk in the night. It seems to me then that I walk through wonderland. I love fairy tales."
At dawn we lay down to sleep. Kostia fell asleep quickly, as if he had dived into a river, but I circled around my thoughts like a Tartar beggar around a Christian church in winter. It is stormy and cold in the street, but it is forbidden by Mohammed to enter the temple.
I decided upon something towards morning, and when the boy awoke, I said to him:
"Forgive me that I made you walk with me for nothing. I am not going to the monastery. I don't want to hide."
He looked at me seriously and said:
"You have already hidden." Then, without looking at me, he began to wave a twig.
"Well, good-by, dear."
He bowed his head: "Good-by," he answered.
I went away, then looked back. He stood there among the trees following me with his eyes.
"Eh," he cried, "good-by!"
It pleased me that he said it with more tenderness this time.
Like one sick, I wandered for many days, full of heavy heartache. A fire raged in my soul, that quiet piece of land of mine, and lit it up like a meadow in the wood, and my thoughts now crawled ahead of me, together with my shadow; now dragged behind, like biting smoke. Was I ashamed or not? I do not remember and I cannot say. A black thought was born in my mind and fluttered about me like a bat. "They are Godless ones, not God-creators."
But heavier and broader than all my thoughts, was a hollow stillness in me, lazy and deep; a certain peace like a turbid pool, in the depths of whose heart dumb thoughts swam about with difficulty, like frightened fish who struggle but cannot rise to the light from out of the oppressive depths.
Little reached me from the outside, and I remember my meetings with men as through a dream. Somewhere near Omsk, at a village market, I woke up. A blind man sat on the road in the dust and sang a song. His guide knelt near him and accompanied him on his accordion. The old man looked up at heaven with his empty eyes and sang the words with a faraway, rusty voice, describing the past, under the reign of Ivan Vasilef, and the accordion gave out its hollow accompaniment, "U-u-u."
I sat down on the ground next to the blind man. He took hold of my hand, held it, let it go again, but did not stop singing: "Once there lived Ermak, a son of Timotheof." "A-a-a," the accordion repeated.
And around the singers a crowd collected quietly, listening thoughtfully and seriously to the story of the past, with heads bowed to the ground. A dry warmth enfolded me and I saw curiosity light up the eyes of the men, and some one asked:
"Won't he sing?"
"He will. Wait."
I had often heard these robber ballads, but I never knew whose were the words nor whose the soul mirrored there. But now all at once I understood. The ancient people spoke to me with a thousand tongues. "I pardon your great sins against me, man, for your small service."
People still looked at me with, curiosity, and my spirit was aroused. The old man finished his song, and I arose and said:
"Orthodox Christians, here you have heard about a robber who plundered and robbed the people, but, afterwards, his conscience troubling him, he went away to save his soul, wishing to serve the people with his great strength. And he served them. But to-day you are living among robbers who exploit you mercilessly, and in what way do they serve the people? What good do you see in them?"
The crowd thickened around me, almost embracing me, and their attention made my words grow strong and gave them tone and beauty, and I lost myself in my words. I only felt a close alliance to the earth and to the people. They lifted me up towards themselves, drawing me on by their silence: "Speak; speak the whole truth as you see it!"
Of course a policeman arrived and cried: "Move on!" asking what was the matter and demanding my passport.
The people melted quietly away, like a cloud in the sun, and the policeman questioned and made inquiries as to what I said. Some answered: "About God; about many things; mainly about God."
I saw a workingman standing apart. He leaned up against his wagon and gazed steadily at me, smiling tenderly. The policeman had taken hold of my collar, and I wanted to shake him off, but I saw that the people looked sideways at me, with half-closed eyes, as if they were asking: "Now, what are you going to say?"
I paled at their lack of faith. Conquering myself in time, I shook off the hand of the policeman and said to him:
"Do you want to know what I said?"
And again I began to speak about injustice in life. Again the market people gathered around me in great crowds, and the policeman was lost in them and effaced.
I recalled Kostia and the factory children, and I felt proud and happy. I became strong and as in a dream. The policeman whispered, many faces passed before me, many eyes burned; a warm cloud of people were around me, pushed me along, and I lay lightly among them. Some one took me by the shoulder and whispered in my ear: "Enough. Go."
They pushed and pushed me, and soon I found myself in a kind of court, and a black-bearded man was on one side of me and on the other a young boy with no cap on his head. The dark man said:
"Climb over the wall."
I climbed it, then went over another. It seemed to me queer, yet pleasant.
"Eh," I thought, "is that who you are?"
The black-bearded man hurried me along. "Lively, comrade, lively!"
I asked him on the way: "Who are you?"
"One of yours," he answered.
The boy without the cap followed us silently. We crossed gardens, came to a ravine at the bottom of which a stream ran along, and found a footpath in the brush. The dark man led me by the hand, looked into my eyes and said, smiling:
"Well, good luck to you. Here, Fediok will conduct you to a good road. Go."
"You had better hurry. They might get you." The dark man bent down, began crawling up the mountain, and Fediok and I went along by the stream.
"Who is that man?" I asked him.
"A blacksmith. An exile—for political reasons."
"I know such people," I answered.
I felt happy, but he was silent. I looked at the young man. His face was round, his nose short. His head seemed cut out from stone, and his gray eyes bulged far apart. He spoke low, walked noiselessly and held his head forward, as if he was listening or was pulled from above by some great force. He kept his hands behind his back, as my father-in-law used to.
"Are you a native here?"
"Yes, I am a farm hand at the priest's."
"Where is you cap?"
He felt his head, looked at me and asked:
"Why do you care about the cap?"
"Just so. It is night, and you will be cold."
He remained silent. Then he muttered unwillingly:
"What does it matter about the cap as long as one's head is saved?"
The ravine became deeper, the stream sounded clearer, and night rose from the underbrush.
My soul was unclear, yet I felt happy, and I wished to speak with the young man.
"Have you only one exile here?" I asked.
Here the young man opened himself as one opens an overcoat. Slowly and low, he said:
"Four. There is a nobleman from Moscow and three from the Don. Two of them are quiet fellows. They even drink vodka. But the nobleman and that Ratkof who was here before, speak, though in secret, with whomever they can. They have not yet begun to speak openly before the people. There are many of them here, many around us. I, from Birsky—Fedor Mitkof, am here five years. During this time there were eleven men here. In Olekhine there are eight; in Shishkof there are three."
He counted for a long time, and he reached about sixty. When he finished he became thoughtful; then began to speak, gesticulating with his finger.
"There are even some peasants among them. They all say the same thing; this life is unbearable; it stifles them. I lived in peace until I heard these words, and now I see I am not yet full grown and I must bow my head. Then, in truth, it must be that this life is stifling."
The young fellow spoke with difficulty, tearing each word from under his feet. He walked ahead of me and did not look at me. He was broad-shouldered and strong.
"Can you read and write?" I asked him.
"I once knew how, but have forgotten. Now I am studying again. It doesn't matter, I know how. When one has to, one can do everything. And I have to. If it were the noblemen who spoke about the difficulty of this life, I would not take any notice of it, for their beliefs were always different from ours. But when it is your own brothers, the poor working class, then it must be true. And moreover, some of the common people go even farther than the noblemen. That means that something social and human is beginning. That is what they always say—social, human. I am human. Then it means my way lies with them, that is what I think."
I listened to him and said to myself: "Learn, Matvei."
"What is the use of thinking about such a thing?" I said to him. "It is God's affair."
He stopped, suddenly standing stiff upon the ground, so that I almost fell upon Iris back. Then he turned his face towards me and asked sternly:
"Is it really God's affair? Here is what I think about it. This is why they say, 4 Honor your father.' And they say the authorities are also from God. And this they confirm by miracles. But then if the old laws are changed, new miracles should have come. But where are they? There were no signs when new laws came, none whatever. Everything is as it was. In Nijni they discovered relics which performed miracles. But then a rumor arose that they were not true relics, for Seraphim's beard was gray and this one was red. The question is not the beard, but the miracle. Were there any miracles? There were, but they don't want to admit it. They call all signs false, or they say faith creates miracles. There are times when I want to beat them to stop their confounding my soul."
Again he stopped, and around him the night rose from the earth. The path fell more steeply, the stream flowed on more hastily, and the brush rustled, moving quietly.
"Go on, brother," I said to him, low.
He went forward. He did not stumble in the darkness but I almost fell on his back every step I took. He seemed to roll down like a stone, and his strange voice resounded in the stillness.
"If I believed them, it would be an end of everything. I am not especially kind-hearted. I had a brother in the military, and he hanged himself. My sister worked as a servant in a farmer's house near Birsky, and she gave birth to a child who is lame. It is four years old now and cannot walk. It means that a girl's life was ruined on account of a man's caprice. Where should she go now? My father is a drunkard and my elder brother has taken all the land. I have nothing."
We turned into the underbrush in the gray darkness. Now the stream went away from us into the depth, now again it flowed at our feet. Over our heads the night birds flew noiselessly, and above them were the stars.
I wanted to walk fast, but the man in front of me did not hurry and muttered to himself unceasingly, as if he were counting his words, and taking their weight.
"That dark one, Ratkof, is a good man. He lives according to the new law and takes the part of the oppressed. A policeman once beat me with a club and he immediately felled the policeman to the ground. He had to sit fourteen days for it. 'How can you fight the authorities?' I asked him when he came out. He immediately explained his law to me. I went to the priest, and the priest said, 'Ah, are these the thoughts you are plaiting?' Ratkof was sent to the prison in the city. He sat three months, and I nineteen days. 'What did he say?' they asked me there. 'Nothing.' 'What did he teach?' 'He taught nothing.' I am no fool myself. Ratkof came out. 'Forgive me,' I said to him, 'I was a fool.' But he laughed. 'It was nonsense,' he said."
My guide remained silent, and then, in a new voice, and lower, he continued:
"Everything is nonsense to him. He spits blood, that is nonsense; he starves, that too is nonsense."
Suddenly he began to swear grossly, turned about and faced me, and hissed through his teeth:
"I can understand everything. My brother died—that happens in the military. My sister's case is not a rare one. But why do they torture that man to death? That I cannot understand. I go like a dog wherever he sends me. He calls me Earth. 'Eh, you Earth,' he says and laughs. But the fact that they are always torturing him, that is like a knife in my heart!"
And again he began to swear like a drunken monk.
The ravine opened, broadened its walls down into the field, leveled them and vanished into the darkness.
"Well," said my guide, "good-by."
He pointed out to me the road to Omsk, turned back and disappeared. He was still without his cap.
When his heavy steps died in the stillness I sat down, not desiring to go farther. The night lay heavily on the earth and slept, fresh, and thick, like oil. There were no stars in the heavens, no moon, no light about. But there was warmth and light within me.
The heavy words of my guide burned within my memory. He was like a bell that had lain a long time on the earth, and had been covered by it and eaten out by rust, and though his tone was dull yet there was a new sound in it.
The village people stood before my eyes as they listened to my speech seriously and wonderingly. Their troubled faces passed before me as they dragged me away from the police.
"Is that the way it is?" I thought, marveling, and I could scarcely believe what had happened to me.
Again I thought. "This young man seeks signs and omens. He himself is a miracle. It is a miracle to preserve love for man in this horrible life. And the crowd who heard me, that, too, was a miracle, that it should not be deaf or blind, though many for a long time have tried to deafen and blind it. And a still greater miracle were Mikhail and his comrades."
My thoughts flowed calmly and easily. I was unaccustomed to it and did not expect it. I examined myself carefully, searched my heart quietly, wishing to find there anxiety and troubled doubt.
I smiled in the silent darkness and feared to move, lest I drive away the unwonted joy which filled my heart to the very brim. I believed and yet did not believe this marvelous fulness of my soul, this unexpected Godsend which I found in me.
It was as if a white bird, who was born long before, had slept in the shadow of my soul, and I had not known it or felt it. I stroked it accidentally and it awoke and began to sing quietly within me and flutter its light wings in my heart, and its hot song melted the ice of doubt and turned it into grateful tears.
I wanted to say something, to arise, to sing, to meet human beings and to embrace them. I saw before me the shining face of Juna, the kind eyes of Mikhail, the stern wit of Ivostia. All the familiar, dear and new people became alive to me, united in my breast and broadened it with happiness till it ached.
So it had happened before while saying Mass at Easter, that I loved people and myself. I sat down, and thought tremblingly:
"O Lord, is it not Thou, this beauty of beauties, this joy and this happiness?"
Darkness reigned about me, and in it were the shining faces of the Believers sitting quietly. But my heart sang unceasingly.
I stroked the earth with my hand, I patted it with my palm, as if it were a horse, which understood my caress.
I could not sit still. I arose and walked on through the night. I remembered Kostia's words. I saw before me the look of childish sternness in his eyes, and I Went on, drunk with joy, walking over the earth towards the very end of autumn, gathering up into my soul its precious new gifts.
At the station in Omsk I saw emigrants, Little Russians. A great part of the earth was covered with their bodies, those friends of labor. I walked among them, heard their soft speech and asked them:
"Are you not afraid to lose yourselves, so far away?"
A man gray and bent by work, answered me:
"As long as we have a piece of land under our feet, we do not care how far it is. It is suffocating on earth when a man has to live by his own labor."
Formerly the words of pain and sorrow fell like ashes on my heart, but now they were keen sparks which lit it up, for every sorrow was my sorrow, and I too suffered from the want of liberty, as did the people.
There is no time nor place for general spiritual growth, and this is bitter and dangerous to the one who outstrips the people, for he remains alone in advance of them, and the people do not see him and cannot strengthen him with their strength; and alone and uselessly he burns himself up in the fire of his desires.
I spoke in Little Russian, for I knew this tender language.
"For ages the people have wandered over the earth, hither and thither, seeking a place where they may in freedom build up a righteous life with their own strength, and for ages you have wandered over the earth, its lawful masters, and why? Who is it that gives no room to the people, the real Czar of the earth? Who has dethroned them? Who has torn the crown from their heads and driven them from country to country, these creators of all labor, these exquisite gardeners who planted all the beauty on the earth?"
The eyes of the people burned. The human soul which was just awakened in them glowed, and my own glance also became wide and keen. I saw the question on each face and immediately answered it; I saw doubt and I fought with it. I drew strength from the hearts which were opened about me, and I united this strength into one heart.
When you speak to people some word which touches them as a whole, which lies buried secretly and deep in each human soul, then their eyes shine with glowing strength and fill you and carry you above them. But do not think that it is your strength which carries you. You are winged with the crossing of all strength in your heart. It surrounds you from without; you are strong by its strength just as long as the people fill you up with it; but should they go away, should their spirit vanish, you again fall back to the level of all.
So I began my teaching modestly, calling the people to a new service in the name of a new life, though I did not know how to name my new God. In Zlatout on a holiday I spoke in the square, and again the police interfered, and again the people hid me.
I met many splendid men and women. One whose name was Yashka Vladikine, a student in a theological seminary, is now a good friend of mine and will remain so for all my life. He does not believe in God, but he loves church music to tears. He plays psalms on the organ and weeps, the dear wonder-child.
I asked him laughing: "What are you howling at, you heretic, atheist?"
He cried out, tremblingly: "From joy at the knowledge of the great beauty which some day will be created. If already in this worldly and wretched life beauty has been created with the insignificant strength of individuals, what will be created on earth when the whole spiritual world shall be free and shall begin to express the order of its great spirit in psalms and music?"
He began to speak about the future, which stood out with blinding clearness to him, and he was himself surprised at his visions.
I have much to be grateful for to this friend of mine, as much as to Mikhail.
I have seen marvelous people by tens, for they send me to one another from city to city. I go as with fiery signals, and each one is kept burning by the same faith. It is impossible to enumerate the various people and to describe the joy at seeing the spiritual unity which lies in all. Great is the Russian people and indescribably beautiful is life.
It was in the government of Kazan that my heart received the last blow, the blow which finished the construction of the temple. It was at the monastery of the Seven Seas, at a procession of the miracle-working ikon of the Holy Virgin. They were expecting the return of this ikon to the monastery from the city—the day was a holiday.
I stood on a little hill above the lake and gazed about me. The place-was filled with people, and the body of human beings streamed in dark waves to the gates of the monastery, and fought and struggled around its walls. The sun was setting and its autumn rays shone with bright red. The bells trembled like birds ready to fly and follow their own songs, and everywhere the bared heads of the people shone red in the rays of the sun, like double poppies.
Awaiting the miracle, near the gates of the monastery, stood a small carriage, in which lay a young girl, motionless. Her face was set as if in white wax, her gray eyes were half open, and all her life seemed to be in the quiet fluttering of her long lashes.
Next to her stood her parents. The father was a tall man, gray-bearded and with a long nose. The mother, stout, round-faced, with uplifted eyebrows and wide open eyes, gazed in front of her. Her fingers moved and it seemed to me that she was about to give a piercing and passionate cry.
The people walked up to them, gazed upon the sick girl's face, and the father spoke in measured tones, his beard trembling:
"Orthodox Christians, I beg of you, pray for the unfortunate girl. Without arms, without legs, she has been lying thus for four years. Beg the Holy Virgin for aid. The Lord will reward you for your holy prayers. Help deliver the parents from sorrow."
It was plain that he had been carrying his daughter from monastery to monastery for a long time and that he had already lost all hope of her recovery. He poured out these same words over and over again and they sounded dead in his mouth.
The people listened to his prayers, sighed, crossed themselves, and the lids which covered the sorrowful eyes of the young girl trembled.
I must have seen about a score of weakened girls, about ten who were supposed to be possessed, and other kinds of invalids, and I was always conscience-stricken and ashamed before them. I pitied the poor bodies robbed of strength and I pitied their vain waiting for a miracle. But I never felt pity to such a degree as now. A great silent complaint seemed frozen on the white half-dead face of the daughter and a silent and indescribable sorrow seemed to control the mother.
It was oppressive and I went away. Thousands of eyes were looking toward the distance, and like a cloud there floated toward me the warm, dull whisper: "They are carrying it."
Heavily and slowly the crowd proceeded up the mountain like a dark wave of the sea, and the golden banners burned like red foam, shooting out their sheaves of bright sparks. The ikon of the holy virgin floated and swung like a fiery bird shining in the rays of the sun. From the human body a mighty sigh arose, a thousand-voiced song: "Intercede for us, O mother of the Lord, most high."
The song was cut short by cries: "Hurry! Move faster! Hurry!"
The lake smiled brightly in the frame-work of the blue wood; the red sun melted, sinking into the wood, and the copper sound of the bells rang out gaily. Around me were anxious faces, the quiet and sorrowful whispering of prayers, eyes dimmed with tears, and the waving of many, many arms, making the sign of the cross.
I was alone. All this was sad error for me, weak despair, a weary desire for grace.
The procession marched on, their faces covered with dust, streams of sweat pouring down their cheeks. They breathed heavily, they gazed strangely as if they saw nothing, and pushed one another and stumbled along.
I pitied them. I pitied the strength of their faith which was wasted on the air. There was no end to this stream of people. A vigorous and mighty cry arose, but it was dark and sounded reproachful:
"Rejoice, O merciful one," and again, "Hurry! Hurry!"
In this whole cloud of dust I saw hundreds of black faces, thousands of eyes like stars on the milky way. I saw that those eyes were fiery sparks from one soul, eagerly awaiting an unknowm joy.
The people went down as one body, pressing close upon one another, holding one another's hands and walking fast, as if the road was terribly long, but they were ready to go to what was their end without stopping.
My soul trembled with an unknown pain. Like a prayer the words of Juna rose in my memory: "The people—the creators of God."
I started forward. I rushed from the mountain to meet the people, went along with them and sang with a full throat: "Rejoice, beneficent strength of all strengths!"
They seized and embraced me, and I seemed to float away and to melt under their hot breathing. I did not know that the earth was under my feet, nor did I recognize myself. There was no time nor space, only joy, vast like the heavens. I was like a glowing coal, flaming with faith. I was unimportant yet great and resembled all who were around me at the time of our general flight.
"Hurry! Hurry!"
The people flew over the earth irresistibly, ready to stride over all obstacles and abysses, all doubts and dark fears. I remember that the procession stopped close to me, that confusion occurred, that I was dragged near the wagon of the sick girl and heard the cries and the murmuring:
"Let us sing the Te Deum; let us sing the Te Deum."
There was great excitement. They pushed the wagon, and the head of the young girl rocked to and fro, helpless and without strength. Her large eyes gazed out with fear. Tens of eyes poured their rays out upon her; hundreds of force streams crossed themselves over her weak body, calling her to life with an imperious desire to see her rise from her bed.
I, too, looked into the depths of her eyes, and an inexpressible desire came over me, in common with all, that she arise; not for my sake, nor for her own sake, but for some special reason, before which she and I were like a bird's feather in a fire.
As rain saturates the earth with its live moisture, so the people filled the dry body of the girl with their strength, and they whispered and cried to her and to me:
"Rise, dear one, rise. Lift your arms. Be not afraid. Arise, arise without fear. Sick one, arise; dear one, lift your arms."
Hundreds of stars arose in her soul and a pink shadow lit up her death-like face, and her surprised and happy eyes opened still wider. Her shoulders moved slowly and humbly she raised her trembling arms and obediently held them up. Her mouth was open like a fledgling's about to leave its nest for the first time. A deep sigh rose around her. As though the earth where a copper bell, struck upon by a giant sviatogor with all his strength, the people trembled, and laughing cried:
"On your feet. Help her. Arise little one, on your feet. Help her."
We caught the girl, lifted her and put her on her feet, holding her lightly. She bent like an ear of corn in the wind, and cried out:
"Oh, dear one, Lord; oh, Holy Virgin!"
"Walk!" the people cried. "Walk!"
I remember their dusty faces, tearful and sweaty. Through the damp tears a miraculous strength shone out masterful, the faith in the power to create miracles.
The recovered girl walked quietly among us. Confidently she pressed her revived body against the body of the people, and smiling and pale like a flower, she said:
"Let me go alone."
She stopped, swayed, then walked. She walked as if on knives which cut her feet, but she walked alone; fearful yet bold, like a little child; and the people around her rejoiced and were friendly as to a little child. She was excited. Her body trembled. She held her hands out before her as if she were leaning against the air. She was filled by the strength of the people and she was sustained from every side by hundreds of luminous rays.
I lost sight of her at the gates of the monastery, and recovering myself, I gazed about me. Everywhere there was holiday tumult. There was a ringing of bells and the powerful talk of the people. The evening red fell brilliantly from the heavens and the lake clothed itself in the purple of the reflection. A man walked past me, smiled and asked:
"Did you see it?"
I embraced him and kissed him, like a brother after a long separation, and we found no words to say to each other. Smiling, we remained silent and separated.
At night I sat in the wood above the lake. Again I was alone, but now forever and inseparably united to the soul of the people, the masters and miracle workers of the earth. I sat and listened to all that I had seen and known grow and burn within me in one fire.—I, too, would reflect to the world this light in which everything flamed with great significance and was clothed with the miraculous. It winged my soul with a desire to accept the world as it had accepted me.
I have no words to describe the exultation of that night, when, alone in the darkness, I embraced the whole earth with my love and stood on the height of my experience and saw the world, like a fiery stream of life-force, flowing turbidly to unite into one current, the end of which I could not see. I joyfully understood that the inaccessibility of the end was the source of the infinite growth of my soul and the great earthly beauty. And in this infinity were the innumerable joys of the live human soul.
In the morning the sun appeared to me with a new face. I saw how its rays cautiously and lovingly sank into the darkness and turned it away; how it lifted from the earth the veils of night, and there she stood before me in the beautiful and magnificent jewels of autumn; the emerald field of the great play of peoples and the fight for free play was the holy place in the procession of the celebration of beauty and truth.
I saw the earth, my mother, in space between the stars, and brightly she gazed out with her ocean eyes into the distance and the depths. I saw her like a full bowl of bright red, incessantly seething, human blood, and I saw her master, the all-powerful, immortal people.
They winged her life with a great activity and hope, and I prayed:
"Thou art my God, the creator of all gods, which thou weavest out of the beauty of thy soul and the labor and agony of thy seeking.
"There shall be no God but thou, for thou art the one God, the creator of miracles."
This is what I believe and confess.
And always do I return there where people free the souls of their neighbors from the yoke of darkness and superstition and unite them and disclose to them their own secret physiognomy, and aid them to recognize the strength of their own wills and teach them the one and true path to a general union for the sake of the great cause, the cause of the universal creating of God.