[Contents]CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER VIII.REUNION.Pilgrimages are very common throughout the whole of the Russian Empire. Men, women, and children travel in company, and move from monastery to monastery, or from one holy place to another, to perform their devotions in them. There are individuals, even among the womenkind, who spend the whole of their lives in pilgrimages, although they could be in possession both of house, and home, and fortune. An unaccountable impulse seems to force them on. They have scarcely returned home from one journey, and rested for a day or so, before they are off again to journey, in want and hardship, to a fresh place, where this or that saint is buried, or where there is some celebrated shrine, with relics of this or that martyr.Many of the pilgrims, even cripples who drag themselves along with great difficulty, make pilgrimages of this character in fulfilment of some vow, and in the hope that by fulfilling the vow they may be healed of their sickness. A pilgrim is accounted a holy person in the eyes of a Russian. No door, not even that of the richest, is closed against a pilgrim, and no voice is ever raised against one. On the contrary, it is esteemed a happy occurrence, and regarded as a good omen, for a pilgrim to cross the threshold of a house. People are anxious to give them lodging and to help them on their way to their destination. There is, probably, no one who has not some sin on his conscience, or who does not feel himself all the better for making some offering to the Church, and so obtaining the prayers of some holy person; or has not had a mass offered[82]for the departed. If a person cannot travel as a pilgrim himself, he will send offerings by the hands of a pilgrim to the various monasteries, so that he may be prayed for at this or that holy shrine. A poor man will often spend his last kopeck with this object in view. And both the rich and the poor are fully persuaded that a pilgrim would rather die than deceive them.Among other shrines, there are, to this very day, annual pilgrimages made to the monastery at Solowetski. It is now an easy matter to reach this monastery, for there is a regular service of steam-vessels running between Archangel and the island on which the buildings stand. But in olden times, when the events which are related here took place, the pilgrims often had to wait for a long time before they could secure an opportunity for reaching the island by means of a boat.From Solowetski the more zealous of the pilgrims used to prolong their journeys through Russian Lapland to Kola, and thence to the monastery on the Petschenga River, celebrated both for its far distant situation and its sanctity, and for being the place where the holy Trifon was buried.In this way it happened that at Christmastide in 1589 a band of pilgrims arrived at Kola just before the detachment of Swedish Finns who had destroyed the monastery had been repulsed from Kola, and had retreated along the banks of the river of Tulom. Among the pilgrims there were both men and women, rich and poor. They continued their march from Kola to Petschenga partly on foot, partly with the help of reindeer, which the Lapps either drove themselves, or allowed the pilgrims to use. The pilgrims at that time knew nothing for certain about the destruction of the monastery. Among them was a young woman who was distinguished from the other women by her pale, but unusually handsome face. Sorrow had clearly left its traces on her countenance, and her cheeks lacked their proper fulness. But there flashed a bright spark of animation from her beautiful eyes, and her smile seemed like a benediction for those on whom it was cast. She was dressed as a nun, and was looked upon by the other pilgrims as a saint. She had attached herself to the band at Olonets, and since then had patiently shared their wants and hardships. She nursed the sick, consoled the sorrowful, and was regarded with affection and esteem by the whole of the company.[83]The pilgrims were naturally greatly alarmed, when they crossed the Petschenga River, which was at the time covered with ice, and saw, instead of a splendid monastery, with church, and buildings, and guest-houses for pilgrims, nothing but a heap of blackened ruins, and among them a number of unburied corpses. Some of the monks, who had been away, had returned, as has already been mentioned, and had taken refuge in the bathing house, but as yet they had not had time to remove all the corpses for burial. It was of course a pious work for the pilgrims to assist in. The young woman listened with anxious attention to the names that were mentioned of the monks who had been killed. She drew a sigh of relief when she heard that there was nobody among them named Theodore, but in reply to her inquiry whether any of the monks who were still alive bore that name, she also received a negative reply.‘Are you looking for some relative?’ asked one of the monks.‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘he ought to be either at Solowetski or here, but he was not at Solowetski, so I expected to find him here.’‘What was he like?’‘He was a tall, handsome, and strong-looking man, with fine light hair, and a scar on his forehead.’‘Perhaps it is Ambrose, who is lying ill across on the island.’‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘his name is Theodore Ivanovitsch.’Meanwhile, Unnas came over from the island to see the pilgrims, and to talk to them. But there was only one with whom he could at all freely converse, and that was the young woman who, besides Russian, could also speak Karelen. He informed her that in a gamme on the island, across in the river, a poor monk was lying with his face and hands burnt, and he asked her if she, or one of the others, had any remedy which might do him good.‘We have very few remedies,’ she said; ‘but I was taught in a convent how to nurse sick people, and I will go across with you and attend to him.’On their way Unnas told her how the sick man had on one occasion saved his life, and that he was to have been made a monk and to have taken the vows on the very night that the monastery was attacked and destroyed by the invaders.[84]On a plank bed, in the somewhat dark earth-hut, Ambrose lay with a bandage over his eyes. Unnas told him that a band of pilgrims had arrived who knew nothing about the destruction of the monastery, and that in their company was a young woman—a nun—who understood doctoring, and who had been so good as to come with him, and that she was now there in order to examine his injuries.‘Thanks,’ said Ambrose.The young woman came to the bedside, and carefully loosened the bandage over his eyes. The sick man could not open them, as a hardened scab from the burns had formed over nearly the whole of his face. She beckoned to Unnas, and told him to bring her some water, so that she might wash and cleanse the sores on the face of the sick man with her pocket-handkerchief. At the sound of the strange woman’s voice the sick man suddenly raised himself up to a sitting posture. There was something in that voice, and in the sound of the Karelen word which she uttered, that seemed to strike a chord in the depth of his heart. But with a sigh he laid himself down again on the bed.‘I am dreaming,’ he sighed.The young woman had taken the basin with the water from the Finn, and she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in it and knelt down beside the sick man. She carefully undid a little more of the bandage, and began to wash his face, but suddenly she turned as pale as a corpse, let go the pocket-handkerchief, and folded her hands. Had she not seen the scar on that forehead often before!‘God in heaven!’ she exclaimed, ‘but can it be possible?’Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead, his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she had given him.‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’ she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who is here, Unnas?’‘Annita,’ said she softly.‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted,[85]‘where am I? am I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by his feelings.‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying it, and have I lost my reason?’‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage. I have come straight from your home.’‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage off my eyes.’‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be dangerous; you must be careful.’‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita. Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married to Anthony?’‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’‘I have come from your home, fromourhome, and I have brought you a greeting from your mother.’‘How has all this come about?’‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not leave you any more.’‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose said when Annita was gone.‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart, that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not seen Annita.’[86]‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired.‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful surprise to his friend was plain enough.The legend has preserved this incident relating to the monk who had escaped from the massacre, and who had concealed himself on an island in the Petschenga River. But, according to the legend, it was not a mortal woman who came and nursed him, but an angel from heaven, who came down each night to him, and placed her hand on the monk’s eyes, until he was cured and regained his sight.When Annita returned, Ambrose’s wounds were dressed, while questions and answers were exchanged between them. As they spoke in Karelen Unnas was also able to follow them, and in that way heard much about his benefactor’s earlier life, of which he had previously known very little.‘Your mother sends you her greeting,’ said Annita; ‘she will receive us with open arms, and give us her blessing when we return.’‘And my father?’ said Ambrose.‘Your father?’‘Yes; will he give us his blessing, too, and forgive us?’‘Then you don’t know what has happened? You don’t know that your father is no more? Your father is dead.’‘May God have pity on his soul!’‘You have not heard that your father met with an accident?’‘No. I know nothing about things that have occurred at home since I left.’‘While driving with three horses which he had bought, and which he would drive himself over to one of his neighbours, the horses shied, and reared, and upset the carriage, and he injured his head so that he died the day following.’‘Had you returned home when it happened?’‘No; your mother told me of it. It is now six months since it happened. His last words, your mother says, were “Call Theodore back, and Annita; she is in a convent at——” More he could not manage to utter. I believe that he intended to forgive us when he saw death approaching.’‘Were you hidden in a convent?’‘Yes, in a little nunnery in the neighbourhood of Novgorod.’[87]‘What is it called, and who took you there?’‘That I don’t even now know; they were strangers whom I have never seen either before or since.’‘How did it happen?’‘One winter evening I had been sent across to Theodora Petrovna, and was to drive back again with Anthony Kudst, who came to fetch me. We were set upon by three men; I was lifted out of the sledge and placed in theirs, and was driven away, night and day, till we reached the convent, where I was confined more strictly than any of the nuns, and was kept under guard, and never allowed to speak to a stranger.’‘And Anthony, what became of him?’‘Ah! what became of him nobody knows; most probably your father gave him money, and sent him back to his own country.’‘I hunted for you for more than two years, Annita, far and near, as well as in all the convents.’‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money, according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way, to your home.’‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see you there.‘ “Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.”‘ “Where?”‘ “Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly, “Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.”‘ “To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm.‘ “Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry Anthony, he decided to become a monk.”[88]‘ “Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?”‘ “Father could have made you.”‘ “Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.”‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay, or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you may be sure that I shall leave this place.’‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with you?’‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you, Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing without you.’The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now[89]I see you, that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman smiles like you.’It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a friendly star on a dark night.‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her, absorbed in prayer.‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear and doubt while we have been so long away.’‘Let us go in,’ said Theodore.‘Yes; you go,’ said Annita. ‘I will wait here a little; but be careful, for your old mother is very feeble now.’When Theodore had gone, Annita tapped on the window pane, and called out, ‘We are here, mother,’ so that she might not be startled too suddenly. The old lady folded her hands together, and partly rose. At the same moment Theodore entered, and knelt down beside her. She uttered a shriek such as could only come from a mother’s heart. ‘Theodore, my son! my son!’ and she clung to him, weeping on his neck. Annita then entered quietly, and shed tears of joy with mother and son. Afterwards all the servants in the house came and kissed the hands of the home-comers.It was a day of rejoicing throughout the estate when Theodore and Annita returned. When this was reported in the village one of the women went running home and told her husband. He exclaimed: ‘Is it true what you say, wife, that Theodore Ivanovitsch and Annita have returned?’‘Yes, it is as true as that I live,’ she said.‘Then I will never thrash you again,’ he exclaimed.All the people streamed up to the castle to see the returned ones, and to kiss their hands. Theodore and Annita had taken Unnas with them, and when, half a year later, there was a wedding at the castle, Unnas also celebrated his wedding in the village.Theodore had told him that he might choose any girl among all the serfs, and that he should have her. Unnas fell in love[90]with a girl who was a complete contrast to himself—the tallest girl in all the village—and for a good word, and a good house, and a piece of land, she gave the little Finn both her hand and her heart. She was at all events certain of never getting a thrashing fromherhusband. Thus it came about that to this day Theodore and Unnas’ descendants live at Olonets.With this, the romance of the monastery comes to an end.As regards the ethnographical portion of it a little further may be added.When information of the destruction of the monastery reached the Czar, the pious Theodore Ivanovitsch, he is said to have been deeply grieved, and to have expressed his sorrow at the disaster. To assist those of the monks who had recovered, and were homeless, he gave orders that a new monastery should be built at Kola, within the fortress, so that it might be secure from attacks of the Swedes, or other enemies. The church of the Annunciation of St. Mary in the town was granted, and the monastery was built close to the church. But in the year 1619 both the town and the church and monastery were destroyed by fire.After this, the then Czar, the orthodox Michael Theodorovitsch, ordered that a monastery should be built in the neighbourhood of the town, but on the other side of the Kola River. This new monastery received the name of New Petschenga, or Koloska Petschenga monastery, and had its own Archimandrites or Superiors, till the bishopric of Archangel was founded.In 1675 Alexei Michaelovitsch confirmed to this monastery the privileges which former monarchs had bestowed on the monastery at Petschenga. Probably it was the erection of this monastery which caused one Russian author to state that at one time there weretwomonasteries at the Petschenga River.In the year 1701 it is said there were thirteen monks in this monastery, and, according to a letter from Laurence, the Superior of it, to Archbishop Athanasius, the monastery exported in that year ‘12,752 stockfish, 144 pounds of train-oil, and 2,470 salmon.’ But this is the last occasion on which anything is said of the industrial activity of the monastery. Among the Archimandrites of the New Petschenga monastery is mentioned[91]the holy Jonas, a pupil of Trifon; and, like Trifon, he is still had in reverence by the pilgrims and by the inhabitants of the district.In the year 1724 mention is made of three churches at Kola, viz., Trinity Church, the Church of the Assumption of St. Mary, and SS. Peter and Paul’s Church. Eventually, the monastery was dissolved in the year 1764, and annexed to the cathedral church of Kola, and appointed the residence of the bishop of Kola. The Empress Catherine II. issued, on February 26 in that year, a brief, according to which the monastery and churches were deprived of their ancient privileges, as well as of their tenants and serfs. At the present time both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Russia have their attention directed to the re-erection of the monastery of Petschenga on its ancient site.In the year 1881 a commission was appointed in Archangel to consider what could be done to promote different kinds of industry in those northern districts, and remedy several defects. This commission decided that it was of great importance that the Petschenga monastery should be rebuilt, and in the year 1882 the Holy Synod permitted and sanctioned its re-erection. Serapion, Bishop of Archangel, has likewise taken great interest in the scheme. He has procured a copy of the picture of Trifon, and has, it is said, had it painted at his own expense. It is thought that the rebuilding of the monastery of Petschenga will, in time, have the same beneficial effect on those parts as Solowetski monastery has had on the region of the White Sea. A Special Committee has therefore been appointed by the ecclesiastical authorities. The Committee appeals to all who may be supposed to feel an interest in the undertaking, and invites charitable contributions, which should be sent toThe Committee at ArchangelFor the Restoration of Petschenga Monastery.
[Contents]CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER VIII.REUNION.Pilgrimages are very common throughout the whole of the Russian Empire. Men, women, and children travel in company, and move from monastery to monastery, or from one holy place to another, to perform their devotions in them. There are individuals, even among the womenkind, who spend the whole of their lives in pilgrimages, although they could be in possession both of house, and home, and fortune. An unaccountable impulse seems to force them on. They have scarcely returned home from one journey, and rested for a day or so, before they are off again to journey, in want and hardship, to a fresh place, where this or that saint is buried, or where there is some celebrated shrine, with relics of this or that martyr.Many of the pilgrims, even cripples who drag themselves along with great difficulty, make pilgrimages of this character in fulfilment of some vow, and in the hope that by fulfilling the vow they may be healed of their sickness. A pilgrim is accounted a holy person in the eyes of a Russian. No door, not even that of the richest, is closed against a pilgrim, and no voice is ever raised against one. On the contrary, it is esteemed a happy occurrence, and regarded as a good omen, for a pilgrim to cross the threshold of a house. People are anxious to give them lodging and to help them on their way to their destination. There is, probably, no one who has not some sin on his conscience, or who does not feel himself all the better for making some offering to the Church, and so obtaining the prayers of some holy person; or has not had a mass offered[82]for the departed. If a person cannot travel as a pilgrim himself, he will send offerings by the hands of a pilgrim to the various monasteries, so that he may be prayed for at this or that holy shrine. A poor man will often spend his last kopeck with this object in view. And both the rich and the poor are fully persuaded that a pilgrim would rather die than deceive them.Among other shrines, there are, to this very day, annual pilgrimages made to the monastery at Solowetski. It is now an easy matter to reach this monastery, for there is a regular service of steam-vessels running between Archangel and the island on which the buildings stand. But in olden times, when the events which are related here took place, the pilgrims often had to wait for a long time before they could secure an opportunity for reaching the island by means of a boat.From Solowetski the more zealous of the pilgrims used to prolong their journeys through Russian Lapland to Kola, and thence to the monastery on the Petschenga River, celebrated both for its far distant situation and its sanctity, and for being the place where the holy Trifon was buried.In this way it happened that at Christmastide in 1589 a band of pilgrims arrived at Kola just before the detachment of Swedish Finns who had destroyed the monastery had been repulsed from Kola, and had retreated along the banks of the river of Tulom. Among the pilgrims there were both men and women, rich and poor. They continued their march from Kola to Petschenga partly on foot, partly with the help of reindeer, which the Lapps either drove themselves, or allowed the pilgrims to use. The pilgrims at that time knew nothing for certain about the destruction of the monastery. Among them was a young woman who was distinguished from the other women by her pale, but unusually handsome face. Sorrow had clearly left its traces on her countenance, and her cheeks lacked their proper fulness. But there flashed a bright spark of animation from her beautiful eyes, and her smile seemed like a benediction for those on whom it was cast. She was dressed as a nun, and was looked upon by the other pilgrims as a saint. She had attached herself to the band at Olonets, and since then had patiently shared their wants and hardships. She nursed the sick, consoled the sorrowful, and was regarded with affection and esteem by the whole of the company.[83]The pilgrims were naturally greatly alarmed, when they crossed the Petschenga River, which was at the time covered with ice, and saw, instead of a splendid monastery, with church, and buildings, and guest-houses for pilgrims, nothing but a heap of blackened ruins, and among them a number of unburied corpses. Some of the monks, who had been away, had returned, as has already been mentioned, and had taken refuge in the bathing house, but as yet they had not had time to remove all the corpses for burial. It was of course a pious work for the pilgrims to assist in. The young woman listened with anxious attention to the names that were mentioned of the monks who had been killed. She drew a sigh of relief when she heard that there was nobody among them named Theodore, but in reply to her inquiry whether any of the monks who were still alive bore that name, she also received a negative reply.‘Are you looking for some relative?’ asked one of the monks.‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘he ought to be either at Solowetski or here, but he was not at Solowetski, so I expected to find him here.’‘What was he like?’‘He was a tall, handsome, and strong-looking man, with fine light hair, and a scar on his forehead.’‘Perhaps it is Ambrose, who is lying ill across on the island.’‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘his name is Theodore Ivanovitsch.’Meanwhile, Unnas came over from the island to see the pilgrims, and to talk to them. But there was only one with whom he could at all freely converse, and that was the young woman who, besides Russian, could also speak Karelen. He informed her that in a gamme on the island, across in the river, a poor monk was lying with his face and hands burnt, and he asked her if she, or one of the others, had any remedy which might do him good.‘We have very few remedies,’ she said; ‘but I was taught in a convent how to nurse sick people, and I will go across with you and attend to him.’On their way Unnas told her how the sick man had on one occasion saved his life, and that he was to have been made a monk and to have taken the vows on the very night that the monastery was attacked and destroyed by the invaders.[84]On a plank bed, in the somewhat dark earth-hut, Ambrose lay with a bandage over his eyes. Unnas told him that a band of pilgrims had arrived who knew nothing about the destruction of the monastery, and that in their company was a young woman—a nun—who understood doctoring, and who had been so good as to come with him, and that she was now there in order to examine his injuries.‘Thanks,’ said Ambrose.The young woman came to the bedside, and carefully loosened the bandage over his eyes. The sick man could not open them, as a hardened scab from the burns had formed over nearly the whole of his face. She beckoned to Unnas, and told him to bring her some water, so that she might wash and cleanse the sores on the face of the sick man with her pocket-handkerchief. At the sound of the strange woman’s voice the sick man suddenly raised himself up to a sitting posture. There was something in that voice, and in the sound of the Karelen word which she uttered, that seemed to strike a chord in the depth of his heart. But with a sigh he laid himself down again on the bed.‘I am dreaming,’ he sighed.The young woman had taken the basin with the water from the Finn, and she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in it and knelt down beside the sick man. She carefully undid a little more of the bandage, and began to wash his face, but suddenly she turned as pale as a corpse, let go the pocket-handkerchief, and folded her hands. Had she not seen the scar on that forehead often before!‘God in heaven!’ she exclaimed, ‘but can it be possible?’Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead, his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she had given him.‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’ she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who is here, Unnas?’‘Annita,’ said she softly.‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted,[85]‘where am I? am I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by his feelings.‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying it, and have I lost my reason?’‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage. I have come straight from your home.’‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage off my eyes.’‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be dangerous; you must be careful.’‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita. Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married to Anthony?’‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’‘I have come from your home, fromourhome, and I have brought you a greeting from your mother.’‘How has all this come about?’‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not leave you any more.’‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose said when Annita was gone.‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart, that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not seen Annita.’[86]‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired.‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful surprise to his friend was plain enough.The legend has preserved this incident relating to the monk who had escaped from the massacre, and who had concealed himself on an island in the Petschenga River. But, according to the legend, it was not a mortal woman who came and nursed him, but an angel from heaven, who came down each night to him, and placed her hand on the monk’s eyes, until he was cured and regained his sight.When Annita returned, Ambrose’s wounds were dressed, while questions and answers were exchanged between them. As they spoke in Karelen Unnas was also able to follow them, and in that way heard much about his benefactor’s earlier life, of which he had previously known very little.‘Your mother sends you her greeting,’ said Annita; ‘she will receive us with open arms, and give us her blessing when we return.’‘And my father?’ said Ambrose.‘Your father?’‘Yes; will he give us his blessing, too, and forgive us?’‘Then you don’t know what has happened? You don’t know that your father is no more? Your father is dead.’‘May God have pity on his soul!’‘You have not heard that your father met with an accident?’‘No. I know nothing about things that have occurred at home since I left.’‘While driving with three horses which he had bought, and which he would drive himself over to one of his neighbours, the horses shied, and reared, and upset the carriage, and he injured his head so that he died the day following.’‘Had you returned home when it happened?’‘No; your mother told me of it. It is now six months since it happened. His last words, your mother says, were “Call Theodore back, and Annita; she is in a convent at——” More he could not manage to utter. I believe that he intended to forgive us when he saw death approaching.’‘Were you hidden in a convent?’‘Yes, in a little nunnery in the neighbourhood of Novgorod.’[87]‘What is it called, and who took you there?’‘That I don’t even now know; they were strangers whom I have never seen either before or since.’‘How did it happen?’‘One winter evening I had been sent across to Theodora Petrovna, and was to drive back again with Anthony Kudst, who came to fetch me. We were set upon by three men; I was lifted out of the sledge and placed in theirs, and was driven away, night and day, till we reached the convent, where I was confined more strictly than any of the nuns, and was kept under guard, and never allowed to speak to a stranger.’‘And Anthony, what became of him?’‘Ah! what became of him nobody knows; most probably your father gave him money, and sent him back to his own country.’‘I hunted for you for more than two years, Annita, far and near, as well as in all the convents.’‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money, according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way, to your home.’‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see you there.‘ “Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.”‘ “Where?”‘ “Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly, “Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.”‘ “To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm.‘ “Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry Anthony, he decided to become a monk.”[88]‘ “Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?”‘ “Father could have made you.”‘ “Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.”‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay, or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you may be sure that I shall leave this place.’‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with you?’‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you, Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing without you.’The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now[89]I see you, that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman smiles like you.’It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a friendly star on a dark night.‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her, absorbed in prayer.‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear and doubt while we have been so long away.’‘Let us go in,’ said Theodore.‘Yes; you go,’ said Annita. ‘I will wait here a little; but be careful, for your old mother is very feeble now.’When Theodore had gone, Annita tapped on the window pane, and called out, ‘We are here, mother,’ so that she might not be startled too suddenly. The old lady folded her hands together, and partly rose. At the same moment Theodore entered, and knelt down beside her. She uttered a shriek such as could only come from a mother’s heart. ‘Theodore, my son! my son!’ and she clung to him, weeping on his neck. Annita then entered quietly, and shed tears of joy with mother and son. Afterwards all the servants in the house came and kissed the hands of the home-comers.It was a day of rejoicing throughout the estate when Theodore and Annita returned. When this was reported in the village one of the women went running home and told her husband. He exclaimed: ‘Is it true what you say, wife, that Theodore Ivanovitsch and Annita have returned?’‘Yes, it is as true as that I live,’ she said.‘Then I will never thrash you again,’ he exclaimed.All the people streamed up to the castle to see the returned ones, and to kiss their hands. Theodore and Annita had taken Unnas with them, and when, half a year later, there was a wedding at the castle, Unnas also celebrated his wedding in the village.Theodore had told him that he might choose any girl among all the serfs, and that he should have her. Unnas fell in love[90]with a girl who was a complete contrast to himself—the tallest girl in all the village—and for a good word, and a good house, and a piece of land, she gave the little Finn both her hand and her heart. She was at all events certain of never getting a thrashing fromherhusband. Thus it came about that to this day Theodore and Unnas’ descendants live at Olonets.With this, the romance of the monastery comes to an end.As regards the ethnographical portion of it a little further may be added.When information of the destruction of the monastery reached the Czar, the pious Theodore Ivanovitsch, he is said to have been deeply grieved, and to have expressed his sorrow at the disaster. To assist those of the monks who had recovered, and were homeless, he gave orders that a new monastery should be built at Kola, within the fortress, so that it might be secure from attacks of the Swedes, or other enemies. The church of the Annunciation of St. Mary in the town was granted, and the monastery was built close to the church. But in the year 1619 both the town and the church and monastery were destroyed by fire.After this, the then Czar, the orthodox Michael Theodorovitsch, ordered that a monastery should be built in the neighbourhood of the town, but on the other side of the Kola River. This new monastery received the name of New Petschenga, or Koloska Petschenga monastery, and had its own Archimandrites or Superiors, till the bishopric of Archangel was founded.In 1675 Alexei Michaelovitsch confirmed to this monastery the privileges which former monarchs had bestowed on the monastery at Petschenga. Probably it was the erection of this monastery which caused one Russian author to state that at one time there weretwomonasteries at the Petschenga River.In the year 1701 it is said there were thirteen monks in this monastery, and, according to a letter from Laurence, the Superior of it, to Archbishop Athanasius, the monastery exported in that year ‘12,752 stockfish, 144 pounds of train-oil, and 2,470 salmon.’ But this is the last occasion on which anything is said of the industrial activity of the monastery. Among the Archimandrites of the New Petschenga monastery is mentioned[91]the holy Jonas, a pupil of Trifon; and, like Trifon, he is still had in reverence by the pilgrims and by the inhabitants of the district.In the year 1724 mention is made of three churches at Kola, viz., Trinity Church, the Church of the Assumption of St. Mary, and SS. Peter and Paul’s Church. Eventually, the monastery was dissolved in the year 1764, and annexed to the cathedral church of Kola, and appointed the residence of the bishop of Kola. The Empress Catherine II. issued, on February 26 in that year, a brief, according to which the monastery and churches were deprived of their ancient privileges, as well as of their tenants and serfs. At the present time both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Russia have their attention directed to the re-erection of the monastery of Petschenga on its ancient site.In the year 1881 a commission was appointed in Archangel to consider what could be done to promote different kinds of industry in those northern districts, and remedy several defects. This commission decided that it was of great importance that the Petschenga monastery should be rebuilt, and in the year 1882 the Holy Synod permitted and sanctioned its re-erection. Serapion, Bishop of Archangel, has likewise taken great interest in the scheme. He has procured a copy of the picture of Trifon, and has, it is said, had it painted at his own expense. It is thought that the rebuilding of the monastery of Petschenga will, in time, have the same beneficial effect on those parts as Solowetski monastery has had on the region of the White Sea. A Special Committee has therefore been appointed by the ecclesiastical authorities. The Committee appeals to all who may be supposed to feel an interest in the undertaking, and invites charitable contributions, which should be sent toThe Committee at ArchangelFor the Restoration of Petschenga Monastery.
CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER VIII.REUNION.
CHAPTER VIII.
Pilgrimages are very common throughout the whole of the Russian Empire. Men, women, and children travel in company, and move from monastery to monastery, or from one holy place to another, to perform their devotions in them. There are individuals, even among the womenkind, who spend the whole of their lives in pilgrimages, although they could be in possession both of house, and home, and fortune. An unaccountable impulse seems to force them on. They have scarcely returned home from one journey, and rested for a day or so, before they are off again to journey, in want and hardship, to a fresh place, where this or that saint is buried, or where there is some celebrated shrine, with relics of this or that martyr.Many of the pilgrims, even cripples who drag themselves along with great difficulty, make pilgrimages of this character in fulfilment of some vow, and in the hope that by fulfilling the vow they may be healed of their sickness. A pilgrim is accounted a holy person in the eyes of a Russian. No door, not even that of the richest, is closed against a pilgrim, and no voice is ever raised against one. On the contrary, it is esteemed a happy occurrence, and regarded as a good omen, for a pilgrim to cross the threshold of a house. People are anxious to give them lodging and to help them on their way to their destination. There is, probably, no one who has not some sin on his conscience, or who does not feel himself all the better for making some offering to the Church, and so obtaining the prayers of some holy person; or has not had a mass offered[82]for the departed. If a person cannot travel as a pilgrim himself, he will send offerings by the hands of a pilgrim to the various monasteries, so that he may be prayed for at this or that holy shrine. A poor man will often spend his last kopeck with this object in view. And both the rich and the poor are fully persuaded that a pilgrim would rather die than deceive them.Among other shrines, there are, to this very day, annual pilgrimages made to the monastery at Solowetski. It is now an easy matter to reach this monastery, for there is a regular service of steam-vessels running between Archangel and the island on which the buildings stand. But in olden times, when the events which are related here took place, the pilgrims often had to wait for a long time before they could secure an opportunity for reaching the island by means of a boat.From Solowetski the more zealous of the pilgrims used to prolong their journeys through Russian Lapland to Kola, and thence to the monastery on the Petschenga River, celebrated both for its far distant situation and its sanctity, and for being the place where the holy Trifon was buried.In this way it happened that at Christmastide in 1589 a band of pilgrims arrived at Kola just before the detachment of Swedish Finns who had destroyed the monastery had been repulsed from Kola, and had retreated along the banks of the river of Tulom. Among the pilgrims there were both men and women, rich and poor. They continued their march from Kola to Petschenga partly on foot, partly with the help of reindeer, which the Lapps either drove themselves, or allowed the pilgrims to use. The pilgrims at that time knew nothing for certain about the destruction of the monastery. Among them was a young woman who was distinguished from the other women by her pale, but unusually handsome face. Sorrow had clearly left its traces on her countenance, and her cheeks lacked their proper fulness. But there flashed a bright spark of animation from her beautiful eyes, and her smile seemed like a benediction for those on whom it was cast. She was dressed as a nun, and was looked upon by the other pilgrims as a saint. She had attached herself to the band at Olonets, and since then had patiently shared their wants and hardships. She nursed the sick, consoled the sorrowful, and was regarded with affection and esteem by the whole of the company.[83]The pilgrims were naturally greatly alarmed, when they crossed the Petschenga River, which was at the time covered with ice, and saw, instead of a splendid monastery, with church, and buildings, and guest-houses for pilgrims, nothing but a heap of blackened ruins, and among them a number of unburied corpses. Some of the monks, who had been away, had returned, as has already been mentioned, and had taken refuge in the bathing house, but as yet they had not had time to remove all the corpses for burial. It was of course a pious work for the pilgrims to assist in. The young woman listened with anxious attention to the names that were mentioned of the monks who had been killed. She drew a sigh of relief when she heard that there was nobody among them named Theodore, but in reply to her inquiry whether any of the monks who were still alive bore that name, she also received a negative reply.‘Are you looking for some relative?’ asked one of the monks.‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘he ought to be either at Solowetski or here, but he was not at Solowetski, so I expected to find him here.’‘What was he like?’‘He was a tall, handsome, and strong-looking man, with fine light hair, and a scar on his forehead.’‘Perhaps it is Ambrose, who is lying ill across on the island.’‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘his name is Theodore Ivanovitsch.’Meanwhile, Unnas came over from the island to see the pilgrims, and to talk to them. But there was only one with whom he could at all freely converse, and that was the young woman who, besides Russian, could also speak Karelen. He informed her that in a gamme on the island, across in the river, a poor monk was lying with his face and hands burnt, and he asked her if she, or one of the others, had any remedy which might do him good.‘We have very few remedies,’ she said; ‘but I was taught in a convent how to nurse sick people, and I will go across with you and attend to him.’On their way Unnas told her how the sick man had on one occasion saved his life, and that he was to have been made a monk and to have taken the vows on the very night that the monastery was attacked and destroyed by the invaders.[84]On a plank bed, in the somewhat dark earth-hut, Ambrose lay with a bandage over his eyes. Unnas told him that a band of pilgrims had arrived who knew nothing about the destruction of the monastery, and that in their company was a young woman—a nun—who understood doctoring, and who had been so good as to come with him, and that she was now there in order to examine his injuries.‘Thanks,’ said Ambrose.The young woman came to the bedside, and carefully loosened the bandage over his eyes. The sick man could not open them, as a hardened scab from the burns had formed over nearly the whole of his face. She beckoned to Unnas, and told him to bring her some water, so that she might wash and cleanse the sores on the face of the sick man with her pocket-handkerchief. At the sound of the strange woman’s voice the sick man suddenly raised himself up to a sitting posture. There was something in that voice, and in the sound of the Karelen word which she uttered, that seemed to strike a chord in the depth of his heart. But with a sigh he laid himself down again on the bed.‘I am dreaming,’ he sighed.The young woman had taken the basin with the water from the Finn, and she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in it and knelt down beside the sick man. She carefully undid a little more of the bandage, and began to wash his face, but suddenly she turned as pale as a corpse, let go the pocket-handkerchief, and folded her hands. Had she not seen the scar on that forehead often before!‘God in heaven!’ she exclaimed, ‘but can it be possible?’Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead, his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she had given him.‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’ she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who is here, Unnas?’‘Annita,’ said she softly.‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted,[85]‘where am I? am I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by his feelings.‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying it, and have I lost my reason?’‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage. I have come straight from your home.’‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage off my eyes.’‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be dangerous; you must be careful.’‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita. Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married to Anthony?’‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’‘I have come from your home, fromourhome, and I have brought you a greeting from your mother.’‘How has all this come about?’‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not leave you any more.’‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose said when Annita was gone.‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart, that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not seen Annita.’[86]‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired.‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful surprise to his friend was plain enough.The legend has preserved this incident relating to the monk who had escaped from the massacre, and who had concealed himself on an island in the Petschenga River. But, according to the legend, it was not a mortal woman who came and nursed him, but an angel from heaven, who came down each night to him, and placed her hand on the monk’s eyes, until he was cured and regained his sight.When Annita returned, Ambrose’s wounds were dressed, while questions and answers were exchanged between them. As they spoke in Karelen Unnas was also able to follow them, and in that way heard much about his benefactor’s earlier life, of which he had previously known very little.‘Your mother sends you her greeting,’ said Annita; ‘she will receive us with open arms, and give us her blessing when we return.’‘And my father?’ said Ambrose.‘Your father?’‘Yes; will he give us his blessing, too, and forgive us?’‘Then you don’t know what has happened? You don’t know that your father is no more? Your father is dead.’‘May God have pity on his soul!’‘You have not heard that your father met with an accident?’‘No. I know nothing about things that have occurred at home since I left.’‘While driving with three horses which he had bought, and which he would drive himself over to one of his neighbours, the horses shied, and reared, and upset the carriage, and he injured his head so that he died the day following.’‘Had you returned home when it happened?’‘No; your mother told me of it. It is now six months since it happened. His last words, your mother says, were “Call Theodore back, and Annita; she is in a convent at——” More he could not manage to utter. I believe that he intended to forgive us when he saw death approaching.’‘Were you hidden in a convent?’‘Yes, in a little nunnery in the neighbourhood of Novgorod.’[87]‘What is it called, and who took you there?’‘That I don’t even now know; they were strangers whom I have never seen either before or since.’‘How did it happen?’‘One winter evening I had been sent across to Theodora Petrovna, and was to drive back again with Anthony Kudst, who came to fetch me. We were set upon by three men; I was lifted out of the sledge and placed in theirs, and was driven away, night and day, till we reached the convent, where I was confined more strictly than any of the nuns, and was kept under guard, and never allowed to speak to a stranger.’‘And Anthony, what became of him?’‘Ah! what became of him nobody knows; most probably your father gave him money, and sent him back to his own country.’‘I hunted for you for more than two years, Annita, far and near, as well as in all the convents.’‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money, according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way, to your home.’‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see you there.‘ “Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.”‘ “Where?”‘ “Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly, “Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.”‘ “To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm.‘ “Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry Anthony, he decided to become a monk.”[88]‘ “Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?”‘ “Father could have made you.”‘ “Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.”‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay, or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you may be sure that I shall leave this place.’‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with you?’‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you, Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing without you.’The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now[89]I see you, that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman smiles like you.’It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a friendly star on a dark night.‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her, absorbed in prayer.‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear and doubt while we have been so long away.’‘Let us go in,’ said Theodore.‘Yes; you go,’ said Annita. ‘I will wait here a little; but be careful, for your old mother is very feeble now.’When Theodore had gone, Annita tapped on the window pane, and called out, ‘We are here, mother,’ so that she might not be startled too suddenly. The old lady folded her hands together, and partly rose. At the same moment Theodore entered, and knelt down beside her. She uttered a shriek such as could only come from a mother’s heart. ‘Theodore, my son! my son!’ and she clung to him, weeping on his neck. Annita then entered quietly, and shed tears of joy with mother and son. Afterwards all the servants in the house came and kissed the hands of the home-comers.It was a day of rejoicing throughout the estate when Theodore and Annita returned. When this was reported in the village one of the women went running home and told her husband. He exclaimed: ‘Is it true what you say, wife, that Theodore Ivanovitsch and Annita have returned?’‘Yes, it is as true as that I live,’ she said.‘Then I will never thrash you again,’ he exclaimed.All the people streamed up to the castle to see the returned ones, and to kiss their hands. Theodore and Annita had taken Unnas with them, and when, half a year later, there was a wedding at the castle, Unnas also celebrated his wedding in the village.Theodore had told him that he might choose any girl among all the serfs, and that he should have her. Unnas fell in love[90]with a girl who was a complete contrast to himself—the tallest girl in all the village—and for a good word, and a good house, and a piece of land, she gave the little Finn both her hand and her heart. She was at all events certain of never getting a thrashing fromherhusband. Thus it came about that to this day Theodore and Unnas’ descendants live at Olonets.With this, the romance of the monastery comes to an end.As regards the ethnographical portion of it a little further may be added.When information of the destruction of the monastery reached the Czar, the pious Theodore Ivanovitsch, he is said to have been deeply grieved, and to have expressed his sorrow at the disaster. To assist those of the monks who had recovered, and were homeless, he gave orders that a new monastery should be built at Kola, within the fortress, so that it might be secure from attacks of the Swedes, or other enemies. The church of the Annunciation of St. Mary in the town was granted, and the monastery was built close to the church. But in the year 1619 both the town and the church and monastery were destroyed by fire.After this, the then Czar, the orthodox Michael Theodorovitsch, ordered that a monastery should be built in the neighbourhood of the town, but on the other side of the Kola River. This new monastery received the name of New Petschenga, or Koloska Petschenga monastery, and had its own Archimandrites or Superiors, till the bishopric of Archangel was founded.In 1675 Alexei Michaelovitsch confirmed to this monastery the privileges which former monarchs had bestowed on the monastery at Petschenga. Probably it was the erection of this monastery which caused one Russian author to state that at one time there weretwomonasteries at the Petschenga River.In the year 1701 it is said there were thirteen monks in this monastery, and, according to a letter from Laurence, the Superior of it, to Archbishop Athanasius, the monastery exported in that year ‘12,752 stockfish, 144 pounds of train-oil, and 2,470 salmon.’ But this is the last occasion on which anything is said of the industrial activity of the monastery. Among the Archimandrites of the New Petschenga monastery is mentioned[91]the holy Jonas, a pupil of Trifon; and, like Trifon, he is still had in reverence by the pilgrims and by the inhabitants of the district.In the year 1724 mention is made of three churches at Kola, viz., Trinity Church, the Church of the Assumption of St. Mary, and SS. Peter and Paul’s Church. Eventually, the monastery was dissolved in the year 1764, and annexed to the cathedral church of Kola, and appointed the residence of the bishop of Kola. The Empress Catherine II. issued, on February 26 in that year, a brief, according to which the monastery and churches were deprived of their ancient privileges, as well as of their tenants and serfs. At the present time both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Russia have their attention directed to the re-erection of the monastery of Petschenga on its ancient site.In the year 1881 a commission was appointed in Archangel to consider what could be done to promote different kinds of industry in those northern districts, and remedy several defects. This commission decided that it was of great importance that the Petschenga monastery should be rebuilt, and in the year 1882 the Holy Synod permitted and sanctioned its re-erection. Serapion, Bishop of Archangel, has likewise taken great interest in the scheme. He has procured a copy of the picture of Trifon, and has, it is said, had it painted at his own expense. It is thought that the rebuilding of the monastery of Petschenga will, in time, have the same beneficial effect on those parts as Solowetski monastery has had on the region of the White Sea. A Special Committee has therefore been appointed by the ecclesiastical authorities. The Committee appeals to all who may be supposed to feel an interest in the undertaking, and invites charitable contributions, which should be sent toThe Committee at ArchangelFor the Restoration of Petschenga Monastery.
Pilgrimages are very common throughout the whole of the Russian Empire. Men, women, and children travel in company, and move from monastery to monastery, or from one holy place to another, to perform their devotions in them. There are individuals, even among the womenkind, who spend the whole of their lives in pilgrimages, although they could be in possession both of house, and home, and fortune. An unaccountable impulse seems to force them on. They have scarcely returned home from one journey, and rested for a day or so, before they are off again to journey, in want and hardship, to a fresh place, where this or that saint is buried, or where there is some celebrated shrine, with relics of this or that martyr.
Many of the pilgrims, even cripples who drag themselves along with great difficulty, make pilgrimages of this character in fulfilment of some vow, and in the hope that by fulfilling the vow they may be healed of their sickness. A pilgrim is accounted a holy person in the eyes of a Russian. No door, not even that of the richest, is closed against a pilgrim, and no voice is ever raised against one. On the contrary, it is esteemed a happy occurrence, and regarded as a good omen, for a pilgrim to cross the threshold of a house. People are anxious to give them lodging and to help them on their way to their destination. There is, probably, no one who has not some sin on his conscience, or who does not feel himself all the better for making some offering to the Church, and so obtaining the prayers of some holy person; or has not had a mass offered[82]for the departed. If a person cannot travel as a pilgrim himself, he will send offerings by the hands of a pilgrim to the various monasteries, so that he may be prayed for at this or that holy shrine. A poor man will often spend his last kopeck with this object in view. And both the rich and the poor are fully persuaded that a pilgrim would rather die than deceive them.
Among other shrines, there are, to this very day, annual pilgrimages made to the monastery at Solowetski. It is now an easy matter to reach this monastery, for there is a regular service of steam-vessels running between Archangel and the island on which the buildings stand. But in olden times, when the events which are related here took place, the pilgrims often had to wait for a long time before they could secure an opportunity for reaching the island by means of a boat.
From Solowetski the more zealous of the pilgrims used to prolong their journeys through Russian Lapland to Kola, and thence to the monastery on the Petschenga River, celebrated both for its far distant situation and its sanctity, and for being the place where the holy Trifon was buried.
In this way it happened that at Christmastide in 1589 a band of pilgrims arrived at Kola just before the detachment of Swedish Finns who had destroyed the monastery had been repulsed from Kola, and had retreated along the banks of the river of Tulom. Among the pilgrims there were both men and women, rich and poor. They continued their march from Kola to Petschenga partly on foot, partly with the help of reindeer, which the Lapps either drove themselves, or allowed the pilgrims to use. The pilgrims at that time knew nothing for certain about the destruction of the monastery. Among them was a young woman who was distinguished from the other women by her pale, but unusually handsome face. Sorrow had clearly left its traces on her countenance, and her cheeks lacked their proper fulness. But there flashed a bright spark of animation from her beautiful eyes, and her smile seemed like a benediction for those on whom it was cast. She was dressed as a nun, and was looked upon by the other pilgrims as a saint. She had attached herself to the band at Olonets, and since then had patiently shared their wants and hardships. She nursed the sick, consoled the sorrowful, and was regarded with affection and esteem by the whole of the company.[83]
The pilgrims were naturally greatly alarmed, when they crossed the Petschenga River, which was at the time covered with ice, and saw, instead of a splendid monastery, with church, and buildings, and guest-houses for pilgrims, nothing but a heap of blackened ruins, and among them a number of unburied corpses. Some of the monks, who had been away, had returned, as has already been mentioned, and had taken refuge in the bathing house, but as yet they had not had time to remove all the corpses for burial. It was of course a pious work for the pilgrims to assist in. The young woman listened with anxious attention to the names that were mentioned of the monks who had been killed. She drew a sigh of relief when she heard that there was nobody among them named Theodore, but in reply to her inquiry whether any of the monks who were still alive bore that name, she also received a negative reply.
‘Are you looking for some relative?’ asked one of the monks.
‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘he ought to be either at Solowetski or here, but he was not at Solowetski, so I expected to find him here.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was a tall, handsome, and strong-looking man, with fine light hair, and a scar on his forehead.’
‘Perhaps it is Ambrose, who is lying ill across on the island.’
‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘his name is Theodore Ivanovitsch.’
Meanwhile, Unnas came over from the island to see the pilgrims, and to talk to them. But there was only one with whom he could at all freely converse, and that was the young woman who, besides Russian, could also speak Karelen. He informed her that in a gamme on the island, across in the river, a poor monk was lying with his face and hands burnt, and he asked her if she, or one of the others, had any remedy which might do him good.
‘We have very few remedies,’ she said; ‘but I was taught in a convent how to nurse sick people, and I will go across with you and attend to him.’
On their way Unnas told her how the sick man had on one occasion saved his life, and that he was to have been made a monk and to have taken the vows on the very night that the monastery was attacked and destroyed by the invaders.[84]
On a plank bed, in the somewhat dark earth-hut, Ambrose lay with a bandage over his eyes. Unnas told him that a band of pilgrims had arrived who knew nothing about the destruction of the monastery, and that in their company was a young woman—a nun—who understood doctoring, and who had been so good as to come with him, and that she was now there in order to examine his injuries.
‘Thanks,’ said Ambrose.
The young woman came to the bedside, and carefully loosened the bandage over his eyes. The sick man could not open them, as a hardened scab from the burns had formed over nearly the whole of his face. She beckoned to Unnas, and told him to bring her some water, so that she might wash and cleanse the sores on the face of the sick man with her pocket-handkerchief. At the sound of the strange woman’s voice the sick man suddenly raised himself up to a sitting posture. There was something in that voice, and in the sound of the Karelen word which she uttered, that seemed to strike a chord in the depth of his heart. But with a sigh he laid himself down again on the bed.
‘I am dreaming,’ he sighed.
The young woman had taken the basin with the water from the Finn, and she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in it and knelt down beside the sick man. She carefully undid a little more of the bandage, and began to wash his face, but suddenly she turned as pale as a corpse, let go the pocket-handkerchief, and folded her hands. Had she not seen the scar on that forehead often before!
‘God in heaven!’ she exclaimed, ‘but can it be possible?’
Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead, his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she had given him.
‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’ she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’
‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who is here, Unnas?’
‘Annita,’ said she softly.
‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted,[85]‘where am I? am I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’
‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’
The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by his feelings.
‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying it, and have I lost my reason?’
‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage. I have come straight from your home.’
‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage off my eyes.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be dangerous; you must be careful.’
‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita. Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married to Anthony?’
‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’
‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’
‘I have come from your home, fromourhome, and I have brought you a greeting from your mother.’
‘How has all this come about?’
‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not leave you any more.’
‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose said when Annita was gone.
‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’
‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart, that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not seen Annita.’[86]
‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired.
‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’
Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful surprise to his friend was plain enough.
The legend has preserved this incident relating to the monk who had escaped from the massacre, and who had concealed himself on an island in the Petschenga River. But, according to the legend, it was not a mortal woman who came and nursed him, but an angel from heaven, who came down each night to him, and placed her hand on the monk’s eyes, until he was cured and regained his sight.
When Annita returned, Ambrose’s wounds were dressed, while questions and answers were exchanged between them. As they spoke in Karelen Unnas was also able to follow them, and in that way heard much about his benefactor’s earlier life, of which he had previously known very little.
‘Your mother sends you her greeting,’ said Annita; ‘she will receive us with open arms, and give us her blessing when we return.’
‘And my father?’ said Ambrose.
‘Your father?’
‘Yes; will he give us his blessing, too, and forgive us?’
‘Then you don’t know what has happened? You don’t know that your father is no more? Your father is dead.’
‘May God have pity on his soul!’
‘You have not heard that your father met with an accident?’
‘No. I know nothing about things that have occurred at home since I left.’
‘While driving with three horses which he had bought, and which he would drive himself over to one of his neighbours, the horses shied, and reared, and upset the carriage, and he injured his head so that he died the day following.’
‘Had you returned home when it happened?’
‘No; your mother told me of it. It is now six months since it happened. His last words, your mother says, were “Call Theodore back, and Annita; she is in a convent at——” More he could not manage to utter. I believe that he intended to forgive us when he saw death approaching.’
‘Were you hidden in a convent?’
‘Yes, in a little nunnery in the neighbourhood of Novgorod.’[87]
‘What is it called, and who took you there?’
‘That I don’t even now know; they were strangers whom I have never seen either before or since.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘One winter evening I had been sent across to Theodora Petrovna, and was to drive back again with Anthony Kudst, who came to fetch me. We were set upon by three men; I was lifted out of the sledge and placed in theirs, and was driven away, night and day, till we reached the convent, where I was confined more strictly than any of the nuns, and was kept under guard, and never allowed to speak to a stranger.’
‘And Anthony, what became of him?’
‘Ah! what became of him nobody knows; most probably your father gave him money, and sent him back to his own country.’
‘I hunted for you for more than two years, Annita, far and near, as well as in all the convents.’
‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money, according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way, to your home.’
‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’
‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see you there.
‘ “Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.”
‘ “Where?”
‘ “Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly, “Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.”
‘ “To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm.
‘ “Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry Anthony, he decided to become a monk.”[88]
‘ “Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?”
‘ “Father could have made you.”
‘ “Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.”
‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay, or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’
‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’
‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’
‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’
‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’
‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you may be sure that I shall leave this place.’
‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with you?’
‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you, Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing without you.’
The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.
‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now[89]I see you, that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman smiles like you.’
It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a friendly star on a dark night.
‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.
They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her, absorbed in prayer.
‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear and doubt while we have been so long away.’
‘Let us go in,’ said Theodore.
‘Yes; you go,’ said Annita. ‘I will wait here a little; but be careful, for your old mother is very feeble now.’
When Theodore had gone, Annita tapped on the window pane, and called out, ‘We are here, mother,’ so that she might not be startled too suddenly. The old lady folded her hands together, and partly rose. At the same moment Theodore entered, and knelt down beside her. She uttered a shriek such as could only come from a mother’s heart. ‘Theodore, my son! my son!’ and she clung to him, weeping on his neck. Annita then entered quietly, and shed tears of joy with mother and son. Afterwards all the servants in the house came and kissed the hands of the home-comers.
It was a day of rejoicing throughout the estate when Theodore and Annita returned. When this was reported in the village one of the women went running home and told her husband. He exclaimed: ‘Is it true what you say, wife, that Theodore Ivanovitsch and Annita have returned?’
‘Yes, it is as true as that I live,’ she said.
‘Then I will never thrash you again,’ he exclaimed.
All the people streamed up to the castle to see the returned ones, and to kiss their hands. Theodore and Annita had taken Unnas with them, and when, half a year later, there was a wedding at the castle, Unnas also celebrated his wedding in the village.
Theodore had told him that he might choose any girl among all the serfs, and that he should have her. Unnas fell in love[90]with a girl who was a complete contrast to himself—the tallest girl in all the village—and for a good word, and a good house, and a piece of land, she gave the little Finn both her hand and her heart. She was at all events certain of never getting a thrashing fromherhusband. Thus it came about that to this day Theodore and Unnas’ descendants live at Olonets.
With this, the romance of the monastery comes to an end.As regards the ethnographical portion of it a little further may be added.
When information of the destruction of the monastery reached the Czar, the pious Theodore Ivanovitsch, he is said to have been deeply grieved, and to have expressed his sorrow at the disaster. To assist those of the monks who had recovered, and were homeless, he gave orders that a new monastery should be built at Kola, within the fortress, so that it might be secure from attacks of the Swedes, or other enemies. The church of the Annunciation of St. Mary in the town was granted, and the monastery was built close to the church. But in the year 1619 both the town and the church and monastery were destroyed by fire.
After this, the then Czar, the orthodox Michael Theodorovitsch, ordered that a monastery should be built in the neighbourhood of the town, but on the other side of the Kola River. This new monastery received the name of New Petschenga, or Koloska Petschenga monastery, and had its own Archimandrites or Superiors, till the bishopric of Archangel was founded.
In 1675 Alexei Michaelovitsch confirmed to this monastery the privileges which former monarchs had bestowed on the monastery at Petschenga. Probably it was the erection of this monastery which caused one Russian author to state that at one time there weretwomonasteries at the Petschenga River.
In the year 1701 it is said there were thirteen monks in this monastery, and, according to a letter from Laurence, the Superior of it, to Archbishop Athanasius, the monastery exported in that year ‘12,752 stockfish, 144 pounds of train-oil, and 2,470 salmon.’ But this is the last occasion on which anything is said of the industrial activity of the monastery. Among the Archimandrites of the New Petschenga monastery is mentioned[91]the holy Jonas, a pupil of Trifon; and, like Trifon, he is still had in reverence by the pilgrims and by the inhabitants of the district.
In the year 1724 mention is made of three churches at Kola, viz., Trinity Church, the Church of the Assumption of St. Mary, and SS. Peter and Paul’s Church. Eventually, the monastery was dissolved in the year 1764, and annexed to the cathedral church of Kola, and appointed the residence of the bishop of Kola. The Empress Catherine II. issued, on February 26 in that year, a brief, according to which the monastery and churches were deprived of their ancient privileges, as well as of their tenants and serfs. At the present time both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Russia have their attention directed to the re-erection of the monastery of Petschenga on its ancient site.
In the year 1881 a commission was appointed in Archangel to consider what could be done to promote different kinds of industry in those northern districts, and remedy several defects. This commission decided that it was of great importance that the Petschenga monastery should be rebuilt, and in the year 1882 the Holy Synod permitted and sanctioned its re-erection. Serapion, Bishop of Archangel, has likewise taken great interest in the scheme. He has procured a copy of the picture of Trifon, and has, it is said, had it painted at his own expense. It is thought that the rebuilding of the monastery of Petschenga will, in time, have the same beneficial effect on those parts as Solowetski monastery has had on the region of the White Sea. A Special Committee has therefore been appointed by the ecclesiastical authorities. The Committee appeals to all who may be supposed to feel an interest in the undertaking, and invites charitable contributions, which should be sent to
The Committee at ArchangelFor the Restoration of Petschenga Monastery.