The village priest : and other stories

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

AND OTHER STORIES
FROM THE RUSSIAN

A GREAT RUSSIAN HUMORIST

DEAD SOULS

By NIKOLAI GOGOL

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

STEPHEN GRAHAM. Cloth, 6s.

" The greatest humorous novel in the
Russian language." — Stephen Graham.

"The characters in the book have be-
come national types, and are to Russians
what Micawber, Mr. Pickwick, and Falstaflf
are to us." — Saturday Review.

"Gogol's extraordinary masterpiece has
been compared with the great works of
Cervantes and Le Sage, but Mr. Stephen
Graham is a thousand times right when he
claims for it 'a deeper human appeal'
than these." — Daily Chronicle.

T. FISHER UNWIN Ltd., LONDON

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

AND OTHER STORIES FROM THE
RUSSIAN OF MILITSINA & SALTIKOV

TRANSLATED BY

BEATRIX L. TOLLEMACHE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

C. HAGBERG WRIGHT

T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
LONDON; ADELPHI TERRACE

First Published in igiS

f6 34^7

M52. \/d
jviA "^

CONTENTS

I'AGE

Introduction . . . . . . vii

The Village Priest ..... i

By E. MILITSINA

The Old Nurse . . . . . .53

By E. MILITSINA

KONYAGA ....... 69

By SALTIKOV

A Visit to a Russian Prison—

I. Arenushka . . . . , • 85

II. The Old Believer ..... loi
By SALTIKOV

The Governor . . . . . -157

By SALTIKOV

51.5489

INTRODUCTION

OF the two authors selected by Mrs.
Tollemache for translation, Saltikov
has attained to the rank of a classic, at
least in his own country, while Elena
Dmietrievna Militsina is a living writer
who has obtained some popularity in
Russia, but is practically unknown to
English readers. She has written for the
leading monthly the Russkoe Bogatsvo and
other journals, sometimes under the pseu-
donym of E. Kargina. The first volume
of her short stories was published in
Petrograd in 1910. In the course of
the half-century which elapsed between
Saltikov's first appearance in print and
Miss Militsina's early contributions to
fiction, social conditions in Russia under-
went significant and far-reaching changes,

Tiii INTRODUCTION

but the unity of outlook and the kindred
sympathies shared by these two writers of
successive generations show that the aspira-
tions uttered in 1847 were still unfulfilled
in the first decades of the twentieth cen-
tury. But little biographical information is
available relating to Elena Militsina, but
it is easy to trace the leading events in
the life of Saltikov, better known by his
pseudonym of Schedrine.

Mikhail Evgrafovich Saltikov, whose
parents were landowners of Tartar extrac-
tion, was born on the 15th January 1826,
in the Government of Tver. His child-
hood was spent in the country, in the
wide quiet fields, far from the noise of
great cities or the sleepy monotony of the
Russian provincial town. At the age of
seven lessons began. His first master,
according to the custom of those days,
was one of his father's serfs, named Paul.
After a year under his tutelage young
Saltikov's education was undertaken by an
elder sister and her school friend, Mdlle.
Vasilevskaya, who had entered the family

INTRODUCTION ix

as governess. In addition to the teaching
of these two girls he studied Latin and
Scripture with the priest of a neighbour-
ing village, and a student of Moscow
University was invited to spend the
summer holidays on the estate to prepare
the boy for the entrance examination of
the Moscow Institute, which he passed
with flying colours. This Institute had
the special privilege of sending its best
pupils every year to the Tsarskoselsky
lycee, where they were educated at the
expense of the State. Here the boy
worked with diligence for two years, at
the end of which period he was selected
for the coveted promotion.

The span of boyhood in Russia is short.
On passing to the lycee Saltikov entered
on a training that differed from that of
the preparatory school in many respects.
The discipline was more strict, and the
authorities, anxious to instil into the
students under their care ideas that were
in opposition to the progressive spirit of
the times, were averse from giving them

X INTRODUCTION

a wide and liberal education. Pushkin
had just died from a mortal wound received
in a duel, and the great Russian poet, who
had thousands of youthful worshippers in
his lifetime, was deified by them after his
death. Every young man's ambition was
to become a second Pushkin. The more
the authorities tried to repress this youthful
enthusiasm on the part of the pupils,
the more rebellious did the latter prove.
Saltikov was one of these refractory spirits,
and was frequently in disgrace during his
first year in the lycee for writing verses
and for reading books that were viewed
with disfavour. As a senior pupil, how-
ever, he was allowed certain privileges,
such as permission to subscribe to certain
monthly reviews and even to write for
them. Versifying also was no longer
regarded as an offence.

The passion for the dead Master stimu-
lated the students to poetic endeavours, and
competition in the higher classes was so
keen that it became the custom to nominate
yearly a prospective successor to Pushkin

INTRODUCTION xi

from among themselves. This acclama-
tion of a boy by his companions as worthy
to emulate the great poet was considered
a very real honour, and it must have
been a gratifying episode in Saltikov's
school life when he attained to this
distinction.

But although in his youth Saltikov wrote
and published a few poems, he entirely
abandoned the art on attaining maturity,
and never returned to it at any later
period. His school days ended, he entered
the Ministry of War in 1844, where he
quickly rose to the position of an
Assistant Secretary. These first years of
Civil Service were years of routine only
marked by some youthful indiscretions from
which, as a whole, Saltikov's life seems to
have been singularly free.

His real literary career began in 1847
with a short story called " Contradictions,"
published in the Fatherland Review,
under the pseudonym of M. Nepanov. In
this tale he gave early evidence of that
gift of satire which is the distinctive

xii INTRODUCTION

feature of his best work. In the year
1847 several remarkable literary works
saw the light. Goncharov published A
Common Story, which enjoyed a very great
success ; S. T. Aksakov, whose sketches
of country life are famous throughout
Russia, produced his first book on Fishing ;
the historian, Soloviev, brought out his
Princes of the House of Rurik, which marked
an epoch in Russian historical literature ;
and in the same year Ostrovsky, the
dramatist, presented his first sketches of
Moscow suburban life to a public grown
expectant of new talent. Saltikov's first
attempt. Contradictions, and a second story,
The Tangled Affair, were alike unnoticed
by either public or Censor ; but this
immunity was not to last. On the eve of
the 1848 Revolution, Russia, as well as
other countries, was passing through a
period of grave unrest. Socialistic ideas
were freely discussed in intellectual circles,
and the Russian Government had formed
the notorious Baturlinsky Committee as
a protective measure against the spread of

INTRODUCTION xiii

liberal opinions in the press. Such ample
powers were given to this Committee that
even official publications were subjected
to a rigorous censorship. The War
Minister, Chernishev, himself received a
reprimand for an article which appeared
in the official organ, the Russky Invalid.
So it befell that when Saltikov applied
for leave of absence to visit his parents,
the Minister — no doubt previously in-
formed of the young man's literary talent
— refused to give him the desired permit
until he had submitted his stories. Con-
tradictions and The Tangled Affair, for
examination. The result was unfavourable,
and on the 23rd April 1848 a troika
with gendarmes suddenly appeared before
Saltikov's door with an order that he
was to leave the capital forthwith for the
town of Vyatka. By this punishment for
his literary temerity, in reality a mild
form of exile, the whole course of his
career was changed.

Saltikov's life in Vyatka, in a provincial
government office, flowed pleasantly enough.

xiv INTRODUCTION

The governor found in him a young man
of abihty and industry ; the people of the
district were kind and hospitable, and the
house of the vice-governor became a second
home. He showed such judgment and
zeal for the work allotted to him that
he was entrusted with commissions and
inquiries which involved considerable
responsibility. A would-be student of
social life, he made it his business to
probe thoroughly any discontent which
came under his notice, and by this
means he frequently anticipated trouble
by remedial measures. Of a fearless dis-
position he was wont to express himself,
in intercourse with his official superiors,
with a frankness sometimes bordering on
audacity. After eight years of solid work
in exile, he was at length summoned back
to the capital, where he obtained a place
in the Home Office. His long sojourn in
Vyatka had made a lasting impression on
Saltikov's character and outlook, while he
brought back with him a possession yet
more valuable than his knowledge and

INTRODUCTION xv

experience of the peasantry and of pro-
vincial life, namely, a devoted wife. He
had married in 1856 Elizabeth, the
daughter of Vice-Governor Boltin, to
whom on his arrival in Vyatka he had
given lessons in history, and for whom he
wrote a short sketch of Russian history.

During the next ten years Saltikov's
literary activities clashed increasingly with
his public duties. On the one hand he
definitely entered the field of literature,
contributing regularly to the well-known
magazine in which his Provincial Studies
appeared ; on the other hand we find him
appointed Vice-Governor, first in Ryazan
and then in Tver, and even acting as
Governor. Torn by these conflicting
interests, he made one bold attempt in
1862 to give up serving the State and to
devote himself wholly to the art he loved,
but the necessities of life compelled him to
postpone his retirement. He returned to
oflicial life for six years more and did not
finally leave the Civil Service until 1868.
A welcome awaited him from the editorial

xvi INTRODUCTION

staff of the Fatherland Review presided over
by the poet Nekrasov. From that time
onwards Saltikov's works, which followed
each other in rapid succession, were eagerly
sought after and read. His popularity
reached its zenith in 1878 when, on the
death of Nekrasov, he became sole editor
of the Fatherland Review. As an editor
he takes a high place in the annals of the
Russian press, though he gave some an-
noyance by his free indulgence in the
editorial habit of correcting, cutting down,
and revising contributions. Only the works
of the foremost writers were left untouched
by his critical pen. The suppression of the
journal in 1884 on account of its outspoken
articles was a blow which affected his
already shattered health, and perhaps some-
what aggravated the illness to which he
eventually succumbed. He died, pen in
hand, in 1889.

Saltikov occupies a prominent place in
the literature of his country. The times
he lived in were times of upheaval and
reform, when men and women of the

INTRODUCTION xvii

intelligentsia eagerly sought to persuade
their fellow-countrymen to , realise their
own immature Utopias, and the writers of
the day held up to condemnation the
idleness and degeneracy which had degraded
the nation during the long reign of serf-
dom. These intellectuals endeavoured to
rouse the richer classes to take a more
active share in the life of the nation, and
to show a more human sympathy towards
the peasantry. Saltikov's writings show
that he was penetrated by the reforming
spirit around him and that he foresaw the
coming storm.

The strength of Saltikov's genius lay in
satire, which he used unsparingly on the
would-be regenerators of Russia, men be-
longing to his own circle of friends. He
openly ridiculed their passion for abstrac-
tions and theories, and reproached them
for their interminable philosophic dis-
cussions. Their desire to embrace the
whole of humanity within empty phrases
while none of them was ready to make
a personal sacrifice for any living creature

xviii INTRODUCTION

aroused his anger. The years he spent
in exile had revealed to him the inner
plague spots of his country, and shown
him how far Russia had sunk. In
his Provincial Sketches he not only rails
against those who take advantage of
their position to receive bribes, or to
steal from the Treasury, but he presents to
our view the mournful picture of a people
weighed down by an unbearable yoke.
The demoralising effect of provincial life
on even the best of characters, the misery
of the common people, and their need of
a true friend ; these are the dominant
themes of story after story. All through
his life Saltikov's genius remained radically
independent. His satire fell equally on
the days preceding and those which
succeeded the emancipation of the serfs ;
he realised that much-vaunted reforms had
left Russia almost exactly as she was prior
to their institution, and he emphasised
with all the force at his command the vital
necessity of drastic change in the govern-
ment and administration of the country.

INTRODUCTION xix

The pioneers and partisans of the renais-
sance had, he said, conceived nothing but
words ; they never brought any fruit to
perfection.

In the dialogue entitled "The Governor,"
which concludes this volume, we are pre-
sented with an ironical sketch of an official
who realises that he is a positive incubus,
and wholly unnecessary to the well-being
of those placed under his control. The
same spirit of irony pervades the two tales
which come under the heading of " A
Visit to a Russian Prison." In one case
a peasant is incarcerated for no worse
crime than that he has befriended an un-
fortunate vagrant who dies in his cottage
and whom, in his terror of the police, he
removes after death and leaves in an open
field. In the story of " An Old Believer "
— a member of a sect which from time to
time has received harsh usage from Tsars
of Russia — the prisoner describes how after
a series of misfortunes due to his religious
tenets he finally in desperation gives himself
up to the police. These two stories were

XX INTRODUCTION

first published in 1857-58 in the collection
entitled Provincial Sketches.

We must here draw attention to one
of the salient characteristics of Saltikov's
writings, namely, his passion for wide
generalisation. The frequently repeated
accusation that his heroes were drawn
directly from living people in Russian
society has no foundation in fact. It is
true that he often began a story with a
clearly-defined character, but the individual
was soon lost in the generalisation, so
much so that Art sometimes suffered.
The critics were always on the look-out
in Saltikov's satires and stories for descrip-
tions and portraits of historical and living
persons, while Saltikov's own intention was
to personify a period, to criticise the traits
which were common to all Russians or
to the whole world, and to demonstrate
that the conditions in which people were
living were so wretched that it was im-
possible to expect anything better. This
tendency to generalise must often have saved
his work from the Censor. His sarcasms

INTRODUCTION xri

were hurled not only against the governors,
but also against the common folk, against
the fawning and the down-trodden, in
whose Asiatic inertia lay the root of the
evil which their lives exhibited. This
feature adds to the importance of his
literary work.

The Men of Tashkent and the Men of
Golovleva^ which latter many consider his
masterpiece, are studies of the selfish and
short-sighted landlords and cultured classes
in the period following on the Emancipa-
tion, when many of the previously well-
to-do were ruined. Animated solely by
the old desire to live without working,
careful only of self-interest, their sole en-
deavour was to discover new spheres of
exploitation. That at least was Saltikov's
judgment on his fellow-countrymen, but
in his indictments, which were sometimes
sweeping, he would generally include those
in similar positions in other countries.

When at length, in the last decade of
his life, he grew tired of sarcasm, Saltikov
devoted himself to the short story and

xxii INTRODUCTION

fable. Of those which Mrs. Tollemache
has given in the present volume the longest
is " A Visit to a Russian Prison," to
which allusion has already been made. In
addition there is a fable or allegory en-
titled "Konyaga," which feelingly describes
the abject slavery of the peasant, previous
to the emancipation of the serfs. To the
English public, still too ignorant of Russia
and her social life, these sketches from
the pen of Saltikov should prove interest-
ing. They reveal his love of humanity
and his greatness of heart, while giving us
a typical picture of the Russian people,
their deep sadness, their inherent simplicity
and kindliness. They should help us to
realise that a change in the government
of Russia was inevitable.

The other three tales by Elena Militsina,
though written in a minor key, are less
pessimistic in tone. " The Village Priest "
is a story of a steadfast heart triumphing by
faith over pain and disappointment. Father
Andrew loves his flock in spite of all its
shortcomings, and his life of abnegation

INTRODUCTION xxiii

brings the reward of peace to his soul.
In these tales there is no more finality
than in Nature herself, nor is a direct
solution offered by the social problems
attached. The reader is simply brought
face to face with life-like, pathetic, and
artistic studies of certain types of primitive
Russian character, and his sympathies are
won in spite of himself for the. poor " slaves
of God."

C. HAGBERG WRIGHT.

The Village Priest

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

THE village of VIsok, lying on the slope of
a hill, was blotted out by the darkness of
night. No outlines of cottages appeared nor
firelight through the windows, nor were heard
the usual sounds of song and laughter which
sometimes echoed far in the street at night.

Only the windows of a small house belonging
to the village priest, Father Andrew, were faintly
lighted up by lamps. The house stood on the very
edge of the cliff, under which flowed a broad river.

It was the eve of a festival.

The priest was an elderly man of fifty-five, of
small stature, wearing an ancient dark cassock.
Having finished his appointed duties, he was
walking quietly up and down his whitewashed
parlour by the light of the lamp burning before
the ikons, and one might judge, from his move-
ments and his whole appearance, that he had been
in the habit during many years of thus pacing up
and down when wrapped in thought.

The old planks creaked under his step, but
when he came near the cupboard which held the

4 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

china, the whole cupboard shook and the plates
clattered. But the priest had long ago been
accustomed to this, and now, with his hands in his
pockets, he paced quietly up and down, and as he
walked he thought, and the thoughts which came to
him did not disturb the silence which surrounded
him ; they melted away in the general atmosphere
of the whitewashed parlour with the lighted lamp.
In the next room another light was burning,
and the priest knew this, and could see through
the half-open door that his wife was on her knees
before the ikons, and by the light of the lamp burn-
ing before them she read her Hymns of the Saints,
This was the manuscript which Father Andrew in
his moments of inspiration had written once upon
a time, and he remembered much of it by heart.

" Rejoice, thou who art the dawn of everlasting faith ;
Rejoice, thou who hast conquered the world by humility."

And while he saw his wife bowing down to the
ground before the ikons Father Andrev/ repeated
mentally :

"Rejoice, thou who art the sun, the light of love that
never sets j
Rejoice, thou who art the fair flower in the joy of Heaven."

He continued to pace up and down quietly,
rather feeling than seeing what was behind the
half-open door ; it was all the past life which they
had spent together. There it lay ; in a corner

THE VILLAGE PRIEST s

stood the large bed which the mother kept'there
in memory of the early years of their married life.
This bed with its hangings of white chintz stood
as it had done in old days ; but no one had used
it for a long time. The mother slept on a chest,
and he slept on a small wooden bench in his own
room. Two sons were born to them, but one died
early. When the first joys of family life were
over, many small cares and interests occupied
them. The mother had day-dreams, but more
and more they were only about her own small
nest, and she tried to narrow Father Andrew to
her point of view. Then he felt that it was
necessary to put an end to this, and he pictured
to himself how one day he drove up in a cart
to his house ; the gates were open, and his
wife met him, looking at the cart with longing,
sparkling eyes, and greeted him with these words :

" Now, then, let us see what you have brought."

The workman who had come with the cart
threw aside the covering, and the mother clasped
her hands and groaned :

" Is this all ? Didn't they offer more things ?
How is this ? "

Father Andrew began to feel a pain in his heart,
and he silently passed on to the porch,

" What, didn't they offer anything more ^ " the
mother continued to ask.

6 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

The workman hesitated and said :

" No, it wasn't that they didn't offer ; some did
liberally."

"But where is it all?"

" Well, in some places they brought much,"
drawled the man, trying to soften the avowal,
" in other places they hardly offered anything,
and in other places we did accept it, but gave it
away to someone else."

" Father Andrew, why do you go on like
this ? " said the mother in an agitated voice,
going quickly to the porch, and red spots ap-
peared on her cheeks. " Don't we also want
food and drink .'' There is the horse too, and the
cow, and our labourer — they all require it, and you
go and give things away."

" God will provide for everyone's needs," re-
plied Father Andrew in such a tone that the
mother did not dare to press things any further,
but went silently to place in the storeroom the
goods which had been brought.

Ah ! she had a hard strife with her natural
instincts, was the thought that crossed Father
Andrew's mind as he looked again at his wife on
her knees.

" Pure Virgin," whispered the mother, reading
out of her book, " Paradise is adorned for Thee,
and for Thee the angelic choir sing."

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 7

"Now she is at peace," thought Father
Andrew, " now she has found her own sphere,
a world she can understand."

He began again to pace quietly up and down
on the creaking boards, rejoicing in the peace and
quiet of his home, and thinking how his life was
bounded by the narrow walls of the whitewashed
parlour softly lit up by the lamplight. It was a
necessity to Father Andrew to pace up and down
while he thought ; but now his ideas flowed freely
without pausing to dwell on the darker sides of
the past. The happy and pleasant side of his life
passed before his mind, and was all bound up with
the image of his much beloved son, who had lately
returned home at the conclusion of his seminary
studies.

Father Andrew remembered for how many
years this little lamp had burned in his house, and
again there rose up before him the image of Pav-
lusha, a lively, ruddy boy, with his great, shining
grey eyes, and his musical laugh. . . . This
mental vision blended with the light of the little
lamps before the ikons.

Father Andrew smiled. He remembered how
Pavlusha had once kept on extinguishing the
lamp which was never to be allowed to go out.
The mother relighted it several times, then, falling
down before the ikons, she prayed long and fer-

8 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

vently, but when she went back to her bedroom
she always found the lamp extinguished.

Much agitated and frightened and in tears she
turned to her husband. " Father Andrew, the
Lord will not accept my lamp ; as often as I
light it He extinguishes it. Forgive me, I have
vexed you, I have vexed you with my dreadful
sins," and, overcome with the thought of her sin-
fulness, she wanted to throw herself down at
Father Andrew's feet. He could not now re-
member what he had said to her and with what
words he had comforted her, but they calmed her
spirit and left unforgettable traces in her soul.
But when they both left his room peacefully, and
found Pavlusha again extinguishing the lamp, the
mother, usually so strict with her mischievous
boy, only laughed and kissed him tenderly.

Father Andrew looked again towards the half-
open door and a gentle smile lit up his face.
" Now everything is well arranged and clean and
neat ; the floors are polished ; there are table-
cloths everywhere and napkins knitted by herself ;
flowers grown by her own hands . . . and all this
because God loves labour. ^^

Father Andrew called to mind the long winter
evenings . . . the mother at her favourite occu-
pation : the reading aloud of the Lives of the
Saints. Beside her were two old maids — Slaves of

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 9

God^ she called them — the foolish, simple-minded
Theckla and the crazy Mokrena. They were
winding thread, or else knitting or sewing
something.

On the high threshold of the parlour sat the
labourer, Ivan, with his hands clasping his knees,
and adding at times his full belief in the popular
legends which the mother read aloud.

" Yes, indeed, without God's blessing nothing
is possible, as you read. Mother, just now," began
Ivan. "A peasant cut down a lime tree and
began to hollow a trough out of it ; the log was
thick, very thick. A stranger passing by called
out, * May God help you ; ' but the peasant
answered, * I don't want God's help ; I can do it
myself.' "

" Oh dear, what a sin," said the mother sadly.
" How could he say that ? "

" Well," continued Ivan, " the stranger said,
* Well, do it,' and after saying that he went away.
And what do you think happened after that ?
The peasant hacked and hacked away ; he hewed
and hewed away to make a trough ; he hollowed
the tree out with all his strength ; and behold —
he had made a spoon," and Ivan, with his earnest

^ This was the name given to certain persons who professed to be
very religious, and who sometimes were rather crazy ; they were re-
spected and received into some pious household and treated as being
specially favoured by God,

10 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

eyes, had absorbed the attention of his audience,
and was well pleased with the impression made
by his tale.

"Now here's another thing that happened,"
began he anew, feeling that he was master of the
situation, and giving full flow to his fancy when
his memory failed him. " There was a son once
who refused to support his mother, and one day
she said to him, * Dear son, give me a piece of
bread ; ' and he said to her, * I give you enough
food ; you are never satisfied ! ' Having said this,
he slipped off to the cellar to get some milk for
himself; he took the lid off the pan where the
milk was, and was bending to get some, when a
toad suddenly jumped on his breast and began to
suck at his heart, asking for milk. It sucked and
sucked, night and day, and it was impossible to
tear it away. Then he said to himself, * I
wouldn't feed you. Mother, with bread, and now
this reptile has come and is sucking all my
blood.'"

" His conscience was pricking him," observed
the mother, and the Slaves of God sympathetically
snorted.

Father Andrew continued pacing up and down,
and a quiet smile played about his lips, and past
days came before his eyes.

He saw Pavlusha nestling beside Ivan ; the

THE VILLAGE PRIEST n

boy loved him, and the stories which Ivan told
him in the kitchen, lying in the evening on the
warm stove ; and Pavlusha knew that Ivan had
no end of these stories, and they were all one
better than the other, one more interesting than
another.

It sometimes happened that a passing stranger
would talk, at the family meal, about some
monastery where he had been, and of the saints
and of the cures performed by them ; and the
mother would value such a guest more than any
other wanderer. She could not do enough for
him, to feed him, to warm him, and to cherish
him, while at the same time the Slaves of God
would wash his rags, iron his shirts or make him
new ones, or warm the bath for him.

Sometimes the older peasants would stroll into
the hospitable home of the priest for a little
evening talk ; they would listen to his discourse,
to his advice, to the mother's reading, and would
discuss the affairs of the village council. They
came with simple trust, and gravely sat down
round the whitewashed walls of the parlour.
Pavlusha would look at their serious faces, and
listen to their earnest talk and to his father's
answers, and would often stay the whole time
instead of going to his beloved Ivan,

And these conversations would sometimes go

12 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

on for a long time without harsh criticism, with-
out scandal and backbiting, and without passing
judgment on anyone.

The thoughts of Father Andrew wandered
further and further into the past. He re-
membered the parents of Ivan coming and saying
to him, " We have come to you, little father, to
you, little mother, for advice. Ivan ought to
marry, and if you will choose a girl for him, he
shall marry her." Then they all, including the
little mother, began to think over all the possible
brides in the village, until their choice fell upon
Agatha.

They called Ivan. He entered and, guessing
why he was sent for, stood with his eyes fixed on
the ground.

The priest addressed him : " We are thinking
of marrying you."

" As you please," said Ivan, not raising his eyes.

"And we have chosen a bride for you."

" As you please," repeated Ivan.

Then silence ensued.

" We have chosen for you a young widow —
Agatha."

Ivan's face grew as red as a poppy, and, for-
getting to say "As you please," he threw himself
at the feet of his parents, crying out, "I shall
ever be grateful to you for this ! "

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 13

And from that moment Ivan went out every
evening by the back gate and played this tune on
his reed pipe :

"Grow bright and broaden, thou ruddy dawn."

For thirty years Ivan had lived in Father
Andrew's house, adding to its life his own
simplicity and humbleness of mind.

And then Father Andrew remembered Pav-
lusha in his teens : here was the quiet lake
behind the garden, and the beehives near ; the
morning mist was rising. . . . The dew lay on
the meadows, and Pavlusha sat near him and was
catching fish. Grandfather Gordey came up to
them ; he was the bee-keeper, the father of Ivan,
a tall, old man in a white shirt.

"A fine summer we shall have, little father,
a fine summer," said he, pointing to the hives.
" The bees are flying about happily and they can
scent out a fine summer. A man can't do that,
but a bee, God's creature, can scent it."

And Gordey began to describe how the earth
had spoken plainly during the past night. It had
also foretold a good year. What voices had re-
sounded in the night ! The quails and the wild-
duck had cried out ; the landrail h^d tapped . . .
the nightingales sang ... in fact, you could not
count all the sounds that were heard. Every

14 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

beetle and every creature sent forth a note.
And old Gordey talked a great deal of what he
had heard, and Pavlusha listened to him.

And dear to Father Andrew were the tales of
Gordey and the attentive ears of his son ; and
dear to him was the quiet lake where the depth
of heaven lay mirrored and the green rushes grew
around.

" I don't want to die in the spring," said
Gordey ; " one might be ready to die in autumn,
but one would be unwilling to die in the
spring."

But Father Andrew remembered that the old
man did die in the spring, and his dying words
were these :

" How can I leave you now ? " said Gordey to
him. " Just think what a season I have chosen ;
it is quite the wrong one, quite wrong. Now
the bees are busy and I must die. That hive is
a strong one now ; you leave it alone ; if you
take a swarm from it, it will be too weak ; but
now there is another hive ; take a swarm from
there," said Gordey, who was about to leave this
world, and yet was only interested in swarms of
bees on this earth.

"We shall manage it somehow," said Father
Andrew, trying to turn the old man from cares
about bees. " You should think about your soul,

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 15

Gordey, and the mercy of God ; you should pray
for the forgiveness of your sins."

" It is dreadful to have to leave the bees," said
the old man impressively, full of anxiety lest the
bees should be left without a good bee-keeper.
" Don't take Pakoma ; I should not wish you to
take him," he added in a faltering voice ; " he will
not love the bees. But the bees knew me, they
loved me."

And he died.

And the thoughts of Father Andrew again
returned to memories of his son. . . .

The fishing was over. Father Andrew and
Pavlusha sat in a clearing of the wood in the
shade of young birch trees and sheltered by their
fresh, quivering leaves. Little clouds floated in
the unfathomable blue sky. Little shadows
passed over the face of Pavlusha, the face his
father loved so much, so expressive of the fleeting
thoughts of the boy. He admired his strongly-
marked eyebrows, his look, his voice, so young
and strong, and his laugh, so hearty and full of
love of life ; and he trusted the boy and knew he
was good.

Pavlusha gave a lively description to his father
of his life at the seminary : he described to him
his companions and the professors ; he told
him about his vague hopes and desires, of hi§

i6 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

doubts and anxieties. He spoke gaily, for he
trusted in a great and happy future ; he formed
plans, one grander and more unrealisable than
another, and he himself was the first to laugh
heartily about them. He flitted from one idea to
another. He teased kindly and lightly the old
Gordey, and the old man was ready to laugh with
him at himself, and good-humouredly encouraged
his favourite to new jokes. . . . "~

. . . And Father Andrew also laughed.

And the sun, as before, let the shadows of the
soft, white feathery clouds play on their faces. . . .

The weeks passed quickly, and there came a
day when Father Andrew and the mother started
to accompany Pavlusha to the seminary for his
last year. It was a drive of sixty versts to the
railway station. A pair of horses were harnessed
to the old tarantass, and it rolled gently along the
dusty country road. A dreary strip of boundless
steppe lay around, with melancholy stooks of
reaped corn or heaps of winter rye and wheat.
The Slave of Gody Theckla, sat on the box and
held the reins, for she usually drove the mother.
By her side sat Pavlusha, and in the depths of
the narrow tarantass sat Father Andrew and the
mother ; she was dozing, for she was overcome
with weariness from the parting with her son. . . .
The horses trotted lazily, raising clouds of fine

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 17

dust. Theckla also dozed on the box, her hair
dropping forward and her thick lips bulging.

Pavlusha could not sit still ; he was full of
anticipation of new pleasures, and he wanted to
drive more quickly. He lost patience with the
slow trot of the horses and the stupid, sleepy face
of the Slave. He took a piece of straw and tried
to wake up Theckla with it, and began carefully
to draw it across her freckled face. Theckla for
a long time kept pushing it away, and blinked
with her sleepy, heavy eyes, and then again shut
them and again dropped her head.

Pavlusha began tickling her again with a straw,
but as it seemed to have no effect, he began gently
to draw his finger round the lips of the Slave,
trying to tickle them lightly ; but an unexpected
movement of his hand, caused by a wheel getting
suddenly into a rut, made the lips of Theckla to
shut with a snap, and she guessed who was the
culprit when she saw his round, frightened eyes
fixed on her, and recognised the disturber of her
sweet sleep. The Slave got angry, and began to
snort and whimper.

" What's this, what's this .? What has hap-
pened } " asked the mother, waking suddenly from
her sleep. " Why art thou crying ? "

" Paul Andrevitch was tapping, tapping on my

1>>
ips.

2

i8 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

" What, what do you say ? Paul touching
your lips ? Stop," ordered the mother, " stop.
Get down, Paul, from the box and beg her
pardon directly."

" What do you mean, Mother ? "
"Get down, I tell you ! Beg her pardon."
" But what do you mean. Mother ? "
" I tell you, come down and beg her pardon."
" But what for. Mother ? "
" I tell you, beg her pardon. I will not go any
farther, not a step. I am afraid, quite afraid to
go on. That you should behave like this on your
way to your serious studies, and insult a Slave of
God who can't answer back 1 God will not give
you His blessing, nor enable you to finish your
term. . . . Beg her pardon ... on your knees."
The mother grew more agitated, and got out of
the tarantass. Father Andrew tried to calm her.

" No, Father Andrew, no. I tell you I cannot
allow such sinful behaviour. Get down, Theckla,
from the box ; and you too, Paul, get down and
kneel."

" But, Mother, there's so much dust."
"Ah, yes, you are afraid of the dust of the
ground, but you are not afraid of the dust of your
sins ; you don't care about that. On your knees,
on your knees," and then she began to cry.

" Now, Mother, now don't cry," said Paul

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 19

reassuringly ; " I will ask forgiveness directly. I
will ask as often as you like, only don't cry."
And without stopping to choose a spot, he went
down in the dust of the road and bowed low
several times to the meek Slave of God.

" Glory to God, glory to God," said his mother,
crossing herself, and being at last satisfied, she
sat down again in the tarantass.

All the little details of the scene rose up before
Father Andrew's eyes as he paced up and down
his room and ejaculated : " Capital boy, capital
boy ; later, the boy laughed about it himself, and
it was so nice, so nice of him. There's nothing
underhand about him ; he is a frank soul. But
just now . . ."

And Father Andrew sighed deeply and his
thoughts went heavily, for they were no longer as
happy and peaceful as before ; they were no longer
like the soft dusk of his whitewashed parlour nor
like the steady light of the lamp in the mother's
bedroom.

Father Andrew looked at the half-open door
which led to his son's room, and from whence a
bright light fell on the floor. " He has been now
at home two weeks," thought Father Andrew,
"and I hardly recognise my Pavlusha. It seems
as if some thought were haunting him, but he is
afraid to talk to me about it, and yet it worries

20 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

him not to be frank with me. What can it be ?
I can see that he suffers, although he tries to hide
it from me. What can his trouble be ? I want
to lighten it, 1 want to help him," and Father
Andrew with a decided step went to the door.

" Are you asleep, Paul ? " he said gently, hold-
ing the door-handle.

" No ; come in. Father," said the son's voice.

Father Andrew opened the door quietly, and
he saw his son in a scarlet Russian shirt sitting
on an old sofa bending over a book. The lamp-
shade threw a dark shadow on his ample brow
and hid the expression of his eyes, and gave a
weary, thoughtful look to his face.

Father Andrew quietly sat down at the other
end of the sofa.

Paul glanced at him, and evidently guessed that
there was something special in his father's expres-
sion. He therefore at once laid aside his book.

"Thank you, Father, for coming," he said,
shaking his long, thick locks. " I wanted to
speak to you."

" I knew it, my son," said the father softly.

" You knew it ^ Ah, yes, of course you knew
it," and he looked at his father with grateful eyes.

There was silence for a moment.

" I know, Father," began Paul, and his voice
was agitated — " I know that it was your dearest

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 21

wish to see me also a priest, and to hand on to
me your parish, in which your soul was so much
bound up ; and to give it over to me not only
for my sake but also for the sake of the work to
which you have devoted all your life ; for the
sake of your parishioners, whom through me you
wished to strengthen in all the teachings which
were your legacy to them, that they might enjoy
the fruits of all your long labours and priestly
work among them. And it was to reach this aim
that you always tried so kindly and simply to
interest me in your parish and to explain its
character as you understood it. This dream was
one of the dearest of your life, I might say the
very dearest. I know how you cherished it,
Father, and what value it must have had in your
eyes.

Paul was silent for a moment ; his voice had
shown more and more agitation. Father Andrew
did not interrupt him by a word. Then Paul
began anew.

"But now. Father, that I have finished my
seminary studies it is time to decide the question
of my future work, and yet I do not know how
to decide. I have thought a great deal about this,
and especially during the last year of my studies ;
and if I did not write and tell you my thoughts,
it was only because I was not able to disentangle

22 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

them and decide. So much was stirring within
me, and yet I wished with all my heart to fulfil
your dream."

Paul was again silent, and looked with question-
ing eyes at his father.

Father Andrew had listened with deep attention
to every word of his son, but without looking at
him.

" Now you understand. Father, why I was
silent, and why I could not decide to throw this
burden on your shoulders."

" I understand, my son," answered Father
Andrew quietly. " Now tell me all. Let us
discuss it together."

" There is one thing, Father, I "wish, and that
is, to continue my studies. I shall try for the
University, and then we shall see what will happen ;
but I certainly cannot become a priest."

There was again a short silence.

" I have been thinking," continued Paul, " if I
become a priest, what should I do with all the
thoughts that are growing and ripening in my
mind ; there would be no room for my thoughts
or feelings to expand. You have taught me,
Father, how to look on your parishioners, and
especially on the poor people. You have taught
me how to consider their life, to pity their
sorrows, to love them. But how can you live

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 23

among the people and consider their life, their
secret wishes, and their dreams, and yet know
that you are helpless to serve them in any way ?
How hard it is at the same time to feel yourself
snatched away from the free life of the intellectual
world — in fact, so much divided from it, that you
dare not order your favourite secular magazine or
newspaper if they are not read in the priestly
circle, and you are thus unwillingly completely
locked up in this circle ! . . . That is what frightens
me. Father."

Paul stood up and walked across the room in
his agitation.

" To love your parishioners as you love them,
to share joy and grief with them, and yet to see
that a quite different influence is working among
them 1 . . . We need not speak of all the causes ;
let us take religion. ... Is it not unfathomable ?
Is not its sphere infinite ? It opens out wider and
wider horizons in proportion as the world makes
progress. The creative thought of man is lawful
in its action, as lawful as everything else in
nature, and we must, we must trust to it."

Paul's voice at these last words rose almost to
a scream.

" But look now and see what is done in the
name of religion ! See what kind of pastors there
are 1 Look only round our own villages. What

24 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

purely formal relations there are between the
priest and his parishioners. The peasant knows
that he cannot do without the priest, and the
priest knows this very well, and takes advantage
of this knowledge as much as he can. . . . For
instance, last year there was a dreadful drought ;
the oats withered, the potatoes were checked in
their growth, the millet got spoilt, everywhere
there was brown, withered grass. The peasants of
Vavilov were frightened at the misery they saw
coming upon them, and they went in a body to
their priest in Polvan. * Little father, we must
have a Te Deum sung,' said they ; * God is angry
with us for our sins ; He will not give us rain ;
we must have a procession with the ikons.'

" Then Father Vassili answered, * This ought to
have been done long ago. A week ago they sang
a Te Deum in Mallil Borkak. Well, you must
pay me six roubles, and the money paid on the
spot.'

" * Oh, you are coming down on us,' answered
the peasants, standing cap in hand before the
porch of the priest. * Won't you first perform
the service, and then we will put what we can
afford in the plate i* — of course we will do it
heartily.'

" * No, I can't agree to that. Six roubles, and
the money down.'

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 25

" ' Oh, Indeed ; is not your corn drying up in
the field too ? It is not only for us you will pray
to God. And your meadows too, they are larger
than ours.'

" And do you know what Father Vassili answered
them ? * And maybe it is I who am suffering
for your sins. Do as you choose, but I can't
agree.'

" Then the peasants said to him, * Haven't you
got two mares with foals and a stallion and cows
herded with ours, and we ask you nothing for
that .'' Don't they also need rain ? But now we
shan't drive them with ours.'

" * Well, I will charge a rouble less.*

" * You are cruel, little father. The case con-
cerns everyone. You know our fields, you can
easily go round them ; in all there are only thirty-
four households, and where are we to find so
much money .f* ... As you won't agree, we will
go to the rural dean.'

" * Go,' said he, ' and if he orders me to
perform the service for nothing I will do it.'

" So the peasants went to the rural dean, as
there was nothing else they could do, and they got
an order for the priest to perform the service.

" Father Vassili read the order and said, * Well,
you have gained your point this time. To-
morrow we will carry out the ikons.'

26 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

" And the peasants told me that he did indeed
perform the service — but it would have been
better if he hadn't. For he did it with a roaring,
angry voice, without any heartiness. And what
good could such prayers do ? What will you say
to that. Father ?

" In the village of Yegorievesky Father
Michael charged less for various services to the
community, and in order to please him the
peasants in the course of three years drew up
complaints one after another against five psalm-
readers, asking for their recall on account of their
being unworthy persons. Five complaints in
three years ! I suppose you have heard of
this ? "

"Yes, I have," answered Father Andrew
shortly.

" Certainly Father Michael found these recalls
very profitable. There was no one to share his
dues, because on such occasions the duties of the
psalm-reader were fulfilled by the watchman.
But at last when the sixth psalm-reader had been
appointed he grasped the situation, and at once
found a way to please the parish ; yet he himself
was a drunkard, a rascal, and a wife-beater, and
a loose character in every way, who did not mind
answering the priest insolently even in the course
of the service. . . . Father Michael tried to appeal

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 27

to the community again. * Send in another
complaint,' said he. . . . But this time the com-
munity flatly refused him. * We have already
dismissed five men to please you, but this one
is good enough for us. He lets us graze our
cattle on his fields, while you fine us if we do
it on yours. No, we shall not sign any complaint
this time.' This was their last word. And the
psalm-reader henceforth took the bit between his
teeth more than ever. ... 1 would not even like
to tell you what he did to Father Michael at the
wedding of a rich peasant, it was so disgusting,
so wild and unbridled. . . . Father Michael
wanted to complain, but the peasants told him
to his face, * No, old fellow, you won't gain
your point.' And they even threatened to
complain about him. And now he is afraid
of their doing this, and unwillingly endures
a psalm-reader whose behaviour is quite im-
possible,

" And what about Bessonova ? " began Paul
anew. " There the community were obliged to
have a kind of council on the question how much
was to be paid to the priest for religious services,
for they were out of patience with his grasping
ways, and they agreed to impose a large fine upon
anyone who paid him more than the usual fee,
decreed by the village council, for Te Deums,

28 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

funeral rites, and other services which were not
compulsory. The priest was of course scandal-
ised by the behaviour of his parishioners, and
tried to make up for lost gains by other im-
positions. But why need I quote facts ? " said
Paul, waving his hand ; " you are quite aware of
them, but you will not speak of them. There are
priests who are not ashamed to snatch at fees,
one from another, and to spy on each other if
they can. And even about yourself — the priests
who are your neighbours have not scrupled to
complain that you draw away their parishioners
from them by your reverent singing of Te Deums
and solemn chanting of the services."

" Don't say more, Paul ; it is painful to refer
to these things."

" Forgive me. Father, I have been carried away.
You never mention these matters ; but let me
for once speak out my mind. I will not refer
any more to facts, but tell me one thing — What
is the cause of these phenomena ? "

"That is a wide question," answered F'ather
Andrew slowly, "about which "

*' And I think," interrupted Paul eagerly, " our
peasants have no public rights, and our priest-
hood, like other classes, look upon them in the
same way as those do who are in power ; and
this is the chief cause of the low moral character

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 29

of the priesthood which may be observed in the
villages, and to this also is due the shameless
behaviour of the priests before their ignorant
parishioners, for this ignorance plays into their
hands. . . . For instance, how will you explain
this occurrence in the village of Petrovska ? It
often happens there that the peasants come to
the Mass, but the priest stands in front of the
altar, bows to them, and says, * Forgive me, my
orthodox friends, I cannot take the service to-day,'
and everyone goes home. Or he will take the
service, but the deacon will have to prompt him
with every word. I asked the peasants, * How
can you endure all this ? Why don't you make
a fuss and have him driven out of the church .?
You know that he has to perform great mysteries.'
* It is not our business,' they would say. * God
must bring him to justice ; it is not for us to do
it. We think that he is to be pitied. Perhaps
he drinks to drown care ; he is a widower and
has five children. But for us we must say we
find him kindly and a good fellow. He is
not grasping, and if a man cannot pay at once
for a wedding or a funeral, he will wait one year
or perhaps two.' And they mentioned this with
special pleasure. * He does not set himself
above us, and if we ask him to a wedding he will
begin quite simply to join in our songs. Or

30 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

he will begin a song even at tht pominki.' ^ * But,'
I said, * surely the relations are annoyed by this ? '

* But it will be gayer for the corpse ! ' answered
the peasants, laughing.

" * But when he married Nazara Saphronova he
said five words and then he went off like a shot.'

* Yes, didn't he marry ^ them after the fashion of
the heathen days ? '

" Then they added, * We don't want a better
priest. They might send us a grasping one, and
then we should have a job to get rid of him.'

" This is the kind of * simple-minded ' priest
they have in Ostashkov, and there, too, the
peasants don't wish for a better one. . . . This
makes me wonder. Father, are there then no
religious questionings among the peasants ? or
will they bear with such a pastor because of his
weaknesses and because they pity his five children ^
Or is it because poverty has so oppressed them

^ These are feasts held in honour of the deceased, usually directly
after the funeral in the house, but often in the churchyard on the
fortieth day after the death. This is supposed to be the time when
the soul finally leaves the earth. No prayers are said at i\\Q po'/iinki ;
it is only eating and drinking, which always ends by the peasants getting
drunk and bursting into snatches of song.

- Before Christianity reached Russia at the end of the ninth century,
the Slavs' heathen rite of marriage consisted in the priests leading the
couple round a bush three times. This was called obkrutit, which
means "to lead in a circle." And although the custom has been long
obsolete, the expression remains amongst the peasants in the sense of
marrying.

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 31

that they are only thankful if the priest does not
grind them down and is ready to wait one year
or two for his fees for services ? And if he
does this they will forgive him being quite for-
getful of his pastoral duties, and will hide his
deficiencies with these pharisaical words : * It is
not for us to judge him. God will judge him.'
But at all events, it means that the example of
a man, utterly indifferent to the griefs of others,
and only eager to fill his own purse, is a priest
more insupportable to them than even the simple-
minded *good fellow.' "

Paul thought deeply, and then continued with
much emotion : " Oh, if I could but find an
answer to these questions, or if 1 was not so
conscious of the fearful falsity in all this ! There
are lies everywhere, and I cannot fully see beyond
them." And again he stood before his father.
" There are lies all round us, lies which have
taken immense proportions, lies which have been
strengthened by centuries, which have penetrated
into our flesh and blood, which have changed our
ideas and our comprehension of life. This is
indeed terrible."

" But do you forget our faith ? " asked Father
Andrew quietly. " Is there not faith which is
the hidden strength of the nation ? "

" But what kind of faith is it, Father ? " cried

32 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

Paul. " Is it faith when it is so obscure and
incomprehensible to the people ? And how can
it be understood by them ? — not till they have
faith in men, and distrust of men is deeply im-
planted in them. Where is their faith to come
from ? Their village council is the only thing
in which they still have confidence. But what
sort of faith is this ? It goes no further than to
believe what they see around them. And there-
fore their faith in men goes no further than
helping their fellow-creatures by giving them
morsels of food and handfuls of straw. No wide
horizons are opened out to them here. Is this
a living faith .? If it were, would the peasants
in a bad year kill the doctors, destroy temporary
hospitals, and drive out the sick ? "

Paul rose up and paced the room in agitation.

"Listen, Paul," answered Father Andrew.
" All this may appear so in daily life. We often
direct our attention so entirely to the details of
daily life that we lose sight of the larger issues.
You are judging after this manner now, and your
examples only show the dark surface of peasant
life which you imagine to be its real foundation.
You require from the people a conscious faith in
man, a cultured faith, and only such you call a
living faith ; and you do not find this in the
people, which is only natural. . . . And why ?

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 33

Because it is an almost unexplored region of their
souls. They have never approached it, or at
least not in the manner they might or should
have done. But if you will look deeper and
more closely even into the examples you have
given and which seem to tell against my words,
you will find what a passionate thirst there is for
a living belief in man, though this eager desire
may hide itself. . . . No, believe me, the peasant
has a reverence for the person of man ; in this
reverence is a sublime and almost religious feeling.
It shows itself among them by the touching
manner in which they contemplate or, more truly,
wish to contemplate religion ; and when a man
is good according" to their opinion, they bear
towards him the same sort of feeling of reverence
as they do to the saints of God. It is not
without meaning that they speak of him as *a
holy man ' ; and it is thus that even one man
who is highly thought of in their eyes and under-
stood by them can do a great deal for them. And
this they recognise. It is only necessary for him
to make them trust him, and that is not so
difficult. For example, supposing you gave them
a portion, however small, of that larger faith
which you enjoy, — if you gave it simply, kindly,
not proudly, — how do you know that they may
not, in time, through that little, attain to your
3

34 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

larger faith ? There are many paths by which
to reach this, but, if they are pure, they will all
lead to one goal — the heart of man. This, Paul,
is a deep and holy mystery. I, for example,
have been a priest in this parish for thirty-five
years ; I know that I have done little, very little,
for my parishioners ; but, if by this little I have
led them to believe in me, that is still a great deal.
And learn one thing ; whatever sphere of work
you may choose for yourself, let this be your
aim : Learn to make yourself akin to people.
I would even like to add : Make yourself in-
dispensable to them. But let this sympathy be
not with the mind — for it is easy with the
mind — but with the heart, with love towards
them. It may not be easy to you to arrive at
your goal at once ; there are only a few happy
souls to whom this ready sympathy is given.
It may be that you will spend half your life in
trying to attain this ; but when you have reached
this point it will certainly show itself as the result
of your sincerest efforts for those nearest to you.
Everything will then seem simple and easy to
you, and in this consciousness of being of use
to them you will find the fulfilment of your aim,
and all your personal desires for happiness and
freedom will be swallowed up in a larger life.
The desires will not disappear, but they will be

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 35

transformed, and your life will appear to you to
have gained a greater and more important value."

Father Andrew had spoken slowly and with
conviction. Paul sat by him on the sofa and, with
his head bent down, listened attentively to every
one of his father's words.

" You will understand, Paul," continued Father
Andrew, *' that I do not wish to keep you back
from any profession which you may choose for
yourself, if it be only a sincere and honest choice.
And now forget my wishes, and do not worry your-
self any more that you cannot fulfil my dreams."

Someone was heard knocking at the window.
" Father, little father, please come," cried a voice
out of the darkness.

" Who is there ? " asked Father Andrew,
going to the window.

" It is I," answered the voice. " Come to a
sick man. Simeon Michael is dying and has sent
to summon you. Come quickly. . . , To be
sure it is pitch dark ! " added the person who
knocked, as if excusing himself. " It is all
clouded over."

" Oh, it's you, Konrad," said Father Andrew,
recognising the voice of Michael's neighbour.
" I will come directly." And taking his stole,
the Holy Elements, and a cross. Father Andrew
went out into the street. The village slept and

36 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

could hardly be seen, being shrouded in the
darkness. Only the church, lit up feebly with a
street lamp, stood out dimly in the gloom.

All was silent. Dark, rain-charged clouds hung
over the earth and moved slowly on, sometimes
separating to show the fathomless mist between
them, then anew rolling one on another in dark
and formless masses. It seemed as if they could
not find space enough in the sky, and they drooped
lower towards the earth, pressing down on it as if
to crush the small, dark huts.

Father Andrew went on his way, rather guess-
ing at than seeing these huts, and they now seemed
to him still smaller and darker than they were in
reality.

Far away on the very horizon, now here, now
there, flashed out broad sheets of summer light-
ning and quivered over the dark clouds which
now, lighted up in their inmost depths, seemed
darker and heavier than ever.

And there seemed to be some sort of likeness
between the dark, silent huts and the clouds which
hung over them on all sides. Everywhere there
was the same gloomy mist, and it seemed to
Father Andrew that from all sides something
formless and ominous approached him slowly and
steadily.

He thought over his conversation with his son

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 37

and of the examples which Paul had given him of
the reciprocal relations which existed between the
peasants and the priests. The young, indignant
voice of his son still sounded in his ears, that
voice which was calling somewhither, trusted,
hoped, prayed . . . and still the clouds moved on
and on from all sides. . . . And the voice was
calling again, then it was lost and silenced, then
it sounded again, but not with its former strength.
And it seemed to Father Andrew that these were
not clouds that glided on, but the sins of all his
parishioners, and of many, many others. They
pressed on him, they passed without beginning
or end, they closed round him. And now the
heart of Father Andrew grew sad . . . sorrow
for his son — would he endure, would he keep his
strength and his faith ? . . , sorrow for everyone
. . . sorrow for himself, and such a sorrow also
had no bounds.

Father Andrew thought of the dying Michael
whose confession he was going to hear. What
should he, the man, say to him now to lighten
the sadness of his soul in his last hour ? . . .
Could he give comfort ? . . . and was he worthy
at the present moment to confess a dying man ?

And there came before him in the mist and
gloom the forms of others whose confessions he
had heard. There rose up before him the white

38 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

village church, half in darkness, only lighted by a
few lamps and some tiny tapers before the ikons ;
and in the half-light he saw it full of people, the
white head-kerchiefs of the old women, the care-
fully combed heads and beards of the peasants,
and the quiet groups of young men and maidens.
There was silence and stillness in the church —
only at times a worshipper would bow low, or
a sigh of contrition might be heard, and yet this
silence seemed full of some impressive mystery,
as if all were waiting for some solemn event. In
that silence was felt the presence of faith and hope
and sorrow, the sorrow that has no outlet. Here
the heart beat louder, here the thoughts of men
were stirred, and perhaps nowhere else did men
judge themselves so severely and pitilessly — yet no-
where else did they find such humility and simpli-
city of mind or more strangely beautiful thoughts.
By the south entrance and in front of the local
ikons sat Father Andrew, wearied and harassed,
weary both in body and spirit ; and still more and
more of his flock came to him to confess. Each
of them felt it needful to tell him something
special in order to relieve his soul, and to say
what, at the moment, he felt menaced him terribly.
And to each one he must bend down to enter into
his thoughts, to strengthen, to encourage, and to
pity him.

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 39

" Have I," asked Father Andrew of himself,
" have I given them what they asked for, what
they expected, what they hoped for, it may be
their only and last support in life ? Was I able
in that moment to reach the soul of the people,
to draw near to it, to value its worth ? Was I
not more conscious of my own weariness, the
weariness of the body than the weariness of the
soul from which they suffered, and which they
brought to me with a great longing that I might
give it new vigour ? "

It seemed then to Father Andrew that the clouds
were not gathering around him by chance, but
as if he himself were to blame for their coming.

Then again he thought of the confession he
was about to hear from the dying Michael, and
he turned his thoughts in preparation to receive
it ; it seemed to him something solemn and fear-
ful, and he looked forward with desire and yet
fear to it.

" Holy Father," prayed Father Andrew,
**Thou gavest him to me, and I would not that
he should perish. Help me. Make me under-
stand ; reveal to me the words of Thy truth," he
whispered.

Then he heard broken sentences from Konrad.

" Suddenly seized What a strong man he was ;

he managed everything alone, both the master's

40 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

fields and what he had rented for himself, two
acres, although you must remember it was hard
work, oh, so hard, after his son Andriasha
died. . . . You remember Andriasha was buried
alive with a fall of earth the summer before last —
he was busy, quarrying stone. Only the women
and children are left in the house now. . . . You
know that Andriasha himself had five, one after
another. So the old man strained himself to do
his best. Now he is on his death-bed . . . and it
will be long before they are grown up." And
Konrad ended his quiet remarks with a deep sigh
and the ejaculation " Alas ! " This " Alas ! "
seemed to be drawn forcibly from his breast, and
in its depth of sadness appeared to contradict the
former quiet tone of his remarks.

Father Andrew had not apparently listened to
Konrad, but the words " he was buried " — " he
was quarrying stone," brought with them pictures
that stood before his vision.

Again the sins of the village seemed to surround
him on all sides, again his son's words sounded in
his ears from afar, but now the clouds seemed
to him lighter and less gloomy than before.
" Buried alive " — " quarrying stone " — dwelt on
his mind.

Father Andrew looked round. As before, he
could not distinguish the huts, only afar he could

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 41

see, rising towards the gloomy sky, the white
church feebly lit up by a single lamp.

Now he breathed more freely. " Well, come
along," he said to Konrad in a voice so gentle
and low that Konrad involuntarily looked at him
sideways, and tried to speak as softly as possible
as he answered :

" But we have nearly arrived ; there is Michael's
tumble-down cottage. . . . Well, it is a dark
night. ..."

" Well, good-bye, Konrad," said Father Andrew,
dismissing him. " I can find my way back alone."
And he entered Michael's cottage.

The once vigorous old man lay on a bench
under the ikons. A dim candle showed his long
locks not thinned by age, and his haggard face
with the high forehead and bright blue eyes ; the
dim light then fell on the stove where the children
lay and their heads with ruffled locks peeped out,
and some rays reached the opposite corner of the
chamber where two women sat, the wife and
daughter-in-law of Michael.

The women quietly got up when Father
Andrew entered. He turned first to the ikons
and prayed, then went up to Michael.

" You have come," said the weak voice of the
sick man, and his eyes brightened. " It is hard
to bear, oh, so hard ; give me the Last Sacrament."

42 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

Father Andrew put on his priestly vestment
and made a sign to the women to leave the room.

Then the sick man's confession began. Father
Andrew sat by Michael, bending over him, and
holding his hands in his own. Gently, with long
pauses between, came the words of confession,
and gently and slowly Father Andrew answered
him. He did not ask Michael about his sins,
nor did he count them up ; but he spoke of God,
and His boundless pity and love towards men,
and His forgiveness of sinners. He spoke at that
moment as the Spirit moved him.

The sick man listened to him, and all his long
life rose up before him, lit up with a gentle, un-
fading light. There was no more fear nor shame ;
no worry or grief grew near . . . there was no
fear of death.

Night, dark and cheerless, looked in at the
window, lurid flashes of lightning lit up the misty
sky more and more frequently.

The rain came pattering down against the
panes. It poured and poured. The dark
chamber was as before, lit by the scanty flame of
a candle, while the solemn, creative work of the
Spirit went on.

" You did not forsake me, you gave me con-
solation in my sad, sinful life," said the dying
man to Father Andrew. " Now I can die

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 43

quietly." Then with an effort of failing strength
he slipped his hand under the pillow, saying,
" Here is a rouble for prayers for my soul ; you
will arrange this — you know what is best ; and
here are five two-kopek pieces forj/ow," he added.
" I kept them for jyo«," and stretched out his lean,
cold hand to Father Andrew.

These words, " I kept them for jyo«," and the
last happy smile with which they were uttered
were to Father Andrew a great reward.

• ••••••

The night passed away ; the earth, saturated
with warm moisture, was covered with thick mist.
You could not see the village or the hill slope
with its deep clefts, nor the bridge across the
river. Everywhere a bright, shining expanse
stretched far away which seemed gently and
lightly to sway and float. The pink and white
clouds in the distance took fantastic shapes of
shores and hills and dales. A tender light shone
in the east, and this light reddened and glowed,
spreading still farther over the grey sky, and fall-
ing on the fantastic waves of mist that floated
below it.

And sky and mist and the transparent air be-
tween them grew more and more rosy and melted
softly into each other.

Father Andrew stood on his little attic balcony ;

44 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

the waves of mist floated round his feet, and only
his figure appeared above them.

He stood and watched the rosy light which
wrapped him round on all sides ; his eyes
brightened, and a smile spread over his counten-
ance and gladdened his soul, and carried his
thoughts far away, far away, somewhither.

He seemed to be in the presence of strange
forces, and forms passed by whose outlines were
dim and not to be grasped ; he heard soft voices
which seemed to be full of joy.

A feeling of peace came over him, and it seemed
to him to be like the first day of creation, and in
the rapture of his soul he felt himself in the
presence of the Creator of the universe.

Father Andrew prayed, for all, for everything,
his prayer was without words or forms. His
trembling soul went forth in prayerful rapture ; his
happy, gentle tears flowed freely without restraint.

Somewhere down below was the sound of
rushing water ; the river, waking up, dashed and
splashed against the bridge, and the larks, aroused
by the beams of the rising sun, sang joyously to
greet him.

The mist wavered and clustered in pillars, re-
vealing, now here, now there, dark and undefined
spots.

One could not believe that, behind this vast

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 45

and rosy expanse, the forms of miserable blackened
huts with their straw roofs would appear again,
and the dull and sleepy villagers would again
come forth.

• • • • • • •

The bell rang for morning service, and Father
Andrew, with softened, peaceful thoughts, quietly
directed his steps towards the church.

Inside it was simple, there was whitewash but no
gilding, there were pictures of saints on the walls ;
the building bore traces of the labour of the priest
and of the hard-earned kopeks of the peasants.

The men in their homespun suits entered the
church and, treading noisily with their heavy shoes
on the stone flags, they placed their thin candles
before the ikons. They pressed forward and
crowded more and more round the reading-desk,
forming a dark-grey barrier to the women in
their bright- coloured blouses and shawls, their
ribbons and mock pearl necklaces, who stood
behind them nearer the door.

The young women and girls seemed to feel
unworthy to stand in front ; only a few old women
with white head-kerchiefs ventured forward, as if
they had gained the right to do so by the griefs
and struggles they had endured.

The service went on. The choir of peasants
and school-children sang simply and softly.

46 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

Broad, slanting rays of sunlight fell through the
iron grating of the open windows and pierced
through the blue, incense-laden air.

Father Andrew ministered to his flock, and all
these people who stood before him were near and
dear to him. He had shared their joys and griefs,
and they were wont to come to him with their
petitions : " Little father, we want you to carry
the cross and lead the newly married couple after
the wedding." And he would grant their request.
Or again : " Little father, will you examine our
division of the land ? We do not want to make
a foolish mistake." And he would examine it.
Whether they asked his advice or his blessing, or
whether they grieved him, nothing could break
the strong ties that bound him to his flock.

"Do not forsake me," said an old man, when
Father Andrew visited him in his dark hut. " I
should like you to be with me in my last hour."
And Father Andrew was with him when he died.

He remembered many such times of parting
from this life ; he remembered the last wishes of
his flock, and carried out these wishes as a sacred
trust which had been confided to him.

And now, contemplating the faces of the
peasants standing before him in church, he re-
called the dying countenances of their departed
brethren.

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 47

There, kneeling in a patched suit, was an old
man with grey beard, thick eyebrows, and shin-
ing eyes under his bent brows ; he seemed
absorbed in making the sign of the cross with all
his strength of will. How like he was to the old
peasant he had once seen, lying under the ikons,
surrounded by his large family, and his calm and
earnest features seemed to express this wish —
"You see I am dying, but obey my last com-
mand : Live honestly and be at peace among
yourselves."

And here, among the worshippers, were his
.two grandsons, now both married men with
families, and one could judge by the indifferent
expression of their faces that they had already
forgotten the old man's advice.

Father Andrew had observed with sorrow that
each year more and more of these careless, dis-
sipated, or stupid countenances appeared ; and he
wondered what were the causes of this.

It made him sad. . . . Then he began to think
about the children, and looked long at the round,
ruddy face of some little boy in his mother's
arms ; at his large, quiet eyes ; at the straight
parting in his hair and his locks cut in an even
line round his neck ; at his little feet in their bast
shoes and their new linen leg wrappings ; at his
narrow woollen sash, and at his little red shirt

48 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

with yellow collar and cuffs. And when he looked
at all this, and saw the clear eyes of the child and
all the signs of parental care, he hoped for a
brighter future for his flock.

And there rose up before him the dead face of
a labourer, Stephen — a face marked by want and
care, yet transfigured and made more youthful by
death, and lighted up with a gentle, mysterious
expression. He lay in his coffin, with his knotted
fingers clasped on his breast, fingers bruised by
toil that had been too hard for him ; and now he
seemed to rejoice in his rest from labour.

Father Andrew now saw in the church the
widow and five children of Stephen. The widow
wore a white head-kerchief, and her features
seemed chilled into submission. He knew that in
the interval between morning service and mass
she would go into the churchyard, which he could
see from the window by the altar, and weep over
her husband's grave. Her sobs would break
forth among the green hillocks and the dark, slant-
ing crosses, and she would repeat the lines :

** Open, open your bright eyes ;
Oh, break through, break through the damp earth,"

and she would then throw her arms round the
cross and bend helplessly over it, and would cry
out, accentuating each word in her grief :

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 49

" Rise ! rise ! our breadwinner !
Unclasp your pale hands from your heart.
Oh, speak to us, speak to us one little word;
The bright world is now gloomy for me.
My thoughts are distracted.
You have left us, our breadwinner.
My hands are not strong for the toil, nor my mind
for the cares."

A mother will grieve over the grave of the son
she has lately lost, and she, who stands there in
church, in reverent worship, restraining her feel-
ings and bowing low to the ground, when she
goes forth to the grave will cast up her arms in
despair and throw herself down, covering the
scattered, upturned earth with the white folds of
her dress. Her arms will clasp the mound, and
she will murmur these lines :

" Art sad, art sad, my child ?
Answer, call back from 'neath the damp earth,
From under the rolling and heavy gravel.
Strong is my wish, strong is my prayer.
Listen to it, my darling, for 'tis not only
Thy mother that needs thee, my child ;
The gay world has become gloomy without thee, the

sun clouded over.
The bright stars have vanished,

The singing birds hushed, and the sweet Jiowers faded.
Thou liest, my child, so still and unmoved.
Dost thou love damp Earth as thy Mother?
Hast made friends with the darkness of Night?"
4

5*5 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

And the mother will crouch as if to hearken
whether her child will answer her cry.

And the tears of the mother and the wife will
bring together other women in their white dresses
and head-kerchiefs who stood solitary at the
graves of their beloved ones. And they will
all gather round those crying, and will wear
themselves out over the tombs and their own
griefs.

When the living have sobbed out their hearts
they pass out of the churchyard, and the dark,
slanting crosses and grass-grown hillocks are again
lost to sight among the surrounding expanse of
fields, and peace dwells again among the graves.

Father Andrew with his mind's eye saw more
and more of the dead passing through in the
midst of the living. They were just the same
sort of folk, and like these in their homespun
suits, with their simple, quiet countenances. And
these, like those, crossed themselves on the fore-
head and shoulders, with their knotted fingers
firmly pressed, and they struck the stone flags
with their foreheads, as if they would cry out
with their whole body, with every movement of
their limbs, " O Lord, with all our patient
endurance, with all our toilful life, we worship
Thee. Do not forsake us nor cast us out of Thy
heavenly kingdom."

THE VILLAGE PRIEST 51

Father Andrew looked back on the ages in
which, by many sufferings, tears, and efforts, they
had gained their treasure of consolation — religion
— whose sublime origins in the past they dimly
perceived only with the heart, and not with the
intellect.

And as he stood at the altar looking down
at his flock, and observed their devout behaviour,
their eyes turned to the ikons, the deep silence
with which they listened to the prayers, he
thought he could see the outward signs of that
inward change which religion had wrought. His
thoughts seemed to penetrate through more than
a thousand years and to revivify past events and
bring them nearer : he heard the voices of prophets
long dead, their lyric passion and power came
down through the ages ; he heard the voices of
Paul, and John the Baptist, and Peter . . , and
the words rose up in his mind, " Simon, son of
Jonas, lovest thou Me ? " In those words lay a
question, and sorrow, and endless love.

*' Lord, I love Thee," answered Father Andrew.

" Feed My sheep," said the voice.

Father Andrew went on with the prayers, and
each word he uttered so gently was full of the
deep meaning it held. On his earnest face there
seemed to be imprinted traces of all he had lived
through that morning. A special joy filled his

52 THE VILLAGE PRIEST

heart as he heard the strong young voice of his
son singing in the choir, and it seemed to him
the voice of one who would overcome, and he
trusted in him. ...

Father Andrew continued the service.

The Old Nurse

S3

THE OLD NURSE

A BLUE smoke filled the large kitchen,
hissing and rising from the hot tiled
stove. Now and again some flames escaped
through the round openings and cast a red glare
on its clouds, which hid everything around in
blue mist. A melancholy old voice seemed to
rise out of the smoke, crooning a ditty :

"As I sit on the bank,
I think to myself,
If the Lord had sent me
A pigeon, yes, a blue-winged pigeon."

The last notes were uttered in a trembling,
plaintive voice, which then began again in stronger
tones the triumphant truth :

"I would have written a letter,
Yes, on her wings, on her wings,
To Father Jacob."

Then the somewhat rough voice of the cook
broke in from the hearth : " Now, Nurse, I don't

56 THE OLD NURSE

like this." The cook was a stout woman of forty
years, with reddish curls on her forehead. " You
make one melancholy, and the gentry too will be
angry." The voice in the corner trembled and
broke off suddenly.

The cook left the stove and opened wide the
door into the porch. The blue kitchen vappur
streamed towards it, while white pufFs of steam
from outside found their way below, just over the
high kitchen threshold, and spread close to the
floor. In the farthest corner of the room a bed
could be distinguished with a down quilt covered
with red chintz, and on it sat an old woman in a
sad, thoughtful attitude, with tear-worn eyes and
an intent and melancholy look.

" Domnushka, Domnushka," exclaimed the old
woman, " I keep thinking and thinking that I
must soon die, and what answer shall I give to
my God ? "

Domna was silently washing potatoes, and
thinking of the supper with the General's cook
to which she was invited that evening.

" I shall say to Him, * O Lord, I have served
my masters seventy years. That is all I can say
for myself.' But when I remember, I remember
my life ; it gives one something to think over,
Domnushka. . . . And then last night I dreamt
such a curious dream."

THE OLD NURSE 57

"You dream too many dreams," broke in
Domna.

" I seemed to be sitting on a chair, and I was
dying. My body seemed so heavy as if it was
being drawn downward, and my flesh scarcely
clave to my bones. I could not move nor raise
my hands, and my breath came in spasms — so rare
and far between. . . . Each time I took a breath
I wondered. Will it come again, or is this death ?
Then again I breathed and waited, but at each
breath something seemed to go out of me, and I
got smaller and smaller and lighter . . . and I
seemed to become a child ; I seemed to be raised
up in the air and to fly, and beneath me were
fields and fields. Nothing grew on them ; they
were just black with great rifts in them, and green
fires shone through, and there seemed to be no
sky. It was dark, no moon or stars, nothing but
gloom. Only I saw a great hole lit up and
thence came a sickening fume. A great whirl-
wind surrounded me and carried me like a
feather and pushed me into this hole. Oh, my
heart sinks within me even now as I think of it 1 "
She shook her head. " There the devil met me,
oh, and wasn't he terrible too 1 . . . He had a
great, long body on thin legs, and a great head, and
his face was without hair, and green. I cannot
tell you, Domnushka, how terrible he was with

58 THE OLD NURSE

his great eyes that burnt with green fire. There
was no end of wrath in them. I turned aside
and tried to slip past him, but he waved his black
tail like a serpent and wound it round me. * No,'
said he, * you cannot escape me now. . . .' "

"And did you see our old mistress in that
region } " asked Domna. " Is she burning in hell ? "

" No ; she made a good death, she received the
Holy Sacrament and Extreme Unction," answered
the old woman ; " but truly I remember how much
I endured from her. I was beaten and worse
than that. But she made a good death, she did ;
there was nothing to say. Then I felt as if the
heat lessened. I opened my eyes and I saw that
we were being led to a mountain, many, many
people of various sorts, kings and priests and
gentlefolk, and we, the simple folk, we all went
together. They all had written passes in their
hands. I looked, and saw that I had none ; I
had no pass given me to leave this world — be-
cause I died without confession. I was frightened,
and I remembered on the road all my life, all my
past sins."

"Well, Nurse," said Domna, "you do have
odd dreams. I never dream anything but all
sorts of nonsense."

The nurse went on : " How I deceived the old
mistress — how angry I made her ! When she took

THE OLD NURSE 59

me to serve her she vexed me, for one could not
get away from her. Then the cholera came ; all
the people round were dying like cattle, and the
mistress shut herself up in her bedchamber. The
shutters were closed, the curtains drawn ; she kept
quiet, and groaned and prayed to God, and made
her peace with all her relations, even with those
she had not spoken to for a year — for that was
her nature — but now she asked their forgiveness.
Then I felt as if the evil spirit entered into me ;
I boiled over with rage. I wasn't afraid a bit.
Just then her daughter, who was betrothed, died
suddenly ; they laid her out on a table in the
saloon. The priests came and chanted over her
in a whisper lest her mother should hear ; it was
all kept secret from her. But I went and
stealthily opened wide all the doors. For three
days she screamed out a wild cry, ' Lord, forgive
me all my sins.' But when the cholera ceased
she came out of her room, and was just the same
as before."

" But did she leave her room to say good-bye
to her dead daughter ? "

" Oh no, she was too much afraid of death. I
remember well what confusion there was in the
house, the servants were trying to outdo each
other in serving her, would simply eat each other
alive to please her. There was nothing but

6o THE OLD NURSE

deceit. . . . The mistress would send for me and
say, * Go and see what they are doing and what
they are saying.' If I spoke it was a sin, and if I
hid the matter I was afraid. She would cry out,

* I will drag your soul out of your body ! ' And
how much evil went on, I cannot now repeat."

The old woman was silent, lost in the thought of
the past. " I remember the sin of my own youth
too — how Ivan and I loved each other. He was
young and handsome. I remember it all so well.
Then the mistress, out of brutality, ordered him
to be sent as a recruit, but he ran away from the
lock-up. I stole one of the master's pistols, a
knife too, to give him for the journey. ... It
was a dark night, but flashes of lightning lit up
the country round, the white house on the hill,
the garden, the river with the two boards across it,
and the wood ; and we stood there by the water
embracing and bidding farewell. * Let us run
away together, Arisha,' said he. * Shall I really,
my brave falcon ? ' said I, but the flashes of
lightning made me afraid lest they should see us.

* No,' I said, * no ; whither could we get away ? '
and he clasped me again in his arms, and then he
left, and I never heard of him again."

The old nurse paused in thought and was long
silent.

"As I walked up the mountain in the other

THE OLD NURSE 6i

world in my dream, I thought, Why did I com-
plain to him of my life and tell him my trouble and
give him a knife ? It may be that on account of
this a great punishment awaits me up there. . . ."
Then returning to her own life's history she
said, " I bore a little child in the cellar under
the master's house. It was from fear and shame
I had hidden myself there. . . . When he was
born he cried out, and I was nearly out of my
mind with fright. I took him up and slipped
out of the cellar, and wandered about over fields
and through ravines. ... I wanted to strangle
him and throw him into the water. But as I
looked round I thought I saw people everywhere,
and I thought this would be too near them ; and
I ran farther and farther with him. ... I can't
remember how I got back again to the master's
gate nor how the mistress took him away from
me. I can't remember anything. . . . But when
I asked about him they told me he was dead. I
grieved for him a long time ; when I rocked the
master's children and sang songs to them, my
heart would long for my own babe. It was
pitiful, — and to think of it, that I wanted to kill
him ! All of it came home to me in my dream,
how I would get drunk, and how I once wanted
to hang myself in the attic. All these sins I saw
in my dream over again. . . . Then I looked,

62 THE OLD NURSE

and up there over the mountain there was a great
pair of scales, and near it was an angel, tall, and
all in white, and Satan was there too, and they
weighed everyone's deeds. . . . But by the scales
were angels more than you could number, there
was no end to them . . . between the clouds.
And higher up the clouds were all lit up and
shining, but I was afraid to look there ; God was
there. . . . Then I went up to the scales, and
Satan was heaping up my sins in one balance
. . . while the angel stood by looking very sad,
for it was evident he had nothing to put in the
other balance, and I clasped my hands and cried
out, * O Lord, is it possible that I have no good
deeds ? ' and then 1 remembered that I had given
a small coin sometimes to a beggar or to some
sick or poor person, and once even I had taken
some warm shoes out of the master's stores for a
poor sick man who was ill-shod, and it was winter,
and I thought to myself, why shouldn't I give
them ? for the master has many of these. And I
gave them to that man, and he said to me, ' May
your soul be as comfortable in that world as you
have made my feet here.' Then again I thought,
No, I shall not be saved by that deed, for it all
belonged to the master ; he must profit by it
now ; and again I was sad.

*' And didn't Satan rejoice — didn't he rejoice !

THE OLD NURSE 63

But suddenly a hand stretched out and put a
paper on my empty balance, and at once it
weighed down all that had been put on the other
balance. . . . And then I began to think,
Domnushka, what could have been written on
that paper. Some great truth, perhaps ? . . .
and can there be such a paper in the wide world ?
And for a moment I thought of going to ask my
master and mistress about it. But no, they will
not explain it to me, I thought. They will only
mock at me. Would my being their serf count
for anything, I wondered, or had there been any-
thing else to my credit ? Then the angel took
me by the hand and led me on one side. The
scales remained behind, hidden from me by
clouds, and I saw fields, and the grass was green
and dewy, and the sun shone brightly. And
here there stood an earthen pitcher, and near it
grew a tree, shady and with many branches . . .
and all around were various flowers, and a table
stood here, covered with a cloth white as snow,
and on it was a whole loaf and some salt. And I
went to the pitcher and bent down, and saw there
was pure water in it, very pure as if full of tears.
And the sky was blue, and somewhere the angels
were singing, and I heard a voice say, * Thou
shalt not hunger nor thirst any more and thy
soul shall ever be satisfied.' "

64 THE OLD NURSE

"Well, now, you see what a beautiful dream
you had, and yet you are sad," observed Domna.
" What more do you want ? "

" I cannot help it," said the old woman, after a
short pause for thought, and the peaceful smile
disappeared from her face. "After all, this was
only a dream, but I must get my real answer
ready for God. . . . My heart is heavy. How
have I spent my life ? What have I done ?
And here is another grief to bear : See whither
they have sent me to die. They have driven me
out of the nursery into the smoke of the kitchen.
Have I not served the family all my life ? When
the old gentlefolk died, I went to live with
the son, and now I serve the grandson. I
dandled him in my arms and all his children too,
and now all the elder ones are in Petersburg —
educated folk, you know. . . ."

" It seems, then, that you did not make use of
your freedom when it was granted ? "

" I tried to leave, I got my things together,
but I did not know where to go. At first I went
to visit the holy shrines of the saints. I began to
look about me — 1 saw people everywhere, gentle-
folk everywhere. I tried to serve for wages,
but my heart was sad ; the children of these
masters were not the same as the children I had
left behind ; it was all different. So I left hired

THE OLD NURSE 65

service and went back. What was the sense of it,
I thought, to look for worse things when there
were nice ones to be had. And since then I have
been nowhere. But now I am old, I have grown
stupid — if you please ! — and useless, they ordered
me to move my bed out of the nursery. * You
must lie down and rest, Nurse,' they said ; and
the children have not been near me for three
days ; it seems they are not allowed to come. So
there it is : however hard we may try to serve
the gentlefolk, we remain only strangers to
them."

The old nurse looked sadder than before, and
with an habitual gesture leant her cheek on the
palm of her right hand while she sang in harsh,
passionless tones :

"When I climb up the high hill,
There I see my grave.
Oh, my grave I must fill,
My home for ever art thou.
And my bed is the damp soil,
And a stone is my pillow."

" There you are moaning again. Can't you find
something more cheerful ? " said Domna, with
displeasure. " Nurse, Nurse, do be quiet."

But the nurse did not listen to her and con-
tinued singing. Presently the door of the next
room was opened softly, and two flaxen-haired,
5

66 THE OLD NURSE

dark-eyed children appeared. They stood hesi-
tating on the threshold, then, unable to bear it
any longer, they rushed to the nurse, threw their
arms round her neck, and sat by her side on the
bed.

" What are you always crying about. Nurse ? "
said the little girls, pressing closer to her, and
looking up in her eyes.

" Ah, well, my legs hurt me and I cried ; that
is what it was. Now it is all gone."

"You are hiding something from us, Nurse,
and why ? "

The old woman was silent, and smiled faintly.
The children's close presence calmed her, and it
seemed that her thoughts turned to their young
life and not to her own speedy death. And as
she pictured to herself their lives, her thoughts
went beyond, to the life eternal beyond the grave.
. . . And the thought of the hour when she
would pass to that beyond seemed to become
strangely indistinct. . . .

" My legs are already swelling," she remarked ;
but there was no longer fear as she spoke, she
was only thoughtful.

The children were silent, dimly conscious of
their nurse's state of mind, and wondering where
she meant to go when the tide was full. There
rose up before them the land of fancy stretching

THE OLD NURSE 67

into the past as well as into the future whither
their nurse was preparing to go. . . . Images
rose up before them evoked by her words, as in
the quiet evening hour she would weave her
narratives : there before their eyes appeared the
good and bad magicians, the great ocean, trackless
forests, white swans ; — there flowed the living
waters, and the stream of death ; — here were
treasures and mysteries, the black raven who
prophesied, the steppe and the hillocks. And
out of the mist came three great Russian heroes
to the cross-roads, where stood a brilliant white
stone with the puzzling inscription : " Whither
to go, whither to arrive." One lowered his spear,
another raised his visor, but the third shaded his
eyes with his hand as if watching keenly and
steadfastly for something to appear. All this
became alive with the nurse's breathing words.
Then again before the children's eyes rose the
familiar scene — their nursery lit by the quenchless
lamp, the nurse in her linen cap and with her
gentle talk. In the dim light one felt slightly
nervous but happy. Then, being undressed,
they lay in their white beds, and watched the
dark form of the nurse treading the floor softly
and muttering as she tidied the room, "The
Mother of God comes each night ; everything
here must be set in order. No rubbish must be

68 THE OLD NURSE

left about, or the Mother of God will come and
prick, her little foot. Holy Angels, preserve our
souls," The children hardly heard her last words,
for sweet forgetfulness was coming.

Then Nurse bent low to the ground before the
holy ikons.

And the children always regretted something :
they regretted the mysterious twilight of their
childhood ; they regretted the dark figure in the
linen cap ; they regretted the old nurse who
passed away from them with the full tide.

Konyaga

C9

FOREWORD

This fable represents in a graphic manner the
miserable state of the Russian peasant while serf-
dom still existed, when he had little intercourse
with the world outside. Things have changed
since Saltikov wrote, but there remains much to
be done to improve the condition of the peasant.
The wars in which he has been compelled to
join must have some educative effect on him, and
we may hope it will lessen the number of
Konyagas.

KONYAGA

KONYAGA lies by the roadside and slumbers
heavily.

The peasant has just unharnessed him and let
him loose to feed. But Konyaga had no appetite.
It was hard work to clear the furrows of stones ;
it required their whole strength to overcome
these obstacles.

Konyaga was the kind of beast which a peasant
usually owns : harassed, worn out, narrow-chested,
with ribs sticking out, shoulders chafed, and
broken knees. Konyaga drooped his head, and
the mane on his neck was in a tangle. Tears
trickled down from his eyes and his nostrils were
wet, his upper lip hung down like a pancake. It
is difficult to get much work out of such a beast,
but yet he must work. All day long Konyaga
wears his collar. In summer he works in the
field from morning to night ; in winter he trans-
ports produce till the very moment the thaw
begins and the roads are bad.

Konyaga has nothing to recruit his strength. His

7»

72 KONYAGA

food is such that you can hear his teeth champing
idly. In summer, when they drive the herds at
night to graze, he can gain some strength from
the tender grass, but in winter he drags carts to
the market, and when he gets home he feeds on
chopped straw which is rotten. In spring, when
they drive out the cattle into the fields, they have
to lift him up, and there is no grass in the fields,
except where some withered tuft is left, which has
been overlooked by the cattle in the past autumn.

The life of Konyaga was hard, but it was
fortunate that the peasant was kind and did not
needlessly harass him. When they went out into
the field together he would call out, " Now, my
dear, give a good pull," and Konyaga heard the
well-known cry and he understood. He stretched
out his pitiful bony frame, leant on his fore-legs
and then forced his hind-legs forward, and bent
his head down on his breast. " Now, rascal, gee
up," says the peasant, and leans his own weight
on the plough, while his hands cling to it like
pincers, his feet sink in the clods of earth, and he
keeps his eye on the ploughshare lest it should
shift and make a crooked line.

From one end of the field to the other they cut
the furrow, and both shudder. Ah, that was death
that drew near 1 Death for both, for Konyaga and
for the peasant. Every day came death.

KONYAGA 73

The dusty country lane runs like a narrow
ribbon from one hamlet to another ; now it
disappears in a village, and then it reappears and
again it vanishes, one knows not whither ; but
where it stretches the fields guard it on each side,
and far and wide they hem it in. Even there,
where earth and sky melt together, are fields and
fields. They are golden, or green, or bare, but
they circle round the village like an iron ring,
from which there is no escape except through the
wide, open, endless fields. Far away a man is
walking ; it may be that his legs are making pro-
gress in his hurried walk, but from this distance
he appears to be marking time in the same place,
as if he could not free himself from the restrain-
ing power of the far-stretching fields. This
small, hardly discernible speck does not disappear
in the distance, but only gets fainter. Fainter
and fainter it grows, and suddenly vanishes as if
space itself had sucked it in.

From age to age this menacing, immovable
mass of country has lain as if spellbound, as if
some enchantment had power to keep it in cap-
tivity. Who will come and release its powers
from this prison ? Who will call it forth into
light ? The solution of this problem has been
allotted to the peasant and to Konyaga.

Both are struggling from the cradle to the

74 KONYAGA

grave to solve this problem, and they pour forth
bloody sweat ; but the fields do not give away
their mysterious forces, those forces which would
release the peasant from fetters and would heal
the sore shoulders of Konyaga.

Konyaga lies on a sun-baked spot ; no shrub
grows near, and the air seems red-hot and catches
the breath in your throat. Now and then a
whirlwind drives the dust along the road ; this is
no refreshing breeze, but brings a great wave of
sultriness. Gadflies and other insects, like mad
creatures, torment Konyaga ; they fill his ears and
nostrils, and sting him in the sore places, and he
— he shakes his ears and just mechanically shrinks
from their sting. Is Konyaga asleep or is he dying
— who can tell ^

He is not able to complain that all his inner
self seems burnt up from the intense heat and
fearful strain. And God has refused even the
consolation of complaint to the dumb animal.

Konyaga sleeps, but over his tormenting
sufferings, which hinder his repose, there hover
not dreams, but a disconnected stifling night-
mare— a nightmare in which not only are there
no shapes, not even monsters, but heaps of specks,
now black, now fiery, which move or rest con-
jointly with the tormented Konyaga, and drag
him with them into a bottomless abyss.

KONYAGA 75

There is no end to the field ; you cannot get
out of it anywhere. Konyaga has drawn the
plough afar and across it, yet he never reached
the boundary of this land. Whether it is bare or
flowery, or benumbed under a snowy winding-
sheet, it stretches far and wide in its might ; it
does not provoke to strife with itself but straight-
way leads captive. It is not possible to guess its
secret, nor to overcome, nor to exhaust it ; as
soon as it dies it is alive again. You cannot
grasp which is death and which is life. But in
life or in death the first and unchangeable eye-
witness is Konyaga. For others these fields
represent abundance, poetry, and vast spaces ;
but for Konyaga — they mean servitude. The
land crushes him, takes away his last powers,
and yet will not confess itself satisfied. Konyaga
tramps from dawn to eve, and the moving swarm,
a dark spot, goes before, and spreads and spreads
over him. And now it is flitting in front of him,
and now, while he dozes, he hears the call, " Gee
up, my darling, my little rascal."

That fiery ball which is never extinguished from
morn to eve pours down a stream of burning rays
on Konyaga ; rain and hail, snowstorm and frost,
never fail. . . . Nature to others is a mother ;
but for him only — she is a scourge and a torment.
Every manifestation of her life becomes a torment

76 KONYAGA

to him, every season of blossom brings poison to
him. For him there are no perfumes, no harmony
of sounds, no garlands of flowers. He has no
sensations except those of pain, of weariness, and
of misfortune. Let the sun pour forth warmth
and light on the face of Nature, let its rays call
forth life and joy — poor Konyaga only knows
one thing : that they add fresh misery to the count-
less miseries of which his life's web is woven.

There is no end to his labour. Every thought
he has is spent in labour. For it he was conceived
and born, and outside it he is not only of no use
to anyone, but, as economical masters reckon, he
is an encumbrance. All the surroundings among
which he lives are arranged to this end : that he
should not lose that muscular strength which is
the source whence flow his powers of work. His
food and rest are dealt out to him only in such
measure as will enable him to fulfil his task. Let
the field and Nature's elements cripple him, no
one will trouble himself how many sore places
are added to his legs, his shoulder, and his back.
Happiness is not thought necessary for him, only
such a life as will enable him to fulfil his toil.
"It is not necessary," say they, " that he should
be happy, but only that he should be just enough
alive to bear his yoke and go through his
labours."

KONYAGA 77

Through how many ages he has borne this
yoke he knows not, and how many more ages he
must bear it he has not reckoned up. He lives,
as it were, plunged in a deep abyss, and of the
many sensations which reach his body he is only
conscious of the pains which his toil brings.

The very life of Konyaga seems marked with
the brand of eternity. He cannot be said to live,
and yet he does not die. The field, like an
octopus, has sucked him into itself with countless
feelers, and will not let him go from the fixed
plot of land.

Whatever outward differences fate has meted
out to him, he is yet always alone, always beaten,
harassed, and hardly alive. Like the field, which
he waters with his blood, he counts neither days,
nor years, nor ages, but only eternity. He is dis-
persed everywhere, and whether it is here or there,
he, in loneliness, drags out his miserable slavery,
and always he remains the same lonely, nameless
Konyaga. A sound core lives in him, neither
dying, nor dismembered, nor destroyed. There is
no end to this living core, that alone is clear. But
of what nature is this life ? And why has she
enmeshed Konyaga in the web of immortality ?
Whence came this life and whither is it going ?
Surely the future will some day answer these
questions. Or it may be it will remain as dumb

78 KONYAGA

and indifferent as the dark abyss of the past,
which has peopled the world with phantoms and
has sacrificed the living to them.

Konyaga slumbers, and the smart chargers pass
by near him. No one at first sight would say
that Konyaga the plough horse and Pustoplass
the charger were sons of the same father. But
the tradition of this kinship is not altogether lost.

Once upon a time there lived an old horse, and
he had two sons, Konyaga and Pustoplass. The
latter was courteous and sensitive, but Konyaga
was rough and ill-bred. The old father endured
the ill-breeding of Konyaga for a long time, and
for years he treated his two sons equally, as an
affectionate father would do ; but at length he was
provoked to anger and said, " This is my com-
mand throughout the ages : Konyaga shall eat
straw, but Pustoplass oats." And so it happened
from that time. Pustoplass was put in a warm
stable with bedding of soft straw ; he had as much
mead as he could drink, and his crib was filled
with corn ; but Konyaga was put in a shed and
a handful of rotten straw given him. " Champ
with your teeth, Konyaga, and if you want to
drink there is water in the pool."

Pustoplass had almost forgotten that he had
a brother alive in the world. But suddenly he
remembered, and felt sorry for him, " I am

KONYAGA 79

weary," said he, "of my warm stable, I have
drunk enough of mead, and my ration of corn no
longer is sweet in my throat. 1 will go and find
out how my brother is spending his life."

He has found his brother, and lo, he appears
incapable of dying ! They beat him, but he lives 1
They feed him on straw, but he lives ! Wher-
ever one looks, there he is, working in the fields ;
if you see him here one moment, in the twinkling
of an eye he is already out there. It seems as if
he had some protector over him, for though they
may break a stick over his back they cannot
break him.

Now the prancing chargers began to go round
the farm horses. One of the chargers said : " It
is impossible to drive away these farm horses, for
they have amassed so much good, sound good
sense by their unremitting labour ; each one
knows well that the ears don't grow higher than
the forehead, and that you cannot break an axehead
with a whip, and each lives quietly, wrapped up
in wise sayings, as if he lay on the breast of Christ.
Good luck to you, Konyaga ; go on working."

Another exclaimed : " It is not altogether the
result of his sound sense that his life is so solidly
based. What is this sound sense ? Is it some-
thing habitual, clear in its trivial details, remind-
ing one of a mathematical formula, or an order

8o KONYAGA

given by the police ? No, it is not this which pre-
serves the invincibility of Konyaga, but it is because
he bears in himself the life of the soul, and the
soul of life, and while he holds these two treasures
no rod can destroy him."

The third muttered : " What nonsense you are
talking ! What is this but an empty interchange
of disconnected words ? It is not for this reason
that Konyaga remains uninjured, but because he
has found for himself ' genuine work.' This work
gives him a spiritual equilibrium, and reconciles
his individual conscience with the conscience of
the multitude, and endows him with that power
of resistance which even ages of serfdom have
not been able to destroy. Toil on, Konyaga,
endure, store up strength, extract from labour
that serenity of soul which we, the pampered
chargers, have lost for ever."

But the fourth, who seemed to have just been
brought from the tavern by the groom, added
these words : " Ah, Sirs, you all think you can
touch the sky with your finger. There is no
special reason why you cannot drive away Kon-
yaga ; it is just because for ages he has been
accustomed to his valley. And now if you were
to break a whole tree over him he would still
survive. He lies there, and you think there is
no breath in his body, but stir him up well with

KONYAGA 8i

the whip, and he gets on his feet and is gone.
Whoever has an appointed task, does it. Reckon
up how many of such crippled creatures are scattered
over the fields — and they are all alike. Persecute
them as much as you choose, but you will not
diminish their number. At one moment they
are gone, and the next moment they have sprung
up out of the ground."

As all these remarks did not spring from present
facts but from sorrow for Konyaga, the chargers
discussed the matter and then began to reproach
each other. But, luckily, at this moment the
peasant appeared, and put an end to their disputes
by these words, " Come, rascal, get up." And
now the chargers were one and all filled with
delight, and with one accord cried out, "Look,
look how he is stretching out his fore-legs and
drawing up his hind-legs. Toil on, Konyaga,
that is the thing to learn from you ; you are the
one to be imitated ! Go it, rascal 1 Go it ! "

A Visit to a Russian Prison

I

ARENUSHKA

II

THE OLD BELIEVER

ARENUSHKA

ARENUSHKA trudges on and on, over the
bare field, along the beaten high road, in
the country lane, on through the thick forest, and
across the treacherous marsh ; she trudges over
the melting snow and the ringing ice, on and on,
without a murmur.

The winds whistle straight in her face, they
blow violently, now before, now behind. On she
goes without a stagger ; her cloak, such an old
one, threadbare and beggarly, is driven back by
the gale. The winds whistle. Trudge on,
Arenushka ; trudge on, God's servant ; do not
linger, inure yourself to poverty. See, good
people live around ; they live not ill, not well, but
they do not gather their harvest in vain.

The spring rivulets murmur to Arenushka,

they run pure and clear, and say, We pity thee,

aged servant of God, for your cloak is lined with

the wind and sewn with poverty, your feet are

85

86 ARENUSHKA

sore and cut by the icy road, the great cold has
lamed them, the warm blood is congealed. . . .

And still Arenushka trudges on. , . . She sees
Jerusalem before her ; the city lies beyond blue
seas, beyond thick mists, beyond dense forests,
beyond high mountains. The first mountain is
Ararat, the second mountain is Tabor, but the
third mountain is the mount of crucifixion, and
beyond lies the city of Jerusalem, great and
beautiful. It is full of riches and temples of
God — the God of the Christians ; the Turk also
comes and makes the sign of the cross ; the
tribesman comes and bows down in the temple.

" Tell me, cuckoo, thou bird of God, tell me
the way to the city of God, that I may enter there
and rest by the Saviour's throne, and pray, * O
Lord, hear my sighs ; O Saviour, heal my
wounded feet and my aching head.' "

One church stands conspicuous above the
others ; in it is a gold throne, the admiration of
the world, a joy to Christians, but an eyesore to
the Jews. The throne stands on lofty pillars
encrusted with amethysts and other gems, and on
the throne sits the true Saviour, the Christ.

Art thou weary of thy life, poor slave ? Re-
member thy Lord and Saviour Christ, how they
drove nails through His pure hands, and fastened
His honoured feet to the wood of the cross. They

ARENUSHKA 87

then placed a crown of thorns on His head, and
His precious blood was poured out by the wicked
Jews. Remember all this, poor slave ; go in
peace and carry thy cross ; thou wilt reach the
cypress cross, and there thou wilt find the entrance
of Paradise. Holy angels will carry thee, the
poor slave, and place thee in Abraham's bosom.

" Tell me, little cuckoo, tell me, dear bird of
God, tell me whither my path lies. How shall
I find the way to the holy tree, the tree we
honour, the cross of cypress wood ? My poor
feet will find rest there, and pure angels will
carry me to glorious Abraham's bosom."

Arenushka trudges on and on, by bare fields
and well-trodden high roads, by country lanes, by
the dense forest, and the treacherous marsh ; on
she wanders, and waves her crutch, and treads on
ice with her frozen feet.

The Prisoner Tells His Story

"It was in the spring that it happened," he
began. " It was a great feast-day in the village
when she came ; she stood in the middle of the
street and began to low like a cow, * moo, moo,'
for a while. I was at that time sitting by the
window in my hut ; I looked out, and saw the
woman in the road making that mooing noise.

88 ARENUSHKA

" I called to my wife, * Look, Vasilissa, look !
Is it indeed a woman out there, mooing ? ' * It is
indeed a woman,' cried she. * Come here, poor
creature, come in and have a bit to eat. Poor
thing, she is frozen ! ' The woman came to the
window and took a piece of pie, and was all of
a tremble ; the spring weather had chilled her
terribly, and her clothes were so soaked she could
hardly move.

" ' Come in,' said Vasilissa, ' you are chilled
with the frost ; come and take shelter in our hut.'

" She came in and sat in a corner, her teeth
were chattering, and she muttered something, but
what it was, God only knows. Her feet were in
a terrible state, covered with blood, and her cloak
was ragged and full of holes ; and how it was
that she was not altogether frozen my wife and I
could not say. My wife, Vasilissa, is, you must
know, a kind-hearted soul, and she was overcome
with pity when she looked at the poor thing.

* Where do you come from, dear soul ? ' I asked.

* From Vorgashina 1 ' she replied. * And how is
your mistress getting on there ? ' Her mistress
was not a real lady, but a German, the wife of
the agent. And they say of her that you might
search anywhere for such a cruel mistress and not
find one. She drives away everyone, she starves
them, and keeps them at work from early morning

ARENUSHKA 89

till late evening ; and, after all, the peasants do
not belong to her, but to the gentry.

" As soon as I reminded her of the mistress, she
got uneasy, and quickly took up her crutch again,
muttered some words, and began to step towards
the door. ' Where are you going, Granny ? '
asked Vasilissa.

"She muttered something without looking at
us, and she seemed as if her brain was confused.
When she got to the door she could not open it,
and my wife rushed forward, and had just reached
her when the woman fell down at her feet and
muttered, * It is time, it is time.'

" She was thinking, you know, of the mistress.
. . . What a thing to happen! * Come,
Nilushko, put her on the stove,' said my wife ;
* she is God's creature, and frozen through, poor
thing.'

" I put her on the stove, and then I felt
anxious. What a misfortune, thought I, has
overtaken us.

"The policeman has surely been sniffing about
for a long time and will find her out. If the
poor thing recovers it will be all right, but if she
doesn't there will be lamentation here for having
done such a kindness.

"And while I thought this, I saw my wife
looking at me as if she guessed my thoughts.

90 ARENUSHKA

* Make the sign of the cross, Nilushka ; I see that
you have some bad thoughts in the back of your
mind. You should rather help the poor forsaken
creature ; has she not the soul of a Christian ?
And instead of this you can't think kindly
of her.'

" * Well, well, wife, let it be as you wish. But
I say that it will be best to go to our neighbour '
(old Vlas lived near us, and was a timid and God-
fearing man), * and he may be able to give us some
good advice.' ' Yes, go — go at once, my dear, to
Vlas.' I went out at once to VJas, and on the way
I thought, ' O Lord God, what will happen to us if
she does not recover .? They will say I killed her,
they will put me in prison, and I shall rot away.
They would say that I have kept a dead body in
my hut. I might take her to the outskirts of the
village — that will be better, for then the whole
parish will have to answer for her before the
judge.'

" When I got to the house I cried out, * Grand-
father Vlas 1 Grandfather Vlas ! ' ' Well,' said he,

* what's the matter ? ' * Why do you ask ? ' said
1. * One can see,' he replied, * from your face that
something has happened.'

" * True, Grandfather,' said I, * something extra-
ordinary has happened in my house.' So Grand-
father Vlas came back with me, and I took him to

ARENUSHKA 91

the stove. * Look,' said I, * what God has given
us for a present for the feast-day.'

" * Why,' said he, * it's Arenushka, nearly dead
too ; how did she get on to the stove ? ' * How
could she get there by herself?' said I. * It was
I who put her there.' Then I told him the
whole story from beginning to end, and I said,

* Now, Grandfather, you must help us.'

" * I am sorry for you, my boy,' he said ; * you
are a good fellow, and you have the heart of a
Christian, but you have brought trouble on your-
self. You will get into the hands of the police.'

" Then Vasilissa cried out, * Do you mean to
say, then, that he ought to let a Christian soul
die ? — and you, an old man, can say such things ! *

* Yes, I am old, terribly old, and that is the reason
I say such things. . . . Well, Nelushko, do what
you think best, but this is the advice I give :
When it grows dusk, take her quietly beyond the
village — what does it matter to her whether she
dies here or in the field ? '

" * You hear, wife,' I said, * you hear what the
old folk advise ? '

" At this moment the guest on the stove began
to groan. 1 rushed up to her, and thought I to
myself. Just keep alive till dusk. Granny, and then
you may die if you like.

"Then my wife asked Vlas, *Who is this

92 ARENUSHKA

Arenushka, and who sent her here ? ' * Christ
alone knows,' said he. * She comes from Vorga-
shina, and has fled from the German agent's wife.
She came to me in the summer. " Give me a
night's lodging, kind sir," said she. And then
she told me of the state of things. She was not
clever then with her tongue, but I listened to her.'

" * Well, and what did she say ? '

" * The life there must be very hard ; it is
terrible to think of it. These Germans don't
seem to be a Christian nation. Not only are the
serfs ill-treated, and it is true they can be insolent,
but even the peasants are sent to prison for a
month, " to make them more ready to be useful,"
says the agent. What brutes one does find.'

" * And don't the peasants complain of him ? '

" * Oh, don't they complain ! But it is of no
use. Besides, to say the truth, they have become
callous under ill-treatment. A peasant will say,
" What do I want ? Nothing. Here I am, all
there is of me ; if you wish, eat me with your
porridge ; if you wish, eat me with your soup."
The wife of the agent seems to be more cruel
than any wild beast, and if she stared at a woman,
it seemed, God forgive me, as if a devil were in
her throat, and she forgot everything in her evil
mood.*

" * Did you ever see her. Grandfather .'' '

ARENUSHKA 93

"*Yes, I have seen her. Two years ago I
went to buy butter there, and what I saw was
enough for me. I could see that she was treat-
ing Arenushka cruelly. The poor thing is not
suited to every task ; for one thing, she is a
miserable creature ; and, secondly, because God
chastened her by giving her a weak mind. But
after all she is a Christian, and should not be
treated like a brute animal. I saw her dragged
along by the hair of her head, and I was sorry for
her.'

" * And does the agent allow his wife to behave
so cruelly ? '

" * What does he care ? He does not meddle
in this. " This," he says, " is a woman's busi-
ness. I leave all the women folk for her to
manage ; I have enough to do to keep the men
up to their work." '

" * Such a cunning German he is.'
" * And do the owners of Vorgashina look on
and allow this ? '

" * Well, the owners may be good and kind,
but they live a long way off, you see. They have
hardly been in the village these twenty years past,
and the German does just what he likes. Three
years back, they say, the peasants went to com-
plain, and the master sent also for the agent — the
master, of course, is good ; but will he find out

94 ARENUSHKA

that the rogue is in the wrong ? The agent told
fine stories of the peasants, and said they were
negligent in their work, and robbers. And, pray,
who but he had made them robbers ? '

" * And was it true that they were robbers ? '

" * Well, there was some truth in it. Twenty
years ago this property had the best reputation of
any in the district, but now — why, they have
turned into such murderers that it is dangerous to
go near their villages. And this was the agent's
doing.'

" Then Vasilissa asked, * But why should it be
the agent's fault ? '

" * How can I tell you that in a word, my good
woman ? But pray, what would you do if your
husband were to bully you day after day ? Would
you not be sick of it ? So they, imitating him,
became as brutal as he was. God forgive them !

" * If the agent for some fault ordered a hundred
lashes, the man who carried out his order added
another fifty on his own account. Their very
delight was in blood, and no man had pity, even
on his own brother. The peasant, if he is
brutally treated, will become a brute.'

" * But why did they treat Arenushka so ill ,'* '

*' * Well, everyone — that was the rule — had a task
given him to do, but you can see for yourself that
Arenushka was not fit for any labour. So they

ARENUSHKA 95

arranged with her husband that she should be sent
out into the world. They hung a wallet over her
shoulders, and bade her wander forth every Monday
and beg for scraps ; then each week she should
bring back what she had collected. But if she
didn't collect enough they dragged her by the
hair.'

" * "What wicked people there are in the world,'
said Vasilissa. * But now, Grandfather, what do
you think ? Will my husband get into trouble
if there is an inquiry ? '

" * I have already told you, my good woman,
that when it is dusk you should take the poor
thing gently outside the village, and after that you
can do as you please. What more can I say ? I
have explained what it is necessary for you to do
in order to avoid danger from this affair. For
mark this. Brother Nil, if an inquiry takes place,
you may regret your kindly action.'

" However kind-hearted my wife was, she now
began to see the danger of the situation.

" * All right. Grandfather,' said she ; * let it be
as you say.'

" Our guest, lying on the stove, meanwhile
kept groaning.

" * What is it, my dear ? ' said Vasilissa. * Do
you want a drink, or could you eat a bite of pie ? '

" But again she groaned. My wife gave her a

96 ARENUSHKA

drink of water, and she lay quiet for about an
hour ; then she gave a little sigh. * What is it,
my dear ? Do you feel a little better ? '

" Suddenly she began to talk, quite rationally,
as if she had recovered her senses. * Is it far to
the city of Jerusalem from here ? ' she asked.
* What do you mean ? ' said Vasilissa. ' The
Lord have mercy on you, what is this city of
Jerusalem ? We have never heard of it.' * Jeru-
salem is the city of Christ,' she said, * and I must
reach it this very evening.'

"Then she fell back again on the stove and
became unconscious. Her lips moved, and she
muttered something, but what it was we could not
tell. Then she called out * Jerusalem,' and spoke
of the agent's wife ; then she cried out, * For
Christ's sake,' and so pitifully that my wife and I
felt our hearts stirred. * The end is near,' I said
to Vasilissa. * Yes,' said she, * 1 think so too.'

" For yet half an hour the poor servant of God
lingered, muttering, and then there was silence.
I went up to her as she lay on the stove, and
listened, but she had ceased breathing, poor thing.
I said to myself. Now I am quite undone. And
I told Vasilissa, * The old woman is indeed quite
dead.' As 1 said this in a low voice, I felt afraid
lest someone should have heard me, and mv heart
trembled in my breast. Vasilissa put a candle

ARENUSHKA 97

before the ikon, and began to repeat prayers by
the dead woman. I felt pity, but it was mingled
with evil fears, and I thought : The wicked spirits
must have brought her here. And then 1 thought
that I was insulting the poor thing. And there
appeared a vision before my eyes of the police-
officer, and the prison, and of every kind of mis-
fortune. I went off again to Grandfather Vlas.

" * Well, Grandfather,' I said, * she has passed
away.' ' May she be in the kingdom of heaven,*
said Vlas ; *poor thing, she bore a heavy cross.'
* And what am I to do with her now ? '

" * Take her, as I told you, to the field. It isn't
written on her forehead where she spent the night.
She lost her way, and there is nothing more to say.'

" I went back home ; my wife was getting
supper ready. * So you are thinking of supper ! '
said I ; ' but it is you who have hung a noose
round my neck 1 ' * You don't fear God, Nil
Thedotich,' said my wife. * God's servant should
be warmed and tended, and you insult her as if
she were a roadside robber.'

" The dusk had fallen, and I got out the little
sledge, and wound some reins about the body to
keep the limbs together, and started out with my
burden to the field. I ran on with the sledge and
glanced round anxiously. I cannot tell you what
an agony I went through. I fancied someone was
7

98 ARENUSHKA

looking out of every window ; even the moon in
heaven seemed to be looking down and asking
what evil thing was being done. 1 had thrown off
my boots and was only in my foot rags, and the
cursed things creaked as if they would make the
street echo the noise. 1 ran on and on, and could
think of nothing but. What has become of that
cursed field .'' It used to be close by, but now I
seem to have been running for an hour and not
come to it. But at last I did reach the field ;
I dropped my burden on it and ran home as
fast as I could.

" I sat in my hut and a fever seemed to possess
me ; I was shivering, then a great heat struck
me ; my teeth chattered, and then the fever
raged. My wife had to look after me the whole
night, I could not sleep.

" The next morning quite early Uncle Thedot
came to my hut.

" ' Have you heard ? ' said he.

" * No, I have not heard.'

" *They say a body has been found in Kyzemki's
field.'

" ' Oh, indeed ! ' said I. And the burning
fever shook me.

" * Yes,' said he ; * they found a body, and the
policeman has gone to fetch the police-officer.
But you are all of a tremble. What is it ? '

ARENUSHKA 99

" * I am quite a wreck with this fever. I did
not sleep a wink all last night. But tell me,
Potapich, do they know whose body it is ? '

"'Just an old woman, but who she is no one
knows ; the folk say she comes from Vorgas-
hina. The strange thing is, my lad, that she
lies with her arms and legs bound with a set
of reins. We wanted to loosen them off her, to
see to whom they belonged, but the policeman
would not let us touch them ; it was impossible,
he said, till the officer came.'

"Ah, Sir, what do you think I had done
when I put her down in the field ? I was in such
a hurry that I forgot to take off the reins I had
bound on her. When the officer came, the folk
were driven like cattle to the spot. He asked,
* Whose reins are these ? Does anyone recognise
them ? ' The folk looked at the reins and then
they looked at me.

" * These reins belong to Nilkin,' they answered.
I was just going to deny it — but how ? But
Potapich did not give me time to speak. * No,
brother,' said he, * that is not right ; he that
cooks the porridge must eat it.'

" I was indeed puzzled what to say, and the
folk were beginning to abuse me ; they re-
membered that the evening before they had seen
the old woman staggering through the village,

loo ARENUSHKA

that she went into my hut. How could I deny
that ? "

" And from that time I sit here, in this stone
prison, with its iron-grated windows. I live on
from day to day, eating my bread and thinking
over my past sins. But what sort of life is
this ? "

II

THE OLD BELIEVER

The Prisoner Tells His Story

I AM an Old Believer, and I call myself so,
first, because I abandoned sinful vanities
and betook myself to a desert spot ; and, secondly,
because I am more skilled in the Holy Scriptures
than other Christians. Other Christians walk in
darkness ; they know God only by name. If you
ask such a man, " What do you believe ? " he
will answer, " The Old Faith." But why it is
called the Old Faith, or what it consists in, he
does not know ; he is in darkness.

My parents were Old Believers. About a
hundred years ago my grandfather fled from
Great Russia and settled in the Government of
Perm, and entered an iron foundry. They say
that it grieved him to bid farewell to his native
district where his people were buried, where the
holy saints lay, and where the tombs of the miracle

lois THE OLD BELIEVER

workers were, and of the faithful Russian Princes,
and the early Bishops of the Orthodox Church.

Who would willingly leave all these holy spots
to go to a gloomy, unknown district ? It must
have been a great pressure of circumstances that
urged him to this, and there seemed to be no
help for it.

In those days whole villages migrated, some to
Pomozil, some to Siberia, and though that was
a wild region, God had blessed it. Everyone
had enough ; the wild game of the wood was
theirs, and all kinds of fish, and as for comforts,
no one was deprived of them. The commune
shared everything, and the villagers were friendly
with each other. I still call to mind that we
seemed to live in Paradise. There were no
quarrels, no scandals, no drunkenness. The
tavern and other institutions came only in more
recent days. And, in truth, no power overcame
us, no proclamations, but the tavern was the real
enemy. Some of the villagers had been prosper-
ous, and then their ruin began, for the peasants
spent all their goods in the tavern.

As I look back on my childhood I remember
my father ; he was a good and honest man, who
lived to be seventy. He was strict in morals,
and would not have hurt a fly. Now he is in
the presence of his Saviour, and prays for us poor

THE OLD BELIEVER 103

sinners. My memory of him is so vivid, I seem
to see him before me. He was grey-haired and
austere, but in his eyes shone kindness and
humility. How do you account for this. Sir,
what reason can you give for it, that you do not
find such old men among " the children of this
world " ? He looked like a saint, and everyone
who saw him would, as if compelled, take off his
hat to him. He was indeed a venerable old
man.

Even from my childhood my heart was turned
towards God.

As far back as I can remember, when I learnt
the alphabet, my thoughts were full of the deeds
of saints. If someone had read aloud at night of
the persecutions endured by holy men of old, or
the heroic actions they did, a sweet joy flowed
into my heart, and I seemed to float on air, and
was borne up and up. Then I went to sleep, and
in a dream I saw it all, how our intercessors glorified
God in the cruel torments that they endured.
Another time a fire would seem to burn in my
brain, and my eyes were blind to all that was
round me, but I saw innocent blood poured out,
and a gentle voice would whisper in my ear, and I
saw in a corner the figure of the Emperor Dio-
cletian himself, and his look was harsh — he was
like a wild beast.

I04 THE OLD BELIEVER

Even in those days, if I remember rightly, my
thoughts dwelt on the wish to seek salvation in
the wilderness, and to imitate the ancient fathers
who reckoned worldly vanities to be worse than
the torments of hell. Well, God led me into the
wilderness, but not in the way that I had expected.

Fifteen years before his death my father became
a monk at the hands of a certain Brother Agath-
angel who came to us from the Monastery of the
Old Oaks. From that time he gave up all
worldly occupations and dedicated himself to
God's service, while my old mother, whom he
then called his " sister," managed the house and
the household affairs. I remember how many
pilgrims visited our house ; they came from all
parts — some from the Old Oaks, some from Irgiz,
or from Kergenz, and even from Athos. My
father received them all, and gave them a kindly
welcome and alms to speed them on their way.
At that time there was much agitation among the
Old Believers. They suffered not only worldly
persecutions, but there were quarrels among
themselves and confusion ; some wished to have
a priesthood, and others were strongly against it.
This grieved my father much. We were con-
stantly receiving letters, now from one side, now
from another. And each party exhorted their
adherents not to listen to their opponents, and

THE OLD BELIEVER 105

every opponent was declared to be a schismatic,
and an enemy of the Holy Church. The pilgrims
from Moscow brought us sad tidings from there,
for the two parties were nearly killing each other
at their meetings.

My father felt this state of things bitterly,
and I often saw by his eyes that he had spent the
night in prayer and tears.

At last he decided he would go to Moscow
himself. But the Lord did not grant him his
desire. When he had gone a hundred versts he
fell ill. Perhaps, Sir, you may think that what I
say is not true, and that a simple peasant would
never mix himself up in such a serious business,
and throw his heart into it. But so it was.

They sent us word that my father was dying.
My mother and I set off for Nojovka, where he
lay at the house of an old friend ; but by the
time we arrived he had lost feeling in his hands
and feet. He put on the dress of a monk before
his death, in order that he might appear before
God in full angelic armour. He only regretted
that God had not thought him worthy to receive
the martyr's crown, but allowed him to die a free
man, not in chains or in prison. I believe that
he prepared for suffering on this journey, and he
hoped to yield up his soul to Christ.

He died with his mind and memory quite

io6 THE OLD BELIEVER

clear, with prayers and blessings. The memory
of him, of the peaceful death of a good man,
strengthened me still more in my purpose. Can
it be, I asked myself, that our belief is wrong
when my father, a man of strong mind, did not
forsake his faith, and not only lived as an Old
Believer, but also died in that belief? For the
thought struck me that in the last hours every
man would be enlightened with a secret know-
ledge as to the state of his soul ; but however it
may be, surely a man at the point of death should
listen to the voice of an uneasy conscience and
make his peace with his Judge, for that Judge is
not man, but God.

There happened to be at that time, at Nojovka,
an assessor. Although we had tried to manage
our affairs secretly he suspected something,
namely, that an Old Believer had died without
confession, and he came to the house where we
lodged.

"What did this old man die of," said the
assessor, " and who is he ? Show me his pass-
port."

But my father had no passport, and for this
reason, that he considered the possession of a
passport to be a double sin. For amongst us a
passport was reckoned to be the Seal of Anti-
christ. There is a book called Three Things, and

THE OLD BELIEVER 107

in it there are three things we are ordered to
avoid : "Images of wild beasts, cards, and especi-
ally all papers sealed by officials, for these will
ruin the soul."

And again the question is asked : " By what
things does the enemy of God try to enchain the
mind of man ? "

To this Zenoviz the monk answered : " He
orders certain things in a mysterious name to be
written on cards, and without one of these you may
not travel." And this of course means a passport.

But the assessor did not understand this ex-
planation, and again he said : " Show me the pass-
port." I answered : " How can I show it you
when there is none ? " " So there is no passport ^
That is enough ; that is the first charge. The
second is, Who among you has poisoned the old
man, to dare to let him die without the viaticum ?
In what law is this commanded ? "

1 answered : " It is our custom, Sir, to die
after this manner."

" This matter must be searched into," said he ;
" the law does not allow anyone to die without
the last rites of the Church."

And do you know. Sir, he went up to the dead
body and began to revile it. 1 was at that time
only a youth, but my blood boiled within me at
his insulting ways.

io8 THE OLD BELIEVER

"And pray, Sir, may I ask what fees do you
receive for insulting a just man ? "

But he, this Antichrist, only laughed a little
and tapped me lightly on the cheek.

We spent at that time more than a thousand
roubles, and buried our father according to our
rites. But from that time I feel an inward shiver
when I see a police-officer, and I remember my
dead father and how they wished to dissect him.
I was twenty years old when my father died. I
had no brothers or sisters ; I was quite alone with
my mother. The years were passing by, and my
mother was getting old and could not look after
household affairs, so she suggested to me that I
should marry. Well, Sir, I knew that my father
and my grandfather had both been married and
fathers of families ; and indeed there was no sin
in this, for God has said, " It is not good for man
to be alone." But why is it, then, that the Scrip-
tures, when they blame any ordinance or action
or anything else, don't compare the offender
with a profligate man, but compare him to a
Jewess or a profligate woman ? And indeed it
was not Adam who first fell into sin, but it was
Eve who led him into transgression. Therefore
it appears that woman is the origin and root of all
evil on the earth.

Besides this, my father on his death-bed did not

THE OLD BELIEVER 109

express any strong desire that I should marry,
and had even enjoined on my mother not to
constrain me in this matter. 1 reminded her
of this ; but what was the use ? She had re-
ferred to all the saints and had disturbed my
father.

Such is the way of females. " He," said she,
" when he was alive, even then it was just as if he
were not there. He was a man only in name."
But she forgot that the house and all that was in
it was the result of my father's labours. I with-
stood her for three years, but at last she overcame
me. For if you are plagued from morning till
night you give in at last and do what you are
asked to do.

And so at last I married. There lived in our
village a girl, but she was no girl ; a widow, but
she was no widow — just a woman of doubtful
character. It was a marvel to me that she won my
old mother's favour. The report amongst us was
that she made friends with the Old Believers who
had taken refuge in the neighbouring forests and
were training their souls by austerities ; these
Old Believers were young and robust, and often
came into our village to ask for alms, and it
seemed that they all stayed with her. I began to
speak of this to my mother, but it was all of no
use, " Why," she said, " the Old Believers are

no THE OLD BELIEVER

not ordinary people. Whatever one receives
from them is a blessing from God."

Well, we were married in church. I should
have liked the matter to have been done with less
ceremony, according to our father's custom of
merely giving a blessing ; for this reason, that
our teachers tell us, " Do not destroy the mysteri-
ous power of marriage by having it performed by
a priest."

But my mother would not agree to this.
"Do you wish me," she said, "to be condemned
in my old age ? Did I not spend much money
on your father's funeral to escape reproach ^ "

Well, Sir, we passed through bad times.
From the time we lay in our mother's bosom till
death the rural police watched us unceasingly.
Like a faithful and ever-waking shepherd it
guarded our flock and received in return much
consolation. Bribes were extorted, firstly, for
exemption from going to church ; secondly, for
marriages not blessed by the church ; thirdly, for
not having children baptised in church ; and,
fourthly, for burial without church ceremonies.
You would be surprised to hear how much they
got in this way, and how much money the Old
Believers had to contribute. And they did not
seize it in small sums in a Christian way, for why
should not a poor man take a bribe when there

THE OLD BELIEVER m

was an opportunity ? No, they tried to pillage
all at once to the bitter end. And it sometimes
happened when the affair was important, such as a
bribe to wink at conversion into our faith, that
after the visit of the police the house appeared as
if there had been a riot there.

Well, really and truly we were married in a
church. The priest certainly married us for next
to nothing, with very meagre ceremonies as it was
agreed between us, but nevertheless I fulfilled all
the rules which are enjoined by our faith ; and
when I returned home I bowed down to the earth
seven times and asked all present for forgiveness.
" Forgive me, Holy Fathers and brothers, that I
was compelled to sin by being married in a
heretical church." All our Old Believers were
there, and they all in a breath absolved me from
this sin.

We did not live peaceably for long. First of
all there was a quarrel between the women. And,
secondly, these Old Believers from the forests
began to overpower me with their presence.
They kept coming to us every day, and feasted
and rioted just as if our house were a tavern. My
mother only sat and wept, but I, I confess. Sir,
that I came to like this kind of life. We used to
gather together in a circle, and my wife brought
u§ small-beer and we talked away. These Old

112 THE OLD BELIEVER

Believers were not very learned, but they had
gathered something out of their anthologies and
primers. If one of them sat and drank, he
seasoned every mouthful with an extract from
some holy writings, and one man. Father Nikita,
was very clever at it. At this time I took to
drinking ; I was aware that it was not a Christian
way of living, but I did not know how to keep
out of it. And so I was dragged more and more
into this path of depravity.

At length all our money was spent in drinking,
and I thought to myself. Where shall I lay my
head ? And this is what I at last decided to do.
Well, Sir, I decided at last to go as clerk into a
distillery business. The manager had known our
father, and perhaps rumours had reached him that
the son was not walking in his father's steps. But
he received me and offered me a good salary. I
ought not to have taken this step, and it would
have been better for me to have died of hunger
than to have gone and served in this pagan place,
but it was my wife who tempted me.

" Well," said she, " you have got nothing to do
with it, have you ? Their business is theirs, and
yours is yours. If the works were your property,
then it would be a sin for you. As it is, even
your father did business with them and did not
despise them."

THE OLD BELIEVER 113

The Old Believers also declared that there was
nothing against the law in this matter ; it was only
my mother who began to wail, as if for a corpse,
when I went to the office.

I spent eight years in this business, and I am
ashamed to remember the kind of life I led at that
time. It is sufficient to say that I ate meat on
fast-days, that I drank vodka, and smoked tobacco.
And where did I not wander in those eight years !
I went to Astrakhan, to Archangel, in fact, I
travelled through the length and breadth of
Russia. I was astonished. Sir, to see what the
Tsardom of Russia was. Wherever I went there
were new customs, new speech, even new costumes.
I saw many tears, and learned of many cares and
sorrows, but all these passed me by. I gained a
good bit of money, and learned something of
business, and began to trade for myself, at the
beginning in small ways, but later my business
increased and widened. I must tell you that I
traded in books and pamphlets and ikons, but
what kind of trade this was God only knows.
The spirit of injustice and love of gain over-
powered me. 1 began to cheat and oppress the
poor people, to betray my brethren, to denounce
Christianity, and all this to obtain some earthly
goods. And strange to say, God did not strike
me down all this time like a mangy dog, even

114 THE OLD BELIEVER

when I reached the unimaginable degree of
blasphemy. Well, Sir, deception is, of course, an
easy thing, because almost all trade with us is
founded on it. But I, how did I deceive ? I
was trading, I may say, in the name of Christ.
It is we who have a special collection of manu-
scripts called anthologies. They are collected out
of various books which are useful to us. These
manuscripts are the most profitable source of
trade. The uneducated folk, buy them largely,
because one can tell unimaginable tales to them.
Then they, having their ears filled with these
marvels, are ready to go through fire and water.

I had an assistant who was a regular beast.
His name was Andriashka, and, if I am not
mistaken, he would have sold his own soul for
half a silver rouble. I cannot tell you where he
had not been formerly, nor what he had been
engaged in, I can only say that he was then
prompter in a theatre, for there was a strolling
company in the town. He could compose
verses, especially about the hermits, and the
advent of Antichrist. In a word, he was a sharp,
lively youth. Amongst us he seemed to occupy
the post of a jester, and also to play this part
successfully among the ignorant crowd. I have
often heard people praise him for upholding the
pure hermit's life ; and no twinkle in his eye

THE OLD BELIEVER 115

betrayed him. And this rogue was chosen by me
to be my assistant. He would speak with elo-
quence, after the manner of an Old Believer, and
the common people hung on his lips. With all
this talent, what might he not have been if he
had been placed in the right road, and had per-
severed therein ?

When my business prospered I left my
situation at the office. Rumour has wings, and
soon the report reached Moscow that a religious
zealot was here, and folk began to make inquiries
about me. I received a letter one day from a
Moscow merchant. He was very rich and the
head of our business. He wrote that he had
heard of me and of my holy life, that I was
endowed by God with great intelligence, and that
he judged it well to take me under his protection
for the strengthening of the Old Believers in the
province of Krutogor (the Steep Hills), where
they were suffering oppression and much persecu-
tion. As a means to this object he proposed
opening a post-house where there could be a
refuge for all Old Believers ; and for carrying
out this plan he sent ten thousand paper roubles.
*' And we," said he, " God willing, will send you
soon a good pastor who can take the place of a
minister and feed his spiritual flock ; and if this
pastor works well with you and you with him in

ii6 THE OLD BELIEVER

the name of Christ, you will guide him, and not
forget us sinners in your prayers before God,
and we on our side will not forget to pray for
you and all Orthodox Christians."

Well, thought I, this is an excellent arrange-
ment ; I went off into the town Steep Hills, and
took with me Andriashka, I spied out the state
of the country and opened a post-house. The
district of the Steep Hills, I must tell you, was
thickly peopled with our brethren, but I must
confess that they were a very unlettered folk.
This was partly perhaps from the wildness of the
region, for in every village were different ex-
planations of our faith ; in some hamlets there
were even several different rites. Some believed
in water, and they gathered together in a hut, and
placed a tub of water in the midst of them, and
stood round until the water grew troubled ; then
shut up a naked girl in a cellar and bowed down
to her ; and the others said, "Those who have
not sinned cannot receive salvation," and for this
reason they tried to sin as much as possible in
order to have more to confess. Then there are
even some fanatics who torture themselves with
hunger, but nowadays they are not often seen.
My task was to bring all these various sectarians
into one body. The problem was a difficult one.
I wrote about this to Moscow to my benefactor,

THE OLD BELIEVER 117

and he answered that it was only necessary that
they should all be Old Believers ; and I acted upon
this. Certainly, Sir, as I can see it now, it is
obvious that in all these problems there is much
confusion of mind. On this matter my opinion
is that there are three kinds of people. There
are some who understand religion with their
heart, and these are good people ; such a one
was my father. Whether they are right or not
right, that is another matter, but they believe
firmly. And, Sir, you must not think that this
kind of Old Believer would die of grief because
others don't accept their double Alleluia, or their
way of using the same number of fingers in
crossing themselves. No, this is quite another
matter ; there are other things which are all
important to them — the cherished times of yore,
and the part our faith should play in the land, and
other grave matters. There were few such
people, and now perhaps there are none left.
They were ready for anything, to be put to death,
to undergo torture, and they bore all this joy-
fully. But now there is another kind ; they are
indeed robbers and sacrilegious persons. These
persons are mostly rich or cunning ; they only
find fault in order to gain a profit or that they
may be looked up to with respect. There are
no worse people in the world, for they are ready

ii8 THE OLD BELIEVER

to destroy half the world to humour their caprice.
They are not real Old Believers but rather they
believe in nothing. And all they do is only for
the sake of fame so as to be known as men to
whom a fourth part of Russia will listen as soon
as they open their mouth.

And indeed they did listen to Andriashka, for
the simple people do not reason. He would, for
instance, say that in the days of the Tsar Green
Peas, a certain Roman Pope, Darmos, was thrown
into the Tiber, and that made all the fish die ; and
the people would believe him.

I must tell you. Sir, that though I have
wandered much in the world and have known
many " hermits," I have never yet known any
true Christian love amongst them. Not only
will they not give their life for their neighbour ;
on the contrary, they are rather prepared to cut
his throat. There is very little thought among
them of the good of the community, and there is
little tenderness of heart or joy. Who give
more alms than they do ? Who give up more for
some public works ? But you will soon observe
that this is not real charity or sacrifice ; their only
aim is their own profit. And it is from some
such cause that their heart seems to be worm-
eaten, that they look gloomily on God's world,
and they truly care little for the common good.

THE OLD BELIEVER 119

Some rich merchant will scatter a thousand
roubles in public to gain influence among the
people ; but if a Christian soul is dying of
hunger at his door, he won't move a finger.

My affairs went on smoothly. In the court-
yard there was a bath-house which 1 arranged as
a chapel where we met at night. I stored a barn
with ikons, books, pamphlets, and all kinds of
goods. There were many travellers the whole
time, but the most profitable were those who
were summoned to the town to appear before the
police-office to be converted. They would
remain there from early morning, and then it
might be the head officer would appear. " And
who are you ? " said he. " We, Sir, are So-and-
so. Dear Sir, could you not end this inquiry
quickly ? " Then the officer would say, " It is
late now, it is time to have a drink. Come to-
morrow." Well, then they would come the
next day, and again they would wait, and again it
was, " Come to-morrow." Sometimes this would
drag on for a month, till the peasants guessed
that the rat of a clerk was waiting for a little
bribe. And when they guessed, the whole affair
was finished in one day. The long and the short
of it was that they naturally all remained uncon-
verted. And it would have been surprising if
they had been converted. When the peasant is

I20 THE OLD BELIEVER

in his own village he sees no one but an ignorant
boor like himself. But after he arrived in the
town and lodged with me or someone similar,
would he not have all sorts of suggestions
whispered in his ear ? While he was walking
from his village his conscience was uneasy as to
whether he held the right faith, but in the town
he became as firm as could be, quite a different
man. " I don't want to ; no, I don't want to."
What is to be done with him ?

For us innkeepers this was just the thing. They
would stay with us for a month or so, and their
bill ran up to thirty or forty roubles. But what
we spent on them was not so much, for they
only wanted warmth and kindliness. They
always brought their own bread with them, and
such bread it was. Sir, that we were surprised
that they could eat it. And when they were
ready to go home you told them how much their
bill was, and then they sighed, for they had no
money and all their provision of bread was gone,
for they had taken a store to last a week and they
had stayed a month. We saw the profit we could
make here, and we agreed that they should pay,
not in money, but in wheat or honey or linen, for
a certain price and the carriage to be paid. This
was a profitable business for us, and here there
was no deception, — on his part, — for every

THE OLD BELIEVER 121

traveller paid his due, and even sent presents
in addition.

One day I received a letter from my benefactor
that they had found a pastor, a good, honest man,
who wanted to see his flock, and intended visiting
our town.

Well, he arrived at last. He came at night
with carts as if he were a carter. He was dressed
like a simple citizen, in a kaftan and a waistcoat,
and his hair cut round, and he had a passport, but
whether it belonged to another or was a false
passport, I cannot say. We received him with
much honour ; we went to him to receive the
usual blessings, but he behaved strangely, we
were unaccustomed to such manners. If any
trifle displeased him he would not only blame
but swear frightfully. He performed the service
in his little camp church which he had with him,
and he would swear at the psalm-reader as if he
were not in a church but in a tavern.

I looked at him and I looked again. There
was something in his ugly face that seemed
familiar, and yet I could not say who he was.
And how do you think it was revealed to me ?
When he had acted his part before us all, he
stayed on alone with me.

" Don't you know me, Alexander Petrovitch ? "
he said.

122 THE OLD BELIEVER

" No," I said, " I cannot say I do, though it
seems as if I had seen you before, but where I
don't know."

"And don't you remember," said he, " Stepka,
the Kazan house-porter ? "

" Surely you are joking."

" No, I am not joking. But now here I am,
absolving and condemning whom I like, and
performing any rites that please me."

" O Lord," said I, " is that who you are ? "

And do you know, Sir, who this Stepka was ?
He was the house-porter in Kazan, and on account
of his profligate life and his thefts he was sentenced
by the communal court to become a soldier.
Well, he fled, and, will you believe it, he joined
the Old Believers ; they received him, and sent
him to us for a pastor. He was not even artful,
and our benefactors obviously admired him for
that very simplicity, and never thought of suspect-
ing him, because there seemed to be nothing hidden
from them, and he would be a tool in their hands.

But God chastened me through him ! It was
only afterwards that I learnt that we were being
strictly watched, and that the Antichrist-Andri-
ashka had betrayed us.

I lived quietly in the Steep Hills, ignorant of
anything going wrong, for I was paying the usual
bribes regularly. But one evening we sat, with

THE OLD BELIEVER 123

no thought of misfortune drawing near, when
there was a tat, tat, at the gate. I looked through
the window and saw that the house was surrounded
by men, and a police-officer walked into the room.
"Ah," said he, "the rogue is caught." And I
spoke up, " Pray, Sir, be kind enough to tell us
why you come and abash us in this manner. I
thought I was paying enough money, and this
gentleman is my friend, a traveller, and he has a
passport. Why do you come to annoy him ? "
•* Yes," says he, "it is true that we receive gifts
from you, and we are very much obliged to you
for them ! But these are gifts in general, and
Stepka, can't you see, is not covered by them.
You can see for yourself that Stepka is an im-
portant person, and three thousand silver roubles
would be too little to take for him from anyone
but yourself. But the authorities are ready to
favour you, and therefore will be content with
three thousand. You must appreciate that. If
you pay it you may have Stepka ; if you don't,
he is ours."

At first I was obstinate. " I am sorry for you,
Alexander Petrovitch," said he, "but nothing can
be done ; put the handcuffs on him. You are
quite ruined."

Meanwhile Stepka sat like a dead man in a
corner.

124 THE OLD BELIEVER

And what did Andriashka, that limb of Satan,
do ? He only laughed, as if it were a pleasure to
see his benefactor ruined. There are such vile
creatures, Sir, who even though they gain nothing
are ready to destroy their fellow-men.

There was no help for it ; so I paid the sum of
money — money got by unrighteous means, and the
matter was settled. The police-officer took Stepka
and led him through the yard. " Go," said he, " to
the four corners of the earth, but do not fall into
the hands of the police again ; who knows what
might happen ? Everyone will not be as merciful
as I am."

But even this was not the end of the
trouble.

I was sitting alone the next day, feeling very
sad, when I looked up and saw the police-officer
coming in at the gate again. What on earth
could he have come for ? And this is indeed the
exasperating fact, that when they come, ready
perhaps to hang you, you must not show any
trouble nor droop your eyelid. You must look
cheerful, have a smile on your face, and welcome
them courteously. You must offer them refresh-
ment, and no doubt the police-officer will also like
to have a drink.

He came in. "Well," said he, "you had
better now prepare for a journey."

THE OLD BELIEVER 125

" What do you mean ? Prepare for a journey ?
But where am I to go ? "

" Well," said he, "you may go back to where
you came from."

" But what about my house ? "

"You must sell your house directly. I have
already found you a purchaser."

"But pray, Sir, why did you take three
thousand roubles from me yesterday ? *'

" That was not your affair, but to-day the order
is this. We informed the Chief that Stepka had
certainly left your house to hide himself some-
where. So the Chief graciously said, ' If that is
so,' says he, 'if Stepka cannot be caught, then at
least there must be no smell of your blood left.' "

" O my God," cried I, " do you want to pillage
me and to strangle me. What do you want
now ? " Then he got angry and said, " What do
you mean by that word ' pillage ' ? Who is it
that pillages here ? " Then he stamped his feet
and shook his fist at me.

*' It is fortunate for you," said he, "that I am
a kind sort of man, I see that you are very much
annoyed and do not know what you are saying,"

Well, there came a buyer for the house, and who
should the buyer be but Andriashka ! He paid
me then one thousand silver roubles, but the
policeman seized even these. "You," said he,

126 THE OLD BELIEVER

" must give up this money, or again you will start
trouble here. But here are twenty roubles for
your journey expenses, and now be ofF." I
wanted to question him further. But this was
not possible. " I see," said he, " that you want to
kick against my orders. But the affair is not yet
finished, and if we choose we might put you in
prison for harbouring criminals and for spreading
depravity."

That night I started on foot for my native
country, and Andriashka is still in possession of
my house. I cannot tell you what my thoughts
were as I travelled on the road, for my head
seemed quite confused. I saw the fields before
me, I saw the snow lying there, — it was the first
fall of the year, — I saw the forest, and the peasants
passing by with their carts, but I understood
nothing of this. 1 could not distinguish what
was forest, or snow, or peasant. I seemed to
have become quite foolish, and fragments of
thoughts rushed through my mind. I still
imagined myself rich, that I intended soon to
dine, that the house was short of candles, that
someone was owing me another rouble, and that
another fellow needed a good bullying, and my
head seemed to go round as if I could not think,
but only snatched at fragments of former ideas.

I arrived at my old home a penniless beggar.

THE OLD BELIEVER 127

My mother had long been dead, and my wife did
not even recognise me. Then came disputes and
reproaches, and I could not answer them. They
spoke of me as if I was a wild beast in my home.
" Well," said they, " he has been twenty years
wandering in the world, and see what riches he
has brought back." In addition to this I now
fell ill, whether from grief or extreme cold, I
know not ; I became as weak as a child, and could
not move a muscle ; my body was covered with
sores, and I felt as if my flesh was rotting. What
did I not suffer and endure at that time ? My
head did not ache, but I seemed to be walking
in a mist ; it seemed as if suddenly devils had
seized my tongue, as if Satan himself had looked at
me and said, " Everyone shall go to destruction."
A stormy light broke from his eyes and hell
breathed out from his throat and on his head was
a crown of serpents. All my former dissolute life
rose up before me, and all my sins, my blasphemy,
my insults, my sensual passions, my deceptions
and crooked ways, and highway robberies. They
seemed to weigh me down or to burn my eyes
and lips like hot iron. At one time all hell
seemed revealed to me ; I saw Beelzebub sitting
on a fiery throne, and round the throne his
servants were waving their tails, and their wings
were like bats' wings. He saw me from afar off,

128 THE OLD BELIEVER

and he cried out, " Here is our faithful servant
coming. He has greatly added to our flock.
Receive him with great honour." Then devils
seized me under the arms and brought me to the
throne itself. I looked, and I saw behind, the
throne many faces I knew ; they were all those
whom I had corrupted and brought to ruin.

But by and by. Sir, a strange thing happened
to me. I was beginning to get well, my blood
seemed to flow more quietly, and, though I could
not rise from the stove, at least the devils did not
dance before my eyes. And suddenly I felt
myself sitting alone as if asleep, and I smelt such
sweet perfumes spreading through the hut, and
whether it was incense or not, such a fragrant
smell had never reached me before. In a word,
something gentle and sweet seemed to influence
my soul, bringing peace and comfort. I opened
my eyes ... I distinctly remember that I did,
and saw before me an old man with a wonderful
face, and he seemed to be lighted up by a bright
cloud. A trembling seized me, and I would fain
have thrown myself on the 'ground and kissed his
pure feet, but I could not. A mysterious
strength seemed to have enchained all my muscles
and not to allow me, who was unworthy, to reach
such a blessing. I could only cry out, " O
Lord, I am a sinner, I am a sinner." 1 cannot

THE OLD BELIEVER 129

say what happened to me after that ; I must
have been faint with fear, for I remember nothing.
At last I woke up and felt that I was again
myself, and then 1 determined to give up every
sinful vanity and to go off into the desert to a
hermitage.

Passers-by told me that there was such a place
in the Tcherdinsky district, and that this was
indeed a spot where godly folk went to save
their souls. There by the rivers in the thick
forests they had built cells, and not a few hermits
dwelt there. They said that even out of Moscow
reverend Old Believers wandered thither to be
saved, and there are many saintly graves there,
and the Government knows nothing and does not
interfere. They told me also of another place in
the Orenburg province. Hermits have settled in
the mountains and even in caves ; and there Is
one certain cave where day and night a light
burns, but no one knows whose hand keeps it
burning. In some of these caves people go
about without clothing, they live on wild herbs,
and rarely have any converse even with each
other. Now I did not consider that I was yet
fit for that kind of life, for I had first to mortify
my body. Some told me to go to one place,
some to another. One said, " When you reach
Zlatoust, go to the north." Others said, "From
9

I30 THE OLD BELIEVER

Zlatoust go on to the east." But I thought It
better to go first to the river Lupia, and there,
if I were alive, I would stay and begin seriously
to save my soul.

And truly, as soon as my strength began to
come back, without a word to anybody, I took a
breviary and an old sheepskin coat and escaped
from the house at night, as if I were a thief. It
took me a month to reach the goal of my journey,
for I was more than six hundred versts off. I
went forth in the name of Christ, for it was He
who seemed to have given me strength for this
spiritual enterprise. The folk told me that there
was a hamlet where people of Perm lived, and
from there any child could show me the way to
the hermits. And so it was, when I reached that
place, as soon as I inquired about the way to the
Old Believers, they gave me a guide, and provided
me with such a rough compass as the peasants
use. These men of Perm have a great respect
for the Old Believers, and not only do not disturb
them, but even hide them in every way from the
police. The reason of this. Sir, is simple. The
Old Believers always have bread and gunpowder,
and all kinds of provisions, which are sent to them
as alms from the surrounding district ; whilst the
people of Perm are poor, and they either grow no
wheat, or in such small quantity that bread is only

THE OLD BELIEVER 131

eaten among them as a treat or on feast-days.
They eat little, but drink more. They make a
small-beer from oats ; it is intoxicating and nour-
ishing. They like to feel intoxicated that they
may forget themselves for a while, and this floury
drink, though not satisfying, fills the stomach ;
and this just suits them, because though they are
not really satisfied, they feel as if they had had
enough. They wear but little in the way of
clothes ; in the hardest frost they put on a linen
shirt, and that is all. What cause have they, then,
to disturb the Old Believers when these folk of
Perm procure through them, as we may say, a
stock of provisions and implements ? Therefore
they do not disturb them in their work of saving
their souls.

We journeyed on for an hour, all the time
on snow-shoes, for we could not possibly have
travelled without them through the deep snow.

Though winter was passing away, for we had
almost reached Lady Day, yet in these parts the
snow had not even begun to melt. First we
went through a field, then through a forest so
thick and tangled that it was hard for us to walk
there, and it would have been impossible to drive.
It was indeed astonishing that, though there were
men living and working not far off, yet there was
not a trace of human footsteps anywhere ; except

132 THE OLD BELIEVER

for the tracks of wild beasts, all was smooth and
even.

At last, buried in the wood, we stumbled upon
a hut. It stood on the edge of a ravine where
the river Murmur runs. About forty yards be-
hind it, in a clearing, stood a small flour mill on
the river. It seemed there should be a dwelling-
place, because there were signs of human life
there.

But it would be impossible without a guide to
find the way, because the forest was so dense
here, and there was no path through it. In
winter everyone went on snow-shoes, and in
summer no one came, for the peasants were
working in the fields, and the Old Believers were
on their wanderings ; only the quiet old folk
stayed at home. The venerable Asaph, to whom
I was brought, was a strange, wonderful character.
At this time, when I settled in the woods, he was,
I believe, more than a hundred years old, and no
one would have said he was more than sixty, he
was such a strong, genial, and wise old man. He
had a clear, ruddy complexion, his soft hair was
white as snow and not very long, his eyes were
blue, and had a gentle, cheerful expression, the
curve of his lips was very kindly.

He gave me warmth and shelter. At that
time a pupil, Joseph, a poor, fanatical creature, was

THE OLD BELIEVER 133

living with him ; and it was not Joseph who
looked after the old man, rather the old man who
looked after Joseph, and who was so simple and
benevolent that his heart seemed to crave for
some object for whom he could suffer and whom
he could serve.

Not one of the other hermits knew whence
Asaph had come nor when he had settled in the
forest, and he never spoke of these things to any-
one. I once, out of curiosity, began to question
him, but he became much disturbed. " Of what
use would it be for you to know ? " he answered
me in the old Slavonic tongue ; " and what profit
would you gain to know how a quiet servant of
God was called to this state when all he wants
now is to forget the past and to save his soul in
peace ^ And what good would it do you if I
showed you my spiritual wounds and exposed
to you the sore places of my soul .'' When a
messenger brings you good tidings, would you
wish to ask him whence he came .'' Would you not
rather place him at your board and rejoice in the
sight of him ? I am that messenger of good
tidings who would reveal them to your soul and
snatch it from the fire of hell — and you only ask
me whence I cam€ ! "

" But, Holy Father," I answered, " I only wished
to know by what paths you were led to desire the

134 THE OLD BELIEVER

angelic life, and to renounce rebellious vanities,
and to abhor the delights of life, having loved
with all your heart our Saviour Christ."

But he only shook his head and told me that
his life's history was like the dream of a dissolute
woman coming in the gloom of night, and he
himself like an impudent jester performing antics
in a fog.

" But at least tell me," said I, " where you took
your monk's habit."

" How can I tell you ? " said he. " 1 went into
the desert and fell down as a beggar before the
Almighty God, and poured out the sorrows of my
heart to Him ; I withdrew from the temptations
of the world and became a monk, but I had no
regular dedication." So the matter was no more
mentioned between us.

The time which I spent in the desert with
Asaph was a truly memorable period for me.

In those days neither scandals nor quarrels had
invaded our retreats, but we lived tranquilly,
engaged in work and rest and in prayer. Our
employment consisted only in copying holy
writings.

When the spring came the Old Believers, that
is the younger ones, wandered down to the
villages with their books and sold them there,
and in the autumn they returned with the profits

THE OLD BELIEVER 135

of the sale. There was but little conversation
between the hermits, but they listened to Father
Asaph's teaching. He spoke very clearly, speci-
ally about the coming of Antichrist ; he made
certain calculations which foretold His speedy
coming ; but nevertheless He has not yet come.

With regard to Antichrist I cannot explain a
very curious thing. Among the hermits every
honour is paid to the word Antichrist, for it is a
word-puzzle in their hands which they solve in
many ways. If a letter is wanting for their pur-
pose, they do not scruple to add it. If there is a
letter too much, why, they cut it off". If the
Russian word does not fit in, they just translate
it into Greek ; and if necessary, they add a title,
Count, or Prince, or imp of darkness. These
calculations go on till at length the meaning of
Antichrist appears. The simple folk are much
impressed by these reckonings.

But, Sir, we do not go to the desert for society
and conversation. A man becomes changed by
the life there ; especially is it so in summer time.
You wander out, it may be, into a meadow ;
above you is the blue heaven, around you the
boundless forest ; the birds sing to you, and the
call of the cuckoo is heard repeatedly. It may be
that a hare runs past you, and a crackling of
boughs warns you that a bear is pushing his way

136 THE OLD BELIEVER

through the forest. Every sound is clearly heard.
You fancy you might hear the grass growing.
There is such a sweet, pleasant smell because it is
all wilderness, and everything smells of forest and
earth. And no sorrow troubles your heart, no
cares vex you or worries annoy you ; the un-
believer is here led to believe in God. It does
not disturb you to remember that it is a cold
climate, that there are great swamps and marshes ;
you are only conscious that the day is hot and the
pine forest so delightful that you do not wish to
leave it.

On another day it may be that the wind is
wailing ; you are standing in the woods ; up above
there is howling and creaking, the rain pours, the
topmost boughs of the trees are broken, but
below all is quiet, not a twig moves, not a drop
of rain falls on you. . . . Ah ! you are filled with
wonder at the works of God.

And thus you live in the wilderness, and there
comes a time, perchance, when you see no hum.an
being for a whole month, and the passion for
solitude gains on you. No one disturbs you, no
annoyances reach you, you are vigorous and
cheerful. The ancient hermits were so satisfied
with the wilderness that they turned with disgust
from the world to enjoy their solitude. You
look — there is space everywhere, above, beneath,

THE OLD BELIEVER 137

and all around ; every tiny blade of grass Is full
of life ; and you feel as if you too were just like
a green blade.

How delightful also is spring here ! In towns
and villages and on the roads there is mud and
manure everywhere. But In the wilderness when
the snow is melting it only glistens all the more,
and then little streams begin to trickle from
beneath the snow. Outwardly it seems the same,
but you hear a little murmur of water everywhere
round you. Our river here is the Murmur, such
a swift, gay little stream. How can you bear to
leave all these pleasant sights and sounds ?

It is God who has provided them all for the
pleasure and use of man. And when you wander
in these forests you think. May you not go
astray ? No, for everywhere there are signs to
guide you if you know how to read them. Just
look at the bark of a tree : on the north side it
is tougher and thicker, on the south side thinner
and softer ; the branches too on the north are
shorter and scantier, while on the south they
are longer and downy; everywhere there is a
sign to guide you.

And the folk there seemed kinder and better,
but later on corruption crept In, because carts
began to arrive there with goods for the port of
Vochebski ; then of course inns were opened and

138 THE OLD BELIEVER

bargains were made. But formerly the natives
only carried on a trade in the skins of wild
animals which abounded there ; these were stags
and elks, foxes, bears, ermines, and even sables.
As for squirrels and hares they simply swarmed.
There were also flocks of wild birds, gelinottes
and white partridges, in fact every kind of bird
you ever shot.

The Permians and Zyrians wandered through
the forest all winter. They did not hold the gun
in their hands, but leant it against a tree. It was
a long gun — some call it a turk — the charge of
powder was small, and the bullet also was
extremely small, and they aim to hit the squirrel
or the ermine at just the tip of his snout. This
is a curious fact.

Thus we lived quietly for three years, and all
this time I never left Asaph, for I wished to
become strengthened in the faith, and he liked
me so much that he wished me to become the
Superior when he was gone. But it was not
possible to arrange this, as the other hermits
looked with evil eyes at our friendship. There
were ten of them, and they all lived at a short
distance from Asaph ; some cells were two versts
off and some were three. Father Marteman was
the most malicious of them all ; he had much
power over the minds of the rest, and had even

THE OLD BELIEVER 139

often stirred them up against Asaph. It was
plain that the brotherhood only kept together
while their Superior lived.

One day a peasant came to our cell ; it was
Marteman who brought him. " Whence do you
come and why ? " asked our Superior.

" I come," he answered, " from Suzdeena."
" But what is the reason of your visit ? "
" I thought I should like to settle here, Holy
Father. The taxes are too burdensome for me,
and besides, they are dragging my son off to be a
soldier, and he doesn't want to go, and it is a
shame to take him."

" Then you are married and have a family ? "
" Yes, indeed, I have a family — my old woman
and two girls and three sons."

" And where do you wish to settle .? "
" I should like to settle here, near you. I have
already been to a Permian village, and they said,
' You may settle out there, but we know nothing
about the place.' "

" So it seems that you are running away to
escape taxes ? "

"Well, I own the cursed taxes are too heavy
for me."

Here Marteman broke in, saying, " Well, Holy
Father, you are putting him quite through a
catechism. If you are really zealous for your

I40 THE OLD BELIEVER

faith, do not ask why this sheep wants to join
your flock, for that does not concern you."

Then a discussion began, and while Asaph
asserted his rights, Marteman would not allow
them, and the dispute became so hot that if I
had not been there I believe Marteman, that limb
of Satan, would have lifted his hand against his
Superior.

" Seventy years," said he, " you have been
here, and of what use have you been to the holy
faith ? The problem of gaining freedom for our
religion is before us, and yet we are afraid to
sneeze. As soon as we smell the police we are
afraid, and run like cowards into the forests to get
rid of the police — they are Antichrist. You have
grown old, Father Asaph, but we intend to plan
measures so that the police shall not show their
nose here, or if they do the turk (gun) shall bring
them to reason. See how the Old Believers live
in Pilva ! Ah, they are a strong body, and
therefore they contrive to get the better of the
police and to keep them off. But you only
scatter misgivings ; and what good does that do ? "

Father Asaph only groaned and crossed himself.
" Well," said he at last, " I am, in truth, growing
old, and besides that, I no longer please you. I
know — yes, I know very well what you want,
Father Marteman. You want to go after women,

THE OLD BELIEVER 141

you wish to satisfy your evil lusts, you child of
Satan. If this is so, let me give up my office,
and do you choose another Superior. But do
not try to hinder my appearing with a pure
conscience before God."

At first they tried to persuade him not to
forsake the brethren. Some spoke sincerely, but
most of them protested for form's sake, for they
wanted more freedom. At last it was decided
that he should leave, and they chose as his
successor the very hermit, Marteman, who had
stirred up all the trouble.

Soon after this Father Asaph passed away. It
seemed that he knew in his heart that the Old
Faith had vanished, that the Old Believers had
come to an end.

Things went on very differently now, for
the peasant settled among us with his women,
and altogether there were with him more than
ten in family.

Our hermits visited them often, and now began
many temptations and sins.

In Father Asaph's time, money and provisions
had belonged in common to all, but now, under
Marteman's rule, everyone kept his gains separ-
ately, and each one only strove to get as much
alms as he could that he might bring them to
his ladylove.

142 THE OLD BELIEVER

I had now to consider how I could earn my
living. I first decided to leave the community,
but could not think where I could betake myself.
I had intended to live and die here, and to save
my soul, and it was for this purpose that I had
forsaken home and family. But my attempt
had failed.

I gathered together my writings, and gave
Joseph in charge to a peasant in the village, and
in the spring I floated down the river Kama on
rafts. I did not think it best to go home or to
leave any track of my whereabouts lest I should
be seized, so I disembarked at Lonva.

Here, Sir, my wanderings began ; each day
saw me in a different place. Here I read out
a service, at another place I offered up prayer
for a child, at another place I simply spoke about
religion. And I must confess to you that I
became more and more convinced that our Old
Faith was destroyed, that it had become quite false
in the hands of dishonourable people. There
was a large village, Ilinsko, in which I remained
for a time and whence I took my wanderings.
Here lived a certain peasant called Zakvatav, and
what do you suppose his trade was ? He had
a son called Michael who was employed in
making false passports, and from somewhere or
other he procured secular type {i.e. not the type

THE OLD BELIEVER 143

of the old Slavonic). If they brought to him
an old passport, he would erase what was printed
and fill in with anything which was necessary.
He was also an expert artist in tracing, and
specially in illuminating apocalypses. One day
I had some talk with him about our affairs, that
is, 1 reminded him that it was not the right thing
to forge passports. He looked at me with his
eyes starting out of his head.

" And, pray, where do you come from, and why
do you come here with all this talk ? " said he.

I began to explain to him that the venerable
Asaph would not have approved of this, for he
told us to forsake the vanities of the world and
seek the desert, but did not intend us to occupy
ourselves in the disgraceful trade of forging pass-
ports.

" Remember too," said I, " what is written in the
Holy Books about passports. Our true Saviour
Christ said, * Receive a pilgrim hospitably.' But
what sort of pilgrim should I be if I had a passport
in my hands ? With one in my hands I could go
into the very Palace of the Governor. But you
not only allow passports but even forge them."

But he, Sir, only laughed.

" You have been talking nonsense," said he,
" with Asaph. You, it is well known, are ruin-
ing us. Until now you have had no proper

144 THE OLD BELIEVER

Superior, but if you do not wish to procure one
for yourself we will give you one ; but not an
old man or an old woman, but, to speak frankly,
it will be a soldier's daughter. . . . Will that
suit you, do you think ? "

"Why should it not suit me?" said I. "Is
she coming to us with her maidens to rule us ? "

" Well, supposing she does come with her
maidens. You have only been wandering about
in a dream in the woods, but we must be practical.
It does not matter to us at all what you did in
the woods, whether you lived an immoral or holy
life ; we want you hermits in order that we may
point you out as Old Believers leading holy lives
in the wild places in the woods ; but whether
you are hermits or wild horses that is your own
affair. Well, besides this, we must have some
refuge for an evil day, that we may know where we
can betake ourselves for safety ; for now it is im-
possible for us to live in a village, for either the
nobleman's agent or the police will annoy us, and,
after every detective visit they pay, we go about
for three days like a fool ; they drag out our
things and thrust them somewhere, so that we
cannot find them. And if I joined the Orthodox
Church what good would it do me? I should
only have misgivings if I betrayed my faith, and
the officials would look on and say, " You lie ;

THE OLD BELIEVER 145

you are only deceiving us." But now this is
what we think of doing — to make a great hermi-
tage in your woods, so that everyone of us can
hide there when necessary. We send news from
village to village, and directly we hear of danger
we will let you know, and while they are collect-
ing together and marching, we can hide every
trace of our refuge with you. But with the sort
of dreams that you have, one cannot go far, or one
may go to the wrong place."

I was curious to know what sort of Superior
this goddess Artemis was, and I learnt that her
name was Natalie, and she belonged to a military
family, and was born in Perm. She had lived, I
was told, for a long time in monasteries in
Irkutsk, and it was there she took her nun's dress
and profession. And when I returned to
Michael's house, I saw indeed that something
fresh had happened. The peasants in the village
were agitated, but when I asked what was the
matter, I could not make out what they meant.
The only thing I understood was that the general's
daughter had built, in the course of two months, a
great mansion about five versts outside the village.
And when they began to tell her that there were
already too many people in the village, she
growled at them and ordered them off, and
showed an official paper.

146 THE OLD BELIEVER

"You must know, you dogs, that even the
Governor is my friend, and if I choose he will
send you all to Siberia."

" But who built the large house for her ? " I
asked.

" We did," said he. " The mayor himself
chose the site for her, and he gave us strict orders
not to annoy the general's daughter in any way,
lest we should be sent away to some far-off
region."

" Did she bring many persons with her ? "

" About ten girls ; only one elderly woman, who
helps her, and is very quiet, and spends much
time in prayer ; but the others — they are all comely
maidens."

I went off to my cell, but on the way anxiety
clutched my heart. I will go, thought I, to
Father Marteman ; it is true he does not like me,
but he remembers Father Asaph ; it may be that
talking the matter over with him, we may think
of something for the good of our souls.

When I entered I found that it would be of no
avail, for I found Marteman sitting with drunken
girls. They sat without any shame, and were even
singing hymns as if they were occupied in prayer ;
and I saw sitting among them a vigorous peasant
whose face was unknown to me.

"This is a new Old Believer who has joined

THE OLD BELIEVER 147

us," said Marteman. " He is called Father
Jacob ; he can furnish us with plenty of money —
he is an expert at that."

Now this expert had in his hands a harmonica.
" And why," said I, " have you got this har-
monica ? Do you suppose that a hermit has
hands given to him in order to amuse girls with
a heathen harmonica ? "

" But," said Marteman, " they are cymbals, and
in the Scriptures it is said that King David played
on cymbals. But now don't get angry, for I
want to show you a trick. This, Holy Father, is
such a trick you could not possibly get for money,
even in a market."

He smote the forehead of the new hermit with
the palm of his hand, and then I saw white letters
appearing which meant that he was a branded
felon.

" And pray," said I, " has the Government given
you some more marks on the back ? "

" Is it not said everywhere," he answered, " that
all who sail on the ocean of life must endure mis-
fortunes ? "

" And, pray, from whence do you come to join
us with such a brand ? " I asked.

" I came from the Irkutsk Province," said he,
" not far from here, in the same place where the
sun rises so splendidly. . . ."

148 THE OLD BELIEVER

" And why did you come to us ? "

" I had heard of your great virtues, and I
thought as I had hitherto been destroying my
soul I would now begin to try and save it."

"And have you then thought of dedicating
yourself to the life of a hermit ? "

" I have turned them all wholesale into monks,"
said Marteman, interrupting us. " What do you
expect from us ? There is no law against it ; we
need servants of Christ. There is another hermit
among us called Nicholas, who is very gay and
amusing ; our girls are always knocking at his
door. He says, * I can have any number of
children if you just let me, and thus I will in-
crease the flock of Christ.' "

On the next day I visited the maidens' hermit-
age. I thought to myself I must find out about
everything before I decide. But what can I
decide ? Shall I run away from the hermits ?
That would mean going straight to prison, for I
was a tramp, and had been in company with all
sorts of suspicious characters. On the other
hand, it would be impossible to remain in the
forest, for I am sick of the way things are going
on there. . . . O Lord !

The Mother Superior received me with honour,
sitting under the ikons. " Very well, let us have
a little talk," she said. She was a tall, dignified

THE OLD BELIEVER 149

woman, with an austere but intelligent look ; no
wonder that the peasants took her for the daughter
of a general, I straightway told her that she was
introducing wrong behaviour, and I reminded her
of the venerable Asaph. She listened intently to
me and allowed me to have my say, but then she
shook her head. " Now," said she, " you have
told me your story, honoured Father. Now
listen to mine. This is all true what you have
said ; men should fly into the woods, not in order
to occupy themselves with worldly affairs, but to
save their souls ; this is the strict truth. But you
have forgotten this, that though you and I cer-
tainly wish to save our souls, we are tired of this
world, and we don't wish to be troubled with its
vanities. But now another may wish to live, and
it is no sin that he should wish to live. You
know that if we all wished to give up the world
and become hermits, who would be left to live in
the world ^ But as you have lived in the world,
you know very well what our life there is. You
work hard to gain what you call capital. But
where does all this tend ? "

I answered, " God has chastened me for my
sms.

" You say this * for my sins,' but I will tell you
that the word * sin ' has here a special meaning,
and we ought to decide this question in some way.

ISO THE OLD BELIEVER

From my childhood I have endured all kinds of
intrigues. I have been in monasteries, 1 have
lived in hermitages, I have observed things every-
where, and 1 tell you that my heart has grown
hard. This is truth indeed."

As she spoke, Sir, she became paler and paler as
if she were dying ; her lips trembled and her eyes
burned. " I have no projects for the future," she
said, " I only know that my heart is torn asunder.
But I have taken vows on myself, and I will per-
form them. And again you say that you must
pray to God to save your soul, but I tell you that
it is not enough to mutter words with your
tongue. You are not to give up praying to God
and saving your soul ; you are only working for
yourself. But what we wish is to bring a blessing
on all Christians. And now this is my last pre-
cept : If you wish to go our ways — then live with
us. If you do not wish — you are free to go to
the four ends of the earth ; we do not wish to
force you to join us. But do not trouble us."

With these words she dismissed me. I went
to the nuns. They were sitting with their hands
folded, and humming songs through their noses.

" What are you doing here .'' " I asked.

" What are we doing ? We sing songs, we
sleep, we eat, and by and by the hermits will
come."

THE OLD BELIEVER 151

" And do you find your life here gay ? "

" And why not gay ? Presently Nikolka will
sing * The Hermitage,' and it is such a sweet
song that even Mother Natalie will come out of
her cell to listen to it. But now this is the mis-
fortune which has happened. We are not allowed
to remember our own names. The Mother
Superior has given us such learned names — one is
Sinephoe, another Polinaria — we cannot get used
to them."

" And can you read and write ? "

" Can we read and write ? Begone with your
learning. The agreement was that we should not
learn to read and write, but we can sing songs ;
that is all we know."

About this time recruits were called up in our
district, and one day I was summoned to Natalie,
and I went.

" Now," said she, " you must go into the
town."

"And what for.?"

" The recruiting has begun there," she said,
" and I promised a peasant to deliver his son from
the recruiting officer, and I know a man in the
town who will manage this affair for me."

" But what am I to do in this affair ? "

" You can help him to carry it out. . . . But

152 THE OLD BELIEVER

it is possible there may be other recruits who may
be willing to come to the hermitages, and then
you can persuade them. And you can explain to
those who seem willing to come that the life here
is delightful — no work, much money, and food —
wheaten bread."

" Mother Superior," said I, " it is your will, but
I do not feel inclined to join in this business."

" But you must," said she. " Well, 1 chose
you on purpose to see if you were strong in the
faith. But if you are not strong, then we will
have nothing more to say to you. Remember the
turk (gun)."

I saw that I had got into a mess, and I thought
to myself, Supposing I agree and then run away,
and go to the four ends of the earth .? But she
seemed to read my thoughts.

"You are thinking of running away, are you }
We will send a man with you who will not leave
you out of his sight for a minute."

And so it happened. I did not leave her
presence alone, but with a new hermit unknown
to me ; he was young and vigorous. We went
away together at night with post-horses.

When morning came we met a troika, and six
men were sitting in the sledge. " Good-day,"
called out my guide. " Whither are you going .? "
They stopped the sledge. "We are going to

THE OLD BELIEVER 153

your hermitages, we are bringing some who are
willing to join."

" Are they recruits ? "

" Recruits indeed ! Something better —
prisoners."
• " What do you mean .'' "

" Just what you see. It was such a laughable
trick ! You must know we seized these three
young men who came from the estate counting-
house. The agent did not trust them, and said,
* Put handcuffs on them.' But we made in-
quiries, and we thought that these were the right
sort of people to live with us at the hermitage
and pray for us. They would gladly pray ardently
for us rather than go to Siberia. We knew that
there were thirty men besides these, who were all
being sent together to Siberia. We thought we
would try our luck, even if Mother Earth
threatened to bury us, or we were carried away
by Mother Volga.

" We travelled to Ocher, and took three troikas
from a man there ; we were twelve men in the
sledges and, by way of precaution, we put sacks
with holes over our heads, and drove off to wait
by a litde wood. At last we saw them coming
towards us, not very fast, just trot, trot.

"We jumped into our sledges and dashed off
with bells wildly jingling. They shouted to us,

154 THE OLD BELIEVER

* Take care ; keep out of the way.' But we pre-
tended not to hear, and ran into them in a moment.
We upset their sledges, seized the three young
men, and flew back — and now, here we are. That
is the way to do such things."

We drove to the town, and stayed in the house
of a citizen in the suburbs. All kinds of people
came to us, but especially many recruits. This
citizen carried on the same kind of business that
I did in Steep Hills. He too had a posting-house,
and dealt in ikons and pamphlets. It seemed as
if I had returned to the ruins of my former self.
They began to urge me to take part with them in
their business of persuading people into the Old
Faith, but I regretted so deeply my former evil
life that I did not wish to weigh down my soul
with further sin. Then those cruel men shut me
up in the daytime in a cold storeroom, that my
voice of protest might not be heard. This was a
strange affair. Sir, and to this day 1 do not under-
stand why she (the Superior) sent me into the
town, for the business they had undertaken
required a zealous worker, and she could not
expect zeal from me. It may be that she made
this proposal simply in order to drive me away
from the hermitages. I began to turn over and
ponder in my mind where I could go. I was
ashamed to go home and take my place again in

THE OLD BELIEVER 155

the distillery ; in the desert I should be persecuted,
and in other places where our hermits go to save
their souls my life would be more bitter than
before, because 1 saw that the faith of the Old
Believers had become corrupt ; and I asked myself,
What will become of us ? Then, Sir, I made up
my mind. I chose the hour of dusk when every-
one went to market, and I strolled to the gate as
if I were merely intending to look out ; but that
was the last they saw of me. I went to the
nearest police station and gave myself up to the
police.

The Governor

»S7

THE GOVERNOR

THIS did not happen in our day, but there
was once a time when there were many
followers of Voltaire among the officials. Even
the highest authorities had followed this fashion,
and they were imitated by those under them.

Now at this time there lived a Governor who
believed very little of what others in their sim-
plicity believed, and above all he could not under-
stand why the post of a Governor had been created.

But it was just the contrary with the Marshal
of the nobility ' in that province ; he believed
everything, and he understood to the smallest
details the reasons for the institution of Governors.

^ " The nobility in every district meet once every three years and elect
a president for their district, who is called the marshal of the nobility
of the district.

"After this is done, all the nobility of all the districts in the province
unite to elect a president for the province. The election of the
marshal of the district must be confirmed by the Governor, that of the
marshal of the province is confirmed by the Emperor in person, and
by the Emperor alone. The theory was that the influence of the
marshals of the nobility would counterbalance the action of the
governor of the province, an official appointed by the Crown."
— Extract from The Mainsprings of Russia^ by Hon. Maurice Baring.

IS9

i6o THE GOVERNOR

And now, once upon a time, these two sat
together in the Governor's private room, and they
were discussing the matter.

Governor. — "Just between ourselves I must
confess," said the Governor, " I cannot understand
this matter. In my opinion, if all we Governors
were dismissed without any fuss, 1 don't think
anyone would notice our absence."

Marshal. — " Oh, your Excellency, how can you
say such a thing ! " exclaimed the astonished and
even frightened Marshal.

G. — Of course I am speaking confidentially.
But, if I am to speak my mind conscientiously,
I positively cannot understand the need of
Governors ! Now picture to yourself : people
are living peaceably, they are mindful of God, they
honour the Tsaritsa — and suddenly there comes
to them — a Governor ! ! Whence .'' How } For
what reason ? "

M. — " Well, of course the reason is, he
exercises power," said the Marshal persuasively.
" It would be impossible to get on without such
power. At the top is the Governor, in the middle
is the chief of the rural police, and below is the
common policeman. And then, on all sides,
supporting the Governor, are the nobility, the
Presidents, and the troops."

G. — " I know that, but what are they for ?

THE GOVERNOR i6i

You say a policeman. That's well. A policeman
who is to look after the peasant. I understand
that. But now picture to yourself : the peasant
is living quietly, he works in his fields, he ploughs,
he reaps, he begets children, he increases the
population, in a word, he carries out his simple
cycle of life. And suddenly there appears from
somewhere — a policeman 1 But what for? What
has happened ? "

M. — "But if nothing has happened, your
Excellency, something might happen ! "

G. — ** I don't believe it. If people are living
contentedly, what do they want with a policeman ?
If they supply their own wants in a peaceful
manner and are mindful of God and honour
the Tsaritsa, what but good could happen here .?
And what could a policeman in such a case do that
would add to the peasants' welfare ? If God gives
a good harvest — there will be a good harvest ; and
if God does not give a good harvest, well, they
will live it out somehow. But now here comes
the policeman. How can he add or take away a
single ear of corn from the sheaf? No, he flies
here and there, noisy and harassing, and just look,
the end of it all is that someone is put into prison.
This is the only result."

M. — " Well, but he must have done something
to have been put into prison."

i62 THE GOVERNOR

G. — "But you must agree that if this evil
genius had not appeared, everything would have
gone on its ordinary course. If he had not been
there nothing would have happened to anybody,
and certainly no one would have been put into
prison. But each time that he appears immedi-
ately something happens."

M. — " Oh, your Excellency, there are different
kinds of policemen. We, for example, have . . ."

G. — " No. Just listen to what I say. 1 don't
wish to discuss individuals or merely to parade
paradoxes before you. But I am speaking from
my own experience, and I also could give you
examples. For instance, I take a journey out of
the province, and what suddenly happens ? I have
hardly reached the barrier when at once through
all the province a healthy atmosphere prevails.
The Head of the police does not pounce on any-
one, the Quartermasters do not pursue anyone,
the Policemen — they don't get extra jealous.
Even the simple folk, who know nothing about
my existence, feel that something irritating has
disappeared out of their life, something which hurt
them everywhere. What does this denote ? It
means this, my dear Sir, that he who replaces me
for a time has not the same authority that I had,
and because there is this difference life is easier to
the governed.

THE GOVERNOR 163

" But now here am I back at my post, and then
again begins the clatter and the bustle, the rushing
to and fro, the coming and going. The man who
had worn a wideawake now puts on his three-
cornered hat, and he who had passed a month of
entire enjoyment now again is oppressed by care :
they all see before them endless disagreeable
confusion.

" But why say more about it ? You yourself
must in some measure have experienced this."

And in truth the Marshal had himself erred in
like manner. For it sometimes happened that no
sooner had the Governor passed through the gates
than the Marshal would call, " Hie, a tarantass at
once," and he was off to the country, and there he
stayed in his shirt-sleeves until the Government
recalled him to his duty. But first he paid his
respects to the Vice-governor as he passed his
office and arranged a meeting. " If anything
happens, Arephi Ivanovitch, you must send a
messenger to fetch me." " But what can happen ?
Be at your ease. Good luck to you." " Good-bye.
Give my compliments to Kapitolena Sergeievna.
Go ahead, driver ! " He was soon out of sight.

M. — "Of course it isn't right, but one just
wants to have a little holiday, and one takes
advantage of an opportunity."

G. — " That is just it. And why shouldn't you

i64 THE GOVERNOR

have a holiday ? Who hinders it ? It isn't a
crime. The Governor hinders it just because he
is the Governor. And now let us go on further.
Have you ever observed the remark made by
private persons about the Governor when they
wish to praise him ? They say : * He is a nice
Governor ; he lives quietly and disturbs no one.'
That is just it. The quality most prized in a
Governor is that he kindly does not nterfere.
And, indeed, can you honestly say that the inter-
ference of the Governor in the affairs of the
inhabitants is ever of real use } ^ He comes, for
one thing, a complete stranger. Secondly, he had
been instructed in some things, only not in the
right ones. He is ignorant of statistics ; he does
not understand ethnography ; as to manners and
customs, he knows nothing about them ; where
such a river is, and whither it flows and why, he
will perhaps know when he has driven up and
down and across the country five times. He

^ '• The work of the Zemstvo is hampered by the power of the officials
appointed by the Central Government, and the power of these officials
is not only used arbitrarily, but sometimes in a manner definitely
contrary to law. For the governor of the province, if he cannot
absolutely put a stop to the work of the Zemstvo, can hamper it in
every possible way, and put an effectual spoke in its wheels. It is
not only that the possibility of his doing so exists, but the fact
is being actually and not seldom experienced at the present time,
owing to the low administrative standard of the governors who are
appointed." — From The Mainsprings of Russia, by Hon. Maurice
Baring.

THE GOVERNOR 165

knows only so much about the railways, when and
where they go, as will serve him so as not to be
late for the trains when he should have to use
them. But why the line was made, how much
income it brought in during the past year, and
how much this year, and where the lines that
should feed it must be carried, is all a mystery to
him, and it is up in the clouds. He could learn
it all, the information is there, but it does not
interest him. He asks what is the good of it.
Again with regard to the profits in commerce, in
trades, in business : in one district they weave mats,
in another they forge scythes and sickles — but the
reason of all this, why, wherefore ? Does he
know where the crayfish winter ? Does he know
which side his bread is buttered ? "

M. — " Your Excellency," exclaimed the
Marshal, interrupting the Governor, " I, though I
am a native of this place, even I know nothing
about these things ! "

G. — " You — oh, that is quite another matter.
You are the Marshal. They give you beef for
dinner, but it is not necessary that you should
know where it comes from ; it is enough if you
find it good to eat. But I, the Governor, ought
to be well informed ; for instance, they may
suddenly inquire in what state the market garden-
ing is here."

i66 THE GOVERNOR

M. — " Well, yes, at the present time even an
inquiry like this is possible."

G. — " Now, my dear Sir, they want that every
copeck should be reckoned up ; everything that
can be taxed should be taxed. This is how it stands
now ; well, in order to avoid any further worry
or explanation, the answer is : * Yes, things might
be run better.' "

M. — "Ah, yes, now we have such good
cabbages. I only knew about them lately ; they
served us some the other day, and I thought they
came from Algeria, but they were from Pozdeivka,
a village in this province."

G. — " I can quite believe that, for I know
they grow turnips and carrots there, indeed all
kinds of vegetables. But it is always like that
with us. We travel to drink the waters
of Ems and Marienbad, while at Pozdeivka
we have mineral waters, and better, for they
don't disturb the stomach as the Marienbad
waters do.

" But now tell me who introduced the cultiva-
tion of cabbages into Pozdeivka ? Was it, per-
chance, the Governor ? Good heavens, I wish it
had been ! No, it was a peasant. It happened,
once upon a time, that a native of Pozdeivka went
to Rostov and observed that the peasants there
grew cabbages ; when he returned home he planted

THE GOVERNOR 167

cabbages in his garden, and his neighbours saw
this and followed his example."
The Marshal felt obliged to agree.
M. — " It was so, your Excellency."
G. — "And all our industries have been
developed thus in different places. Here a trade
flourishes, while close by it does not exist. Just
imagine, quite near to Pozdeivka is the village of
Rosvalika, — well, you never see a market-garden
there ; almost every man is a wool-carder. In
summer the peasants till the land, as is customary,
but in winter they scatter themselves here and
there to card wool. In this case also it was not
the Governor but the simple peasant, Abramko,
who visited the province of Kalazinski, and
brought home thence something useful. You
must remember also that it was the population
who introduced all these things — cabbages,
cucumbers, wool-carding, shoe-making, mat-
weaving. And, pray, who was it who built the
bell tower at Rasteraevka ? Was it the Governor ?
Oh no ; it was the merchant, Polycarp Arkchev,
who built it ; the Governor only came to the feast
of consecration, and ate pie."
M— " That is true."

G. — " And who first started the trade of those
excellent smoked herrings .'' "

M. — " It is true, it was not the Governor."

i68 THE GOVERNOR

G. — " And the salmon weir ? And the cran-
berry cheese ? Was it the Governor — eh ? "

M. — " Excuse me, your Excellency, but there
are surely other matters to consider besides vege-
table-growing and jam-making."

G. — " Well, for instance ? "

M. — " There are the taxes — how to collect them,
how to exact them."

G. — " But what are the taxes ? Have you
thought of that ? "

M. — " Taxes are, so to say, to bring evidences
of subjection ..."

The Marshal hesitated, got involved, and was
silent.

G. — " Pray, what is this evidence ? Do you
think this * evidence ' is agreeable ? Fancy —
coming to impose taxes ! You can't call that
pleasant for the inhabitants. Do you ? To pro-
mote the cultivation of cucumbers would be
sensible, or likewise the curing of hams, — but to
enforce taxation ! And how, let me ask, am 1 to
accomplish this ? If, for example, the Pozdeivka
cabbages don't grow well, what course am I to
take ? Shall I send clerks round with a circular
notice ? — the clerks will fill the province with loud
cries ; but what further will happen ? I insist
everywhere without knowing why ; the clerk
makes an uproar — also without knowing why.

THE GOVERNOR 169

Meanwhile, what has happened ? Where are the
Government taxes hidden ? Was it a bad harvest
which has impoverished the peasant, or drunken-
ness has brought misery, or the usurer has been a
blood-sucker, or the peasant himself has become
insubordinate, and took it into his head to bury
his savings ? How many different ways there
are to lose the taxes ! And we bustle about and
make a great fuss, and don't like to be baffled,
and all this is for the sake of taxation."

M. — " Exactly so ; the Government make a
noise and a fuss and look even under the shirt
for money — and what is the result ? There is no
answer."

The Marshal spoke in a melancholy voice.
Both speakers became thoughtful. But the
Marshal recovered first. He seemed not yet to
despair, and had questions ready : What about
your upholding public morality, education, science,
and art ? But it seemed that the Governor had
guessed his thoughts, and looked so severely at
his visitor that he could only mutter the words :
" What about the food supply ? " Instead of
giving an answer, the Governor reproachfully
asked, " Are you not ashamed ? "

The Marshal reddened. He remembered that,
early in the year, being the President of the
Council, he had travelled all over the district. . . .

I70 THE GOVERNOR

He had never troubled himself about such things
as public morality or education, or science or art
or food supply. He remembered, and was
ashamed. " Is it possible ? " he exclaimed.
Then, suddenly, he bethought himself, and said :

M. — " Here is what you may aim at — the bind-
ing together of society."

G._« What society ? "

M. — " The society of the province."

G. — "So you think I might employ myself in
binding society together ? "

M. — " You, your Excellency, and your wife,
Lukeria Ivanovna."

G. — " My wife Ivanovna might, but I — no,
that is no object to me. Leave me alone there.
And, pray, whom would it profit, even here, this
* binding of society ' ? "

The speakers were both at last silent, and
perhaps this was fortunate, or something un-
pleasant might have happened. Luckily an
interruption occurred by the entry of the chief
clerk of the Treasury. It was the thirtieth day of
the month, and it is on that date, as you know,
that the provincial accounts are made up, and the
clerks bring their books, and salaries are paid, and
receipts are signed.

The Governor took a bundle of notes from the
Treasury clerk, and, without hastening to count

THE GOVERNOR 171

them, he put the notes on the table, and signed a
receipt.

" Well, what is that ? " asked the Marshal
jokingly, as he pointed to the bundle of notes.
" How are we to understand that ? "

"Do you wish me to explain thatV said the
Governor, as if waking from a dream.

M. — " Yes ; what is that ? "

G. — " Ah, that . . . well, this . . . h'm, this
is remuneration."

^AY USE

PRINTED BY

MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITEU

EDINBURGH

"SSSlQ

.jj'.,yE[jKELEY LIBRARIES

CDM777^S3^