The struggle against the supervision and interference of the state

has gone with some sects to the length of refusing submission to

obligations imposed by every civilized country. The _Stranniki_

(wanderers) in particular boast of keeping up a ceaseless struggle

with the civil authority, and make rebellion a moral principle and a

religious duty. From condemning the state as the protector and

helper of the Church, they have come to cursing it for its own

tendencies and claims. Thus, the singular spectacle is presented of

the more extreme schismatics looking upon their native government

with the same feelings as were entertained by some of the Christians

of the first three centuries toward the pagan empire of Rome. To

these fanatics the government of the orthodox czars came to be the

reign of Satan and the dominion of Antichrist. Nor was this an empty

metaphor: it was a clear, determined conviction, and it still exerts

a strong religious and political influence upon the schism. The

Raskolniks could see but one interpretation of the overturning of

public and private order under Peter the Great, and for what they

regarded as the triumph of darkness: to them it was the coming end

of the world and the advent of Antichrist. The old customs, it

seemed, must carry with them in their fall the Church, society and

all mankind. For centuries the extremity of agony or of wonder has

wrung this cry from Christendom. After political revolutions and

disastrous wars, in the most enlightened countries of Europe, in

France and elsewhere, religious persons, in the panic of calamity,

have been seen to take refuge in this last solution for the woes of

Church or of State, and proclaim with the Raskolniks that the time

was at hand. But what must have been the state of mind in Old Russia

when the stunning blows of Peter the Great seemed to be dashing

everything to pieces? Even at the period of the liturgic reform the

fanatics had cried that the patriarch's fall was the harbinger of

the world's end. The days of man, they said, are numbered; the

Apocalyptic woes are at hand; Antichrist draws nigh. With the

accession of Peter the Great, while he was reducing everything to

confusion before their bewildered eyes, and trampling under foot the

old customs, along with morality itself at times, the Raskolniks

were at no loss to recognize in him the coming Antichrist. Nations

are not always clear-sighted: the creator of modern Russia was

regarded by a considerable portion of his subjects as an envoy or

representative of hell; and his empire has never ceased to hold the

unexampled position of a government cursed by a part of its own

people as the dominion of Antichrist.

This Satanic apotheosis derived no little support from some of the

reformer's idiosyncrasies. He was to his subjects what a rejected

claimant of the Messianic office may have been to the Jews--a stone

of stumbling and a rock of offence to the people whom he came to

bring to a new birth. His civil and ecclesiastical reforms, with the

seeming decapitation of the Church by the abrogation of the

patriarchate, were to the mass of the people an enigma only one

shade less disreputable than the demeanor of himself and his

courtiers. The repudiation of his legitimate wife, Eudoxia, and his

adulterous connection with a foreign concubine, the death

(perhaps by his own hand) of his son Alexis, even the morbid state

of his health and the nervous twitching of his face, and his

astonishing triumphs after equally incredible disasters, contributed

to invest the sombre and gigantic physiognomy of the reformer with a

kind of diabolic halo. The vices of Ivan the Terrible had been as

monstrous, but even in the thick of his crimes he was a true

Russian, as superstitious a devotee as the meanest of his subjects.

But the astonishment and bewilderment inspired by Peter the Great

were only deepened by the reverence felt by the old Russian for the

person of his sovereign. Men could not help doubting whether such a

man, who had cast aside his national and scriptural title for the

foreign and heathen style of emperor, could be the true, the "white"

czar. The story of the usurpers and the false Dmitri had not faded

from the popular memory; and thus there grew up amidst the

unlettered and bewildered Russian people a string of legends in

which were harmonized their belief in the reign of Antichrist and

the popular respect for the czar. In this way the Raskolniks have

created a fantastic history which has been handed down to our own

days, according to one version of which, as has been said, Peter the

Great is the impious bastard of the patriarch Nikon (and from such a

parentage only a devil's offspring could be looked for); while

another asserts that Peter Alexovitch was a pious prince, like his

forefathers, but that he had perished at sea, and in his stead had

been substituted a Jew of the race of Danof, or Satan. On gaining

possession of the throne, continues the legend, the false czar

immured the czarina in a convent, slew the czarovitch, espoused a

German adventuress and filled Russia with foreigners. Such is the

Old Believers' explanation of the portentous phenomenon of a Russian

czar engaged in destroying the institutions of Holy Russia. In the

midst of the nineteenth century the incidents of Peter's career,

whether insignificant or important--his vices not less than his

glory--are used as proofs of his infernal mission. The remarkable

victories with which he recovered from terrible disasters were

miracles wrought by the help of the devil and the Freemasons. The

extension of his power beyond that of all previous Russian monarchs

and of all the ancient _bogatyrs_ was effected by the determination

of Satan that his offspring should receive divine honors. The same

interpretation is applied to the simplest events. Thus, Peter's

celebration with allegorical figures and festivals of the beginning

of the year on the first of January was due to his desire to restore

the worship of false deities and "the old Roman idol Janus." These

silly fables, and this incapacity of understanding how a pagan name

or emblem can be used without falling back into paganism, betray one

of the peculiar features of the Raskol--namely, the realistic

nature, of its symbolism, and its matter-of-fact determination to

fill images, allegories and words with occult meaning.

When once the presence of Antichrist was clearly made out, there was

nothing to hinder the application to Russia of the gloomy

descriptions of the prophets. Their disposition to hunt out

mysterious enigmas in names and numbers made it easy for the

fanatics to find the whole Apocalypse in modern Russia; and the

number of the Beast was sought in the names of Peter and of his

successors. Each letter of the Slavonic alphabet, as of the Greek,

has a numerical value, and the problem is thus to add up the total

of the letters of a name, and so obtain the Apocalyptic number 666

(Rev. xiii. 18). By inserting, reduplicating or omitting certain

letters, and not insisting too strongly on an exact result, the

sectaries have discovered the infernal number in the names of most

of the Russian sovereigns from Peter the Great to Nicholas. Such

alterations are defended on the ground that to throw investigators

off the scent the Beast changes the number which is meant to

designate him, so that he should be recognized under the number 662

or 664 as clearly as under 666. Turning from the particular

sovereign to the imperial title, the Raskolniks have unearthed the

number of the Beast in the letters composing it. Singularly

enough, it happens that all which is needed to obtain the

Apocalyptic number from the word _imperator_ is the omission of the

second letter; whence they say that Antichrist hides his accursed

name behind the letter M. By an equally odd and embarrassing

coincidence the Council of Moscow--which, after deposing Nikon,

definitively excommunicated the schismatics--met in 1666. Here,

plainly enough was the fatal number, and when the reform of the

calendar attracted the attention of the Old Believers to the point,

they considered it a weapon thrust into their hands by their

opponents. The year in question, accordingly, was fixed as the date

of Satan's accession. But not content with turning the line of

monarchs into so many emissaries of hell, some of these champions of

Old Russia have managed, by the help of an anagram, to identify

their native country with the mysterious land which is the object of

so many prophetic curses. In the _Asshur_ of the Bible they find

_Russia_, and apply to it the anathemas launched by the prophets

against Nineveh and Babylon.

The infernal sign, however, was visible to the Raskolniks not only

in the title and the names of their rulers, but in all their

innovations as well, and in all that they imported from abroad.

Since Russia is under the dominion of the "devil, the demon's son,"

the truly faithful are bound to reject all that has been introduced

during "the years of Satan." Encouraged by the notion of Antichrist,

the Raskol's opposition against the modern reform of government

spread until it embraces in its hostility everything brought from

the West. In no other of its developments do we see more distinctly

the characteristic features of the schism, its narrow formalism and

its coarse allegorizing, its blind worship of the past and its

national exclusiveness. It presented the novel spectacle of a group

of popular sects holding in abomination every object of foreign

commerce, everything new--material articles of consumption not less

than the discoveries of science. While the products of the East and

West Indies were pouring into the rest of Europe, the Old Believer

rigorously excluded them. He frowned upon the use of tobacco, of

tea, of coffee and of sugar, and by a curious transfer of his

respect for antiquity to his meat and drink, he stormed against

almost all colonial produce as heretical and diabolical. All that

had come in since Nikon and Peter was put under the ban by the

champions of the ancient liturgy. One Raskolnik forbade traveling on

turnpikes, because they were an invention of Antichrist. More

recently, another showed that the potato was the forbidden fruit

which caused the fall of our first mother. On every side the Old

Believer raised about him a wall of scruples and prejudices,

entrenching himself behind his stagnation and ignorance, and

anathematizing all civilization in a breath. To meet Peter's edicts

enjoining a new costume or alphabet or calendar, the Raskol put

forth a second decalogue: "Thou shalt not shave; Thou shalt not

smoke; Thou shalt use no sugar," etc. In the North, where they are

stricter and more numerous, many Raskolniks still have conscientious

scruples about using tobacco and putting sugar in their tea. The

scriptural arguments urged for this opposition are generally marked

by the coarsest realism. The Old Believer who will not smoke adduces

the passage, "There is nothing from without a man that entering into

him can defile him; but the things which come out of him, those are

they that defile the man." The rebuker of the use of sugar urges

that blood is used in its manufacture; whereas Scripture forbids the

eating of the blood of animals--a prohibition, by the way, which

seems to have been maintained longer in Russia than in any other

Christian country. The true ground of the opposition to this or that

article or habit is to be sought not in these theological arguments,

but in its novelty and late introduction. As regards his way of life

and his faith, his table and his devotions, he is minded to tread in

his forefathers' footsteps. A Raskolnik and a member of the orthodox

Church were drinking together, when the latter took a cigar. "Out on

the infernal poison!" cried the Raskolnik.--"What do you, think of brandy?"

asked his companion. "Oh! Wine" (_vino_, the Russian name for

brandy)--"wine was Noah's favorite drink."--"Very good!" said the

other: "now prove to me that Noah was not a smoker." These folk are

still in the patriarchal stage, and an appeal to antiquity is an end

of controversy, "Jeer not at the old," says one of their proverbs,

"for the old man knows old things and teaches justice."

The parties to any political or religious contest need a

standard--some outward sign which appeals to the eye and the

intelligence of all. The most serious of the political questions

that convulse France to-day are symbolized and summed up in the

color of a flag; and thus in the Russian conflict between popular

obstinacy and the modern propagandism the rallying-sign of the Old

Believers, and the emblem of the champions of nationality and

conservatism, was the beard. The national chin was the centre of a

conflict less puerile than might be fancied. Long before Peter the

Great imitators of Western ways had begun to shave, thus setting at

defiance the Oriental custom which everywhere prevailed in Russia.

Under Peter's father one of the Raskol leaders, the protopope

Avvakum, denounced "these bold-faced" men--bold-faced meaning

shaven. The prohibition of Leviticus (xxix. 27; xxi. 5) was first

adduced, in conformity with the love for alleging religious

scruples. Recourse was next had to the ancient missals and the

decrees of the _Stoglaf_, a sort of ecclesiastical code attributed

to a national council. The prohibition of the razor was at first

confined to the clergy, but it spread by little and little to all

the faithful of the orthodox Church. Up to the time of Nikon the

patriarchs had laid hardly less stress on forms and on the exclusion

of foreign ways than their future opponents of the Raskol, and had

condemned shaving as "an heretical practice which disfigures the

image of God, and makes men look like dogs and cats." This is the

main theological argument of the foes of the barber, and their

current interpretation of the verse of Genesis, "God created man in

His own image," "The image of God is the beard," writes a Raskolnik

about 1830, "and His likeness is the moustache." "Look at the old

images of Christ and the saints," urge the Old Believers: "all of

them wear their beards." And so cogent is the argument that the

orthodox theologians are fain to hunt up the scanty list of

beardless saints to be found in Byzantine iconography. Whatever the

force of the arguments drawn from divinity, at bottom the opposition

was only the simple folks' one way of seeing things--the same

clinging to forms, the same compound of symbolism and realism. The

living work of God is to them as sacred as the text of the divine

word. Every word and letter of the sacred office must have its

separate significance; and they cannot admit that the hair with

which the Almighty has covered a man's face is without a meaning. It

is to them the distinctive mark of the male countenance; to remove

it is to change, and therefore to disfigure, the divine handiwork:

it is, in short, hardly less than mutilation.[008]

The beard, like the single repetition of the Hallelujah and the

cross with eight branches, has had its martyrs. No later than last

year (1874), on the Gulf of Finland a peasant who had been drafted

for the navy obstinately refused to be shaved, and rather than

betray his religion underwent a sentence of several years for

insubordination. Scruples of this sort have led the government to

grant permission to wear the beard in the case of certain corps (for

instance, the Cossacks of the Ural) which are mainly composed of Old

Believers. Peter the Great used every means to overcome these

popular prejudices, but the beard was too much for the reformer.

Finding himself unable to shave all the recusants by force, he

bethought him of laying a tax on the wearers of long beards, but in

vain. He was similarly foiled in his attempt to lay a double tax on

the schismatic upholders of the ancient ways. He forbade them to live

in the towns; he deprived them of civil rights; he forced them to

wear a bit of red cloth on the shoulder as a distinctive badge; but

these measures only marked them out as the bravest champions of

national traditions, and increased the respect everywhere rendered

them.

Such an attitude toward civilization leaves no room for mistake as

to the social and political character of the schism. It is a popular

protest against the irruption of foreign customs. It is a reaction

against the reforms of Peter the Great, somewhat as Ultramontanism

is a reaction against the spirit of the French Revolution. The

Staroveres are the champions of ancient customs in the civil sphere

as well as in the religious. The Old Believer is emphatically the

old-fashioned Russian--the Slavophilist of the lower classes--and

hence extreme to the point of absurdity. His revolt against

authority has more resemblance to that of La Vendée than to that of

the Jacobins. Like a conscript obstinately refusing to join his

regiment, he holds back from all part and lot in the changes of

modern Russia; and in this light the schism is the feature which

above all others assimilates Russia to the East.

And just as the East has bound itself fast to externals, so the

Raskolnik praises his fossilism to the skies, and would gladly run

the risk of petrifying society in its inherited shape. With him, as

with the child or the Oriental, wisdom and science belong to the

infancy of civilization, and the maxims of antiquity leave nothing

to be learnt. Under both aspects the Old Believer is reactionary,

opposed to the very principle of progress--the hero of routine and a

martyr to prejudice. His gaze turns naturally to the past, and if

reform ever enters his mind, he dreams of a return to the good old

times of yore. Even his struggle against authority is based on the

old idea of sovereignty: his political motto, as well as that of

most of the people, is, "No emperor, but a czar!" The czar was one

day pointed out to a Raskolnik conscript. "That is no czar," he

said: "he wears a moustache, a uniform and a sword, like all the

rest of the officers. He is nothing but a general." These

worshipers of the past, with their devotion to ceremonial, think of

the czar only as a long-bearded man in a flowing robe, such as they

see in the ancient images. The Old Believers are the exaggerated

representatives of the spirit of stagnation which everywhere

confronts the Russian government. Nothing gives a clearer conception

of the obstacles still in the way of reforms which elsewhere would

be matters of course (as, for instance, the substitution of the

Gregorian for the Julian calendar) than the resistance which other

measures have already encountered.

In principle the Raskol is conservative, not to say reactionary, but

its attitude toward the Church and the State, and the habits

engendered by two centuries of opposition and persecution, give it a

revolutionary, or even an anarchical, character. A secret tie unites

all the branches of public authority, and the rejection of one leads

to the rejection of another. As has been said by an eminent

historian of Russia, the refusal to submit to a single form of

authority brings into activity a disposition to rid one's self of

all social and moral ties. The Hussite revolt against Rome speedily

results in the Taborite revolt against society: Luther calls the

Anabaptists into being. The same phenomenon is repeated in Russia,

in England and in Scotland. Once carried away by the spirit of

revolt, an irresistible tendency sweeps the schism on in the

direction of civil liberty; and both in theory and in practice some

of these sects have reached the most unbridled license. Hence, by

one of those contrasts which are so common in Russia, the Raskol is

judged in two utterly different ways, each of which is partly

correct. The reactionary movement in its inception had the

appearance of an assertion of the rights of individual liberty and

national life, as opposed to the autocratic government; and such it

was, after a fashion--the fashion of refractory conscripts or of

smugglers, not to say of brigands--the fashion, in short, in which

all abuses and prejudices are defended. What it claimed

was liberty, indeed, but liberty as the commonalty understand

it--liberty to retain its customs, its superstitions and its

ignorance--liberty to go and come as it chose. But in all this there

was no notion of political freedom. With all his hatred of foreign

importations, the Old Believer is no enemy to reform in the sense of

national tradition or of furthering the interests of the lower

classes, the artisan and the peasant. Like all popular movements,

the Raskol is essentially democratic, and in some of its sects

socialistic and communistic.

Two things which have especially tended to give the Raskol a

democratic--or even liberal--complexion are serfdom and the

bureaucratic despotism of the country. It was no mere coincidence

which caused the Raskol to break out about half a century after

serfdom was established. Much of its popularity and life was due to

the enslavement of the mass of the people. The slave was proud of

having a different faith from his master; and slavery is always a

propitious soil for the growth of sects. This nation of serfs dimly

felt the Raskol to be an assertion of religious liberty and

self-respect against master, Church and government; and these were

symbolized by the beard and the peculiar sign of the cross. The

Raskol offered to all the oppressed a moral, and often a material,

refuge, an asylum for all enemies of the master and the law, and a

shelter for the fugitive serf, for the deserter, for public debtors

and outlaws of every description. Some sects (as the Wanderers, for

example) are specially organized for such purposes. In these

respects the Raskol was unconsciously one form of the opposition to

serfdom and official despotism; and hence the Old Believers are most

numerous among the most refractory elements of Russia--in the North

among the free peasants (the old colonists of Novgorod), and in the

South among the independent Cossacks of the steppes. Religious and

political opposition have joined hands, and to this combination is

due the strength of the great popular movements of the seventeenth

and eighteenth centuries, such as the Streltsy insurrections at the

time of the revolt of Pougatchef, whose excesses curiously recall

the wars of the Peasants and Anabaptists in the West before the

abolition of serfdom. In the great Russian Jacquerie, and in all the

seditions which held out the hope of emancipation, the first place

was taken by the Old Believers and the Cossacks, most of whom held

the same faith. These two forms of national resistance are naturally

akin. They equally personify the character and the prejudices of the

old Russian. Their main point is their character of protests, so

that an Old Believer may be described as a Cossack in religion,

transporting into that domain the instincts peculiar to the wild

horsemen of the Don. But both Cossack and Starovere have found

themselves forced to give way before the march of civilization, and

the different branches into which the Raskol has split have reached

very divergent conclusions both as to politics and religion.

III.--INTERNAL DIVISIONS.

Nothing is more logical than religious creeds--nothing more rigorously

consequent in its deductions than the theological mind. Religious

thought has an unimpeded course in the twilight of mystery where it

takes its airy flight, and no material facts avail to check it or divert

it from the chosen path. The innate logic of the Russian mind adds force

to the kindred theological quality in its influence upon the Raskol, for

the inhabitant of Greater Russia is distinguished for his logical

consecutiveness and his acceptance of the extremest consequences of a

position. This is partly the cause of the multiplicity and growth of the

strange doctrines prevalent among them; and while this disposition

frequently lands the schism in the most grotesque of absurdities, it

gives a remarkable unity and regularity to even its apparent

divergencies and variations. Irregularity and the play of chance have as

little real place in this spiritual phenomenon as in one belonging to

the region of physics; and a knowledge of the _terminus a quo_

would have suggested its complications as well as the point ultimately

reached. One is now and then tempted to look upon the various sects as

utterly chaotic, but it is not difficult to trace the general course of

their natural evolution.

A less robust faith might easily have been cast down by the obstacle

which confronted the schism at the outset. The revolt aimed at

maintaining the ritual, yet the lack of priests to officiate

necessitated its abandonment. The defenders of the old faith found

themselves, at the first step, deprived of the means of practicing its

rites. A single bishop, Paul of Kolomna, had held out for the ancient

books at the time of Nikon's reform, but he had been imprisoned, and

perhaps put to death: at all events, he died without consecrating a

bishop, and the Raskol was consequently left without an episcopate or a

priesthood. Now, Oriental orthodoxy is not simply doctrinal in its

character, but, as M. A. Réville has remarked of Catholicism, "is, above

all, a method of establishing communication between man and God by the

medium of an organized priesthood, whose successive members transmit

uninterruptedly the divine powers which they hold from Christ;" and the

death of Paul of Kolomna snapped the chain uniting the Old Believers

with Christ, for ever depriving the schism of the powers conferred by

Christ on the apostles and essential to the continuance of the

priesthood and the Church.

The Raskol, so to speak, was stillborn. Unless they retraced their

steps, there were but two paths to take--either to admit priests

consecrated by a Church they had condemned, or to dispense with the

clergy, who alone could celebrate the rites in defence of which they had

revolted. There was little to choose between the two self-contradictory

courses, and each had its partisans. This first check split the schism

into two groups, whose hostility has not been allayed by the lapse of

two centuries. According to some, as Christianity cannot exist without a

priesthood, its complicity with Nikon's heresy has not deprived the

Russian Church of apostolic powers--of the _cheirotonia_, or right

to consecrate bishops and priests by the laying on of hands; and as

their ordination is valid, the schismatics have only to bring back

priests of the official Church to the observance of the ancient ritual.

To this it is answered that by abandoning the ancient books and

anathematizing the ancient traditions the sect of Nikon has lost all

claim to the apostolical succession, so that the established clergy

constitute no longer a Church, but the synagogue of Satan. All communion

with these emissaries of hell is a sin, and ordination by the apostate

bishops a defilement. The Oriental patriarchs have shared the heresy of

the Russian prelates by agreeing to their anathemas against the ancient

rites, and orthodoxy has carried with it in its fall the episcopate,

apostolical succession and the lawful priesthood.

Thus, in the first generation the Raskol fell into two sections--the

_Popovtsy_, who adhere to the priests, and the _Bezpopovtsy_,

who do not. To recruit their clergy the Popovtsy were fain to have

recourse to deserters from the established Church, and were thus

dependent upon it; though we shall see that of late they have succeeded

in getting an independent episcopate along with a complete

ecclesiastical hierarchy. By maintaining a priesthood, however scanty

and ignorant, the Popovtsy preserve the sacraments and the orthodox

Christian system; and, despite the inconsistency of admitting the

priests of a Church that they condemn, they have paused at the first

step of schism and maintain the original position. It is almost

impossible, on the other hand, for the Bezpopovtsy to stop on the slope

down which their logic inexorably drags them. Involved in the

abandonment of the priesthood is that of orthodoxy, or at least of the

orthodox ritual, and the sacrament of orders carries with it the

sacraments which none but the priest can administer. Of the seven

traditional channels of divine grace, baptism alone remains open: the

other six are dried up for ever. Thus, the first step of the Bezpopovtsy

brings them to the destruction of the first principle of Christian

worship. The more rigid of them do not shrink from this most glaring of

contradictions. To save the entire ritual they have sacrificed its most

essential parts. For the double Hallelujah and the sign of the cross

with two fingers instead of three they have foregone the whole Christian

life and the one visible link between man and God, which is to be found

only in the sacraments. The abolition of the sacred ministry and divine

service is their protest against the trifling changes introduced into

their devotional customs by the established Church. In barring the

entrance to Nikon's so-called innovations they have done away with the

priesthood, and so with every dyke against sectarian whimsies or the

very novelties against which they blindly contend.

In the melancholy upshot of the Bezpopovtsy movement there was nothing

to satisfy the fondness for ceremonial and tradition to which the schism

owed its birth; and it was hard to fill the gap left by the loss of

priesthood and sacraments. The old orthodox law had become impossible to

carry out, yet it had not been abrogated. Though perfectly united as to

rejecting the priesthood, they accordingly fell into new fragments,

marked now by hesitations and compromises, and now by grotesque fancies

or by cruel doctrines. For the timid and for those who clung to public

worship it was impossible to believe in Christian life and salvation

without the divinely-appointed means; and in the perplexed effort to

supply the loss of the sacraments their piety resorted to all manner of

ingenious make-believes. Priestly absolution being out of the question,

confession is sometimes made to the "elder" or to a woman, and the

promise of pardon has to do duty for the direct absolution. As the

Eucharist cannot be consecrated, famishing souls resort to types or

memorials of the holy sacrament; and for this _quasi_ communion

rites have been devised which are sometimes pleasing, sometimes bloody

and horrible. One of these is the distribution of raisins by a young

girl; while one sect (which is, however, but indirectly connected with

the Raskol) use the breast of a young maiden instead of the element of

bread. To one of the Bezpopovtsy sects the name of "gapers" is given,

because they are accustomed to keep their mouths open during the

Maundy-Thursday service, that the angels, God's only remaining

ministers, may give them drink from an invisible chalice, since, as they

hold, Christ cannot have wholly deprived the faithful of the flesh and

blood offered upon the cross.

Such are the expedients of the more gentle or enthusiastic to escape

from the religious vacuum into which schism has precipitated them. Quite

different is the course of the more strict and dauntless theologians;

and the ascendency of logic over pious feeling carries with these the

majority of the Bezpopovtsy. No consequence is too revolting for them,

and no hesitating subterfuge worthy of a thought. The priesthood, they

hold, is extinct, leaving only the sacrament of baptism, which the laity

may administer. Make-believes are of no avail. The chain that linked

Heaven with earth is snapped, and can be reunited only by miracle.

Meanwhile, the faithful are like men shipwrecked on a desert island

without a priest among them. Eucharist, penitence, chrism, and, more

than all, marriage, are alike impossible. The priest alone can pronounce

the nuptial benediction; and where there is no priest there can be no

marriage. Such is the ultimate consequence of the schism--the rock on

which the Bezpopovtsy split. With marriage the family goes, society with

the family, and such teachings can never be in harmony with the

feelings, with society or with morality. Marriage is their

stumbling-block and the principal matter on which their discussions and

divisions turn, giving rise to the wildest aberrations and strangest

compromises. The more practical retain marriage as a social

conventionality, while the more logical make celibacy universally

binding, thereby fostering anything but asceticism. Among the Russian

sectaries the familiar combination is repeated of sensuality and

mysticism. Free-love has been both preached and practiced among them;

and among the lower classes the grossest heresies of ancient Gnosticism

have mingled with the wildest and most morbid of modern social theories.

Most of their theological writers, while avoiding such extremes, urge

the most extraordinary maxims in connection with their forbiddance of

marriage, such as that immorality, being but a passing weakness, is less

criminal than marriage, which is interdicted by the faith.... To such a

point as this have the conscientious champions of old ceremonial been

brought. They have carried with them a few shreds of ancient ritual, and

they have not only abandoned Christian and natural morality, but in

their struggle with modern government and civilization deny the

principle which upholds all society.

Even fanatics must stand affrighted before conclusions like these, and

the Bezpopovtsy feel the need of some justification for their subversal

of the _cultus_ and the morality of Christianity. They find but one

solution for the awful enigma presented by Christ's abandonment of the

Church and mankind, by the extinction of appointed sacraments and means

of grace, and by the impious rupture of the tie between man and God. The

downfall of Church and priesthood and the triumph of falsehood and wrong

were foretold by the prophets. This is the time predicted in Holy Writ,

when the very elect shall be wellnigh seduced, and when God shall seem

to give up His own into the hand of the Adversary. The priestless Church

is the Church in the state of widowhood foretold by Daniel in the last

days. Thus, the Raskol was brought by the new path of theology to that

belief in the approaching end of the world and the reign of Antichrist

to which we have already seen it led by its aversion to ecclesiastical

and civil reforms. That the reign of Antichrist is begun is the

fundamental doctrine of the Raskol, and particularly of the

Bezpopovstchin. In the light of this new dogma all the contradictions of

the latter are explained and justified. This is the reason for the

extinction of the priesthood, of marriage and of the family.

Wherefore--many ask--wherefore continue the race when the archangel's

trump is about to proclaim the end of humanity?

The end of the world was announced to be nigh even before Peter the

Great; and they who proclaimed it are not yet weary of awaiting it. Like

Christians in the West in other periods, they are not undeceived by the

delay of the destined time, and are at no loss to explain it. Many

consider the reign of Antichrist to be a period or era which may last

for centuries, as one of the three great epochs in religious history,

and as having, like those of the old and the new dispensations, a law of

its own which abrogates what went before. All of the Raskolniks, or even

of the Bezpopovtsy, however, do not agree as to Antichrist; for while

his reign is generally admitted, it seems to be very differently

understood. Those who retain the priesthood and the more moderate of

their opponents hold his reign to be spiritual and invisible, and

government and established Church to be the unconscious or unwilling

tools of Satan; while the extremists of the Bezpopovstchin maintain that

Antichrist reigns materially and palpably. He it is, as we have seen,

who occupies the throne of the czars since Peter the Great, and his

Sanhedrim that usurps the name of the holy synod. Trivial as the

difference is, theologically speaking, its political consequences are

considerable; for the state may arrive at some understanding with sects

that only regard it as blind and misled, while even a truce is out of

the question with those which look upon it as the incarnate enemy of

souls.

Very singular are the vagaries to which the ignorant peasants are

naturally led by this belief. Since the world is in subjection to

"Satan, the son of Beelzebub," all contact with it was defiling, and

submission to its laws nothing short of a denial of the faith. To escape

the hellish contagion the best means was isolation or rigid withdrawal

into inaccessible retreats or desert places. In their spiritual

confusion and terror some of the sectaries saw no refuge but death, and

murder and suicide were systematically resorted to for the purpose of

shortening the time of probation and hastening their departure from the

accursed world. With some fanatics, called "child-slayers"

(_dietoubütsy_), it was held a duty to expedite the entrance to

heaven of newborn children, and thus to save them infernal anguish.

Others, called "stranglers" or "butchers" (_duchelstchiki,

tiukalstchiki_), think they render a valuable service to their

relatives and friends by anticipating a natural death, in hastening the

end of those who are seriously ill. Taking with a savage literalness the

text, "The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it

by force" (Matt. xi. 12), they hold that none can enter into the kingdom

of heaven but those who die a violent death. One of the most numerous

and powerful bodies in the first century of the Raskol, the

_Philipovtsy_, or "burners," like the Indian fakeers, preached

redemption by suicide, and salvation by the baptism of fire, holding

that the flames alone could purify men from the defilements of a world

which had fallen under the rule of Satan. In Siberia and the

neighborhood of the Ural these sectaries have been known to burn

themselves in hundreds on enormous piles built for the purpose, or by

families in their hovels, to the sound of hymns and chants. Such acts

have been known even during the present century.

One insanity begets another, and belief in the presence of Antichrist

leads to belief in the approaching restoration of the earth, the second

advent of Christ and the millennium, which has infected the more extreme

sects of the Bezpopovstchin, thus connecting it with Gnostic sects of

various origins. Russian literalism, like many early Christian heresies,

interprets the prophets and the Apocalypse in a purely material sense.

The mujik or artisan looks for the establishment of Christ's temporal

kingdom, and anticipates the dominion promised to the saints. Such a

belief opens the door to a trust in prophets, and to all the

extravagances and rascalities that come in its train. In vain does the

Russian statute-book condemn false prophets and lying miracles: from

time to time the country is overrun by _illuminati_ proclaiming the

Second Advent, and occasionally giving themselves out as the expected

Messiah. They are frequently accompanied by a woman, who plays the part

of mystical mother or spouse, and to whom they give the title of the

Mother of God or the Blessed Virgin. Sometimes it is only the simple

folk who are themselves hunting for the Redeemer; and not long since

appeared a body of Siberian sectaries, called "Christ-hunters,"

maintaining that the Saviour was about to appear, and scouring desert

and forest to find him. Peasants have even been known to refuse payment

of their taxes under pretext that Christ was come and had done away with

them. The Messiah of the Russian sectaries is sometimes sought in the

person of a simple peasant, and sometimes in a native or foreign prince.

Some have long beheld the expected liberator in Napoleon, for their

persuasion that the Russian state is the reign of Antichrist easily led

to welcoming as a Saviour any one who seemed destined to destroy it; and

in the great enemy of the empire, the great furtherer of a general

abolition of serfdom, many recognized the conquering Messiah of the

prophets. It is said that at their meetings an image of Napoleon is

worshiped, and busts of him are certainly nowhere met with more commonly

than in Russia. An equal veneration is paid to pictures representing the

first emperor surrounded by his marshals and floating above the clouds

in a kind of apotheosis, which is literally accepted by the

matter-of-fact Russian. The story runs among his worshipers that

Napoleon is not dead, but has escaped from St. Helena and taken shelter

on the shores of Lake Baikal, whence he will one day come forth to

overturn the throne of Satan and found the kingdom of justice and peace.

The main point of these millennial hopes was the abolition of forced

labor and the _obrok_, the emancipation of the serfs, and the

equitable distribution of land and other property. A ready reception was

sure to await such a gospel, with its combination of promises of liberty

and faint dreams of communism; and something of the kind is necessary to

explain the easy success of so many extravagant sects, lying prophets

and feigned Messiahs. Dreams like these in the West incited the

revolutions of the peasants in mediæval times and of the Anabaptists in

the sixteenth century, but they must slowly vanish with the slavery

which gave them birth. The age of freedom anticipated by the mujik, the

kingdom of God of which he caught a glimpse in the promises of the

prophets, is come at last: the Messiah and freer of the people has

appeared, and his reign is begun. The emancipation of the serfs has

given a blow to these millennial dreams, and consequently to the more

advanced sects of the Raskol: its ruin will be completed by education

and material improvement.

The sects whose general evolution we have sketched may appear to us

ridiculous and childish. We are tempted to look with contempt upon a

people capable of such extravagances; but such an estimate would be

erroneous. Absurdity and extravagance have always found a ready welcome

when presented under the garb of religion; and countries boasting of

older and more widespread civilization are not behind Russia in this

regard. The Raskol has its counterpart in the past and the contemporary

sectarianism of England and of the United States. A strong likeness

holds between the Puritans and the Old Believers; and both as to

originality and religious eccentricities the Anglo-Saxon and the

inhabitant of Greater Russia may be compared. The Russians delight in

pointing out the resemblances between their country and the great

republic of the New World; and this is not the least of them. The

Americans have their prophets and prophetesses, just like the old

Russian serfs, and no absurdity or immorality is too gross to find

preachers and converts among them. How shall we account for so striking

an analogy between the two most extensive empires of the two continents?

To characteristics of race and an incomplete blending of different

stocks, or to the nature of the soil, the extremes of heat and cold, and

the strong contrasts of the seasons? to the vastness of their

territories and the scanty diffusion of population and culture over

areas so immense? or still again to the rapid and inharmonious growth of

the two countries--to the lack of popular education in the one, and the

low standard of the higher education in the other? Separately or

combined, these causes fail completely to explain the curious

phenomenon; and still they are the most striking points of resemblance

between the two colossal powers. In some respects, the sectarian spirit

presents itself in a different and almost opposite manner in the

democratic republic and the despotic empire. In the United States the

ranker growths of religious enthusiasm spring from an excess of

individualism and enterprise--from the independent and pushing temper

transported from politics and business into religion. In Russia, on the

contrary, the popular mind has thrown off all restraint in the religious

sphere, simply because this was long the only one in which it could

disport itself unchecked. The religious boldness and extravagance which

in the one country is the direct consequence of the state of society is

in the other rather a reaction against it. Russia's advantage over

America lies in the fact that there the excesses of fancy and zeal

prevail in a more primitive, unsophisticated and childlike race. Some

diseases are best passed through early in life, before the time of full

development. It is no less true of some moral maladies: childhood

suffers from them less than youth or maturity. Russia is still in that

stage of civilization which is naturally subject to attacks of feverish

and mystical religion, but one day it will emerge from it; and the

precocious skepticism of a large portion of its educated classes shows

plainly that no inexorable fate condemns the national character to

credulity and superstition.

The Raskol is more than a morbid symptom or a sign of weakness. If it

does little credit to the sense or cultivation of the people, it does

much to its heart, its conscience and its will. Independence and

individuality are often said to be lacking in it, but the Old Believers

show that firmness and conception of duty which are as needful as

intelligence to a nation's strength. Beneath the dull, monotonous

surface of political society these sects give us a glimpse of the hard

rock which is the groundwork of this seemingly inert race: its

originality and stern individuality are what are dear to it. One day

Russia will display in other spheres the originality and patient, sturdy

energy which these religious struggles have called forth. That a

considerable portion of the people have revolted against the liturgic

reform shows that it is not the stupid, sluggish herd Europe has so long

imagined. On one ground at least its conscience has displayed sufficient

independence, and told despotism that it is not all-powerful. And if

mere ritual alterations have aroused such opposition, what would result

from a change of religion--from the transition to Catholicism or

Protestantism so often dreamed of and advised by Western theologians? So

far from being always docile and void of will and determination, the

Russian people, even in their religious vagaries, have displayed a

singular power of organization and combination.

ELEANOR'S CAREER.

I first met Eleanor Vachy at a boarding-school in the city of R----,

where we soon became intimate friends. Eleanor was the result of a

system. When but a few months old, and an orphan, she had been left to

the care of her aunt, Miss Willmanson, a reformer, a progressionist,

advanced both in life and opinions, who had spared nothing to make her

niece an example to her sex. No pugilist ever believed more fully in

training than did Miss Willmanson: she looked upon institutions of

learning as forcing-houses, where nipping, budding and improving the

natural growth was the constant occupation, and where the various

branches of knowledge were cultivated, like cabbages, at so much a head.

When Eleanor became, so to speak, her property, she seized with avidity

the opportunity of submitting her principles to the test of

experiment--of demonstrating to an incredulous world the power of

education, and the vigor of the female mind and body when formed by

proper discipline. The child was fed in accordance with the most recent

discoveries in chemistry: she was taught to read after the latest

improvement in primers; she was provided with mathematical toys and

gymnastic exercises. Did she take a walk in summer, her attention was

directed to botany; if she picked up a stone to make it skip over a

passing brook, passages from the _Medals of Creation_ or _Thoughts on a

Pebble_ were quoted; and when the stone went skimming over the surface

of the calm pool, the theory of the ricochet was explained and the

wonders of natural philosophy were dilated upon. Every sentence she

spoke was made the text of a lesson, and the names of sages and

philosophers became as familiar to her as those of Jack the Giant-killer

and Blue Beard are to ordinary children.

Especially were the stories of distinguished women repeated by Miss

Willmanson in glowing language, pointed out as precedents, and dwelt

upon as worthy of emulation. "If their genius was great enough," she

would remark, "to extort a recognition in times when only masculine pens

wrote history, what could not the same ability do now?--now, when,

strengthened by waiting, encouraged by ungrudging praise, and sure of

having chroniclers of their own sex who will do them justice, a new era

is dawning. The history of the world needs to be reseen from a woman's

point of view, and rewritten by a woman's hand. Men have had

the monopoly of making public opinion, and have distorted facts. What in

a king they name policy, in a queen is called cruelty; what in a

minister is diplomacy, in a favorite is deceit; what in a man is

justice, in a woman is inhumanity; vigor is coarseness, generosity is

weakness, sincerity becomes shallowness; and faults that are passed over

lightly in the hero are sufficient to doom the heroine for all

posterity."

The peculiar views of Eleanor's aunt did not prevent her from being an

agreeable acquaintance. Although she believed in the intellectual

capacity of woman, she did not look upon herself as a representative of

the class: her admiration of her sex did not degenerate into

self-laudation, and her enthusiasm was not tainted by egotism. Hers was

not a strong-mindedness that showed itself in ungainly coiffures and

tasteless attire. It was content with desiring and claiming for woman

whatever is best, noblest and most lovely in mind and body. She would

have given her life to further this end, but thought it mattered little

if her name were forgotten in the bulletin that announced success to the

cause.

Owing to her extreme reserve in talking of herself, it was very

gradually that I gained this knowledge of Miss Willmanson's character;

but many of her opinions were received at second hand from Eleanor, who

admired her aunt greatly, and never tired of quoting her. It was she who

told me that this talented lady was engaged upon a book the title of

which was _Footsteps of Women in All Ages_. The aunt returned this

admiration in no stinted measure, and her highest ambition seemed

centred in her niece.

Eleanor was a tall, well-formed, unaffected girl, with a clear olive

complexion; a slight rose-colored bloom on cheeks and lips; deep blue

eyes, rather purple than blue, rather amethyst than purple, that looked

every one candidly in the face; and hair reminding you of late

twilight--a shade that, though dark, still bore traces of having once

been light, even sunny.

As to her acquirements, however, what in the older lady was love of

information, in the younger appeared to be what Pepys called a "curious

curiosity." If she had been obliged to investigate a subject by constant

labor, I doubt whether she would have stood the test. At school she was

a parlor-boarder, attended outside lectures on the sciences, went to

concerts and the opera, frequented museums, had small blank-books in

which she took voluminous notes, and was constantly busy with some new

scheme of improvement. In looking at her I often thought that could her

aunt's dreams be realized, could her intellect ever approach the unusual

symmetry and beauty of her face and form, it would indeed be an

achievement. But was it likely that Nature, who is so grudging of her

gifts, after having endowed her so highly physically would do as much

for her mentally? "Aunt Will," as the girl called her, had none of these

misgivings. This beautiful physique she believed to be the effect of her

own foresight and care--of proper food and clothing, of training in the

gymnasium, riding and walking. It was itself an earnest of the success

of her plans, and made her confident for the future. One of the tenets

of her faith was that Eleanor needed only to decide in what direction to

exert herself, and that in any career success was certain. For this

reason she gave her opportunities of every kind, that her choice might

be unlimited.

In this, as in every other opinion, Eleanor agreed with her aunt, not

through vanity, but through respect and habit. What she intended to

become was the theme of long confidences between us when alone together,

for the time which most other girls of her age devote to dreams of love

and lovers was employed by her in speculations about her future

profession. The artlessness of the girl in thus appropriating to herself

the whole field of human wisdom would have been ludicrous had it not

been so frank: it reminded you of a child reaching out its chubby hands

to seize the moon.

In regard to love and marriage, Aunt Will was most resolute in speaking

against them, and by precept and example she endeavored to influence her

niece in the same direction. "It is a state which mentally

unfits a woman for anything"--a dictum which was accepted by Eleanor

without argument. It was understood that her life was to be devoted to

being great, not to being loved. But Aunt Will refused to lend her help

or advice in deciding what the career should be, believing that the

prophetic fire would kindle itself without human help, and fearing that

the least hint of what she desired might fetter a waking genius, though

the girl often plaintively remarked, "I wish aunt would settle it for

me."

The entire faith with which these two women looked forward to the future

roused no little curiosity on my part as to the realization of their

hopes. A year after our acquaintance began the ladies left R---- to

travel abroad. Eleanor assured me solemnly that she should not return

until she had won renown, that vision of so many young hearts on leaving

home. "The great trouble is to decide what to do;" and here she sighed.

"But Aunt Will says our work shapes itself without our knowing. Some

morning we wake and find it ready for our hands, with no more doubt on

the subject. I am waking."

"Meanwhile enjoying yourself."

"Why not?" she answered, smiling: "it is what aunt wishes me to do."

At first I had frequent letters from my friend, but the intervals

between them became longer, as is usual when a new life replaces the

old. In those which I received there was no allusion to the career, and

I felt that inquiries on the subject would be indiscreet. If she were

succeeding, I should hear of it soon enough; and if not, why should I

give her pain? After a separation of about eighteen months, and a

silence of six, one morning, on being sent for to the parlor, what was

my surprise to find myself face to face with Eleanor Vachy, and the

girl, prettier than ever, pressing warm kisses on my cheeks!

We had been talking on every conceivable topic for perhaps an hour, as

only friends can talk, when I chanced to remark, "You intended to make a

much longer stay when you left: I hope nothing disagreeable has

happened to bring you home."

"Nothing _dis_agreeable," she replied, looking slightly

embarrassed. "I would have written about it, but thought I would rather

tell you. I hope it won't alter your opinion of me when you hear it: I

hope you won't think less of me;" and the color mounted swiftly in her

cheeks as she gave me one deprecating glance out of her purple eyes, and

then as quickly hid them under their long lashes.

"I will try to be impartial," I answered gravely, seeing that she was

not in a humor to be laughed at. "I suppose it is in reference to your

career?"

"Yes it is," she replied, looking attentively at the point of her

boot; "and I fear aunt is disappointed, although she says nothing;

and it is very possible that you will be disappointed also."

"If you have chosen anything reasonable," I remarked encouragingly, "I

am sure your aunt will be satisfied: she is so unprejudiced, and you

know she always declared that she would not influence you."

"She trusted me too much," sighing. "What I have preferred,

you--maybe she--that is, many people--would think no career at all."

"Ah, indeed! Poetry?" (I knew that Aunt Will had no great opinion of

most of the versifiers.)

She interlocked her fingers and gave them a slight twist, looked still

more intently at the toe of her boot, and dropped ruefully one little

word, "No."

"It is not the stage, surely?" looking at her perfect beauty with a

sudden start.

"No, no! it is not that. You cannot guess. I may as well tell you. I

will begin at the beginning, and you will see that I could not help

it: that is--For Mercy's sake don't look at me as if I were a

criminal, or I won't say another word!"

"Nonsense, Eleanor! I am not looking at you as if you were a criminal.

Go on and tell me."

"It is too late now," she said hastily: "I have been here so long

already. I will see you to-morrow."

"If you dare to go without making a full confession, I will never

forgive you. Sit down: the sooner it is over the more composed you

will feel. I have been so anxious to hear about it!"

"Well, if it must be. I know you will be disgusted. I have to begin when

we left here."

"I have plenty of time to listen."

"You remember we started on the voyage by ourselves. At our first

dinner on board aunt recognized an old friend, a Mrs. Kenderdine,

who was also crossing, together with her son. That first dinner was

our last for some time, for, though we tried to be as strong-minded

as possible, in the end we were obliged to stay in our cabins.

Having recovered sooner than aunt, one day I stumbled out as far as

the companion-way, and was sitting there very disconsolately when

Mr. Kenderdine, passing by, stopped to ask if he should assist me on

deck. Of course I was only too glad to go. He had not been sick at

all, and could walk about quite easily, which gave me a high opinion

of his abilities. Later he brought me my dinner, with a glass of

wine, of which he did not spill a drop, and by evening I found that

with the aid of his arm I could promenade.

"That day was a sample of all until the voyage was over, for if I

attempted to move alone I stumbled, rolled and behaved with a lack

of dignity that was frightful; and yet, after getting a taste of

fresh air, I could not bear to stay below. Somehow, it became

understood that each morning Mr. Kenderdine might find me in the

companion-way at a certain hour; and as aunt would not leave her

state-room, and old Mrs. Kenderdine could not, we had nothing to do

but to try and amuse each other; so we ended by becoming pretty well

acquainted by the time we arrived at Queenstown.

"In England aunt was very busy. You used to think her a student

here: I wish you could have seen her there. For six months she spent

almost every hour of daylight in the library of the British Museum,

where she had been introduced by a learned friend. Aunt Will has a

wonderful admiration for Boadicea: she was also critically examining

the history of Queen Henrietta and of Elizabeth. She thinks the

latter did not do justice to her opportunities, and that her vanity

was the mark of a feeble mind. You know aunt has no patience with

vanity and--"

"But about yourself, Eleanor?"

"I am coming to that directly. Mrs. Kenderdine had gone abroad to

get medical advice: as her health would permit her to take but

little exercise, a morning drive, with receiving and paying visits

(she is of an English family and well connected), was all she was

capable of.

"It happened in this way that the only ones of our party fit for

active duty were Fred--I mean Mr. Kenderdine--and myself. As we had

formed the habit of amusing each other on the voyage, we still

continued it. Aunt would join us when any historical site was to be

visited; but there were many places that were not historical, but

that were just as pleasant or as beautiful as if they had been, and

to these we went together. We stayed in London until the season was

over, and then started for Paris.

"You can form no idea how aunt reveled in the antiquities of Paris.

If she went to the Musée Cluny in the morning, we might be sure we

should see no more of her for that day at least. She absolutely took

rooms at Versailles for two weeks that she might study up the

_locale_ of the Pompadour, whom she regards as a female Richelieu,

and she also found a rich field of investigation in the lives of the

French queens."

"And what were you doing all this time?"

"Oh! I had professors, French, Italian and German, for the

languages, I visited the galleries, and aunt would read me her

notes, so that I was gaining much information. You see, in a foreign

country it is not the thing to sit in the house to study: you must

go about as much as possible and use your eyes, which is an

education in itself. That is what I was doing."

"About your career, I mean?"

"Don't be so impatient: I am about to tell you. We concluded to

spend the winter in Rome, aunt and I: the Kenderdines

remained in Paris. Aunt preceded me to Brussels about two weeks

to explore the libraries there, as we were to make the Rhine tour

before going to Italy. I should have accompanied her, but we were

expecting a remittance from home that had not arrived, and I was

obliged to wait for it. The day before I left Paris I was regretting

that I had not been to Montmorency, and Mr. Kenderdine, who

overheard me, proposed that as I did not mind fatigue we should go.

By starting early in the morning we could make our 'last day,' as he

called it, a _fête_. I consented, and we arranged to take the early

train to Enghien, to breakfast there, ride through Montmorency to

the Château de la Chasse, where we could have dinner, and return in

time for the Belgian train in the evening. The next morning I was

ready, my riding-skirt in a satchel, and off we went. The day was

perfect, the air cool and delicious. We took the cars at the Gare du

Nord, and in less than an hour we arrived at Enghien, ordered

breakfast at a charming little hotel that overlooks the lake, and

had it brought to us on the balcony, from whence we could listen to

the band playing, and look at the beautiful villas that border the

water, watch the invalids taking their constitutionals, and see the

brightly-painted boats bobbing over the small waves. While waiting

for the horses, Fred made me go to the springs and taste the water,

which is horrid: then we mounted and cantered leisurely on to

Montmorency, a hilly, desolate-looking place, although so much

lauded by the Parisians: I suppose the beautiful forest in the

vicinity is its attraction. The road for the next five or six miles

was shaded by trees, and most of it was a soft turf on which the

horses' hoofs rebounded noiselessly, with views of rolling country

at intervals. The château had been a hunting-lodge two or three

hundred years ago, but nothing remains of it now but a couple of

towers, to which a modern country inn has been added, where

excellent dinners may be had, as I can testify. It is a great place

for the picnics and pleasure-parties of the natives, but foreigners

seldom visit it. After we had wandered about for several hours,

enjoying ourselves in that silly French way, with nothing but light

hearts, fresh air, green grass and blue sky for all incitement

thereto, I, in consideration of my evening journey, recommended our

return. We had the horses brought round, and then my career

commenced."

"Why, how?"

"You know that road from the château? No you don't, but I will tell

you of it. The woods lie on one side, and an ivy-covered wall

separates it from sloping fields on the other--the prettiest place

on earth." ("Artistic," thought I: "she has decided on

landscape-painting;" but I did not interrupt.) "It was just there

that Mr. Kenderdine came to my side: he had dismounted to open the

gate, and was leading his horse. He came to my side, and, looking up

at me, said half seriously, half smiling, 'You are very happy

to-day, Miss Eleanor: what will you do when I am not with you to

ride and walk and talk to?'

"'I suppose I shall find some one in Rome who rides, walks and talks

as well. They say the Campagna is lovely for riding.'

"'And perhaps some one who waltzes as well.'

"'Certainly: that is no great accomplishment. Like playing a

hurdy-gurdy, if you turn round often enough you cannot fail to make

a successful performance.'

"'There is one thing you will not find, Eleanor;' and he laid his

hand on my wrist: 'that is, some one who loves you as well.'

"'Mr. Kenderdine, please get on your horse, and don't talk

nonsense.'

"'I suppose I have as good a right to talk nonsense as any one, and

I believe the fancy for doing so comes to all of us once in our

lifetime.'

"'I admit your right to talk, and claim mine to refuse to listen;'

so saying, I gave my horse a cut. The animal started, but Fred's

hand was still on my bridle-wrist, and with a motion he checked the

animal so violently that it reared, afterward coming down on the sod

with a thud that almost unseated me.

"'I will talk, and you shall listen,' said Mr. Fred, looking

dangerous.

"'So it appears,' I retorted, thoroughly provoked; 'but I hope you

will oblige me by being as expeditious as possible, for I am very

much afraid that I shall miss the train to-night.'

"He looked at me a moment as if to be sure he understood my meaning,

then turned and sprang on his horse, at the same time remarking,

'You are right: I had better not detain you. I had forgotten your

journey.'

"We cantered on in silence for about three miles. The flush of anger

had slowly faded out of his face, when he commenced abruptly: 'Miss

Vachy, I have no _right_ to ask you what I intend asking, but I have

always thought you had a kind heart, and perhaps you will answer my

question. You may depend that the confidence you may place in me

will be held sacred.' Then less quickly, 'Will you tell me, have you

an understanding, or are you engaged, or do you care for any one

else?'

"For a moment I thought of entering into an explanation--of telling

him what my aunt expected of me, and what I intended doing--only I

did not myself know what I intended doing; and it seemed absurd to

begin such an account without being able to complete it. Besides, if

he thought I cared for some one else, it would end the matter and

save a world of argument; so I replied hesitatingly, 'I am sorry,

Mr. Kenderdine, that I cannot answer your question, but--'

"'Enough: I understand.'

"Then our canter quickened into a gallop, and the gallop into a

race. I am quite sure those horses never went at such a pace in

their lives before. Fred seemed unconscious of the run we were

making of it, unconscious of everything, urging his poor beast

whenever it flagged, and fretting its mouth by alternately jerking

and loosening the reins, until had it been anything but a livery

hack it would have been frantic. Conversation was impossible, and I

had nothing to sustain me during the ride but the satisfaction of

feeling that I had done my duty."

"It don't seem to me that you are getting any nearer the end of your

story."

"The darkest hour is that which precedes the dawn," said Eleanor,

adding maliciously, "if you are tired I will tell you the rest

to-morrow. Don't you see that I must bring you up to it gradually,

so that the shock will not be too great?"

"But think of the suspense I am in."

"My dear, the first steps in any career are as important as the

last; so curb your curiosity and listen. If you were telling it, you

would not get on one bit faster."

"Perhaps not," I answered doubtfully: "however, continue."

"Thanks to our haste, we got to Paris early enough to allow me to

rest and have supper. I had sent on my baggage by express, and had

nothing to worry about Starting at seven, I should arrive next

morning at Brussels. I can sleep famously in the cars, and I

apprehended no difficulty. Fred, looking as black as a thundercloud,

took me to the station, and was preposterous enough to ask me if I

was not sorry I was going."

"And what did you say?"

"Say? Why, the truth--that I was glad; and then Mr. Thundercloud

looked blacker than ever.

"I had several stations to pass before we reached Creil, where I was

to change cars and take the express. I settled myself comfortably,

so that I could look out of the window, and I whiled away the time

by reviewing the whole of my acquaintance with Mr. Kenderdine. I was

forced to admit that I had acted imprudently in not letting him know

from the beginning what my life was to be, but I never thought it

would matter to him. Then my conscience reproached me for the lie I

had implied: I might have told him the truth, and spared him the

mortification of believing that I preferred some one else. I knew,

in thinking of it calmly, that it was not to avoid an argument that

I had done it, but to make him feel as badly as possible, because I

was angry at him for stopping my horse. It was mean in me,

especially as that De Vezin was the person he would pitch on. You

see, I had made a good deal of De Vezin while in Paris, but it was

only to improve my French accent--a fact which poor Fred

could not know.

"The train whizzed on. The night grew dark: I could scarcely

distinguish objects outside the blurred window, but I still remained

attentive to the voice of the conductor as he called out the names

of the successive stations until--until I heard no more: I had

fallen asleep.

"I suppose I slept profoundly for about half an hour, when I was

suddenly awakened by a jerk: the cars had stopped. I was not aware I

had been sleeping, but I had an undefined sense that something was

wrong. I hastily opened the window and heard the name Liancourt

shouted. There was no such stopping-place between Paris and Creil,

for I had studied up my route before starting. The truth flashed

upon me, and impulsively I left my car, rushed to the conductor, and

asked, 'What place is this?'

"'Liancourt.'

"'And where is Creil?'

"'We have passed it. Did you want to go there?'

"'Of course I did. Why did you not call it?'

"'We did call it,' said he indignantly: 'you must have been asleep.'

"'No such thing,' I replied, for at the moment I did not think it

could be possible.

"There was but little time for reflection. Should I go on to the

next large town, or should I stay? If I went on, I should get to my

destination in the middle of the night, and, knowing nothing of the

place, might have great difficulty in finding lodgings. If I stayed,

I might get a train back or a carriage, or even find here a hotel of

some kind where they would accommodate me until morning. I decided

to remain, and off went the cars.

"One of the ticket-agents came forward from the office--as I

supposed to offer his services: there were but few people about, but

all understood my situation. As I said, the man came forward and

bowed: 'Your fare, if you please.'

"I handed him my ticket: he stood before me and repeated, 'Your

fare, if you please.'

"'I have given you my ticket,' said I, looking at him inquiringly.

"'This one is not for Liancourt: it is for Creil.'

"'I was going to Creil, only the train brought me past.'

"'Exactly, and you will please pay for the extra distance,' said he

politely.

"It was too much. I had the misfortune of being carried out of my

way, and this exasperating clerk was coolly asking me to pay the

company a premium for the result of the conductor's carelessness. It

was one of those situations in which words fail to express the

extent of your indignation. The fellow's audacity verged on the

sublime. He stood there with the calmness of a hero. And what did I

do? Why, I paid him. But I tell you truly that I have hated that

whole railroad company with the blackest hatred ever since. That was

not all. As soon as he received the provoking money--I wish it had

been red hot--he turned on his heel and walked into his office.

"But it was not the time to indulge in resentment: I must act

promptly. The people there when I arrived were fast dispersing. I

addressed myself to a half-grown boy who was standing near me: 'When

does the next train go to Paris?' I thought I had better return and

start afresh in the morning.

"'The last has gone for to-night,' answered the lad.

"'Are you quite sure?'

"He gave his head a decisive jerk.

"'How far is this place from Creil?'

"'About five miles.'

"'Can I get a carriage to take me there?'

"'No.' This time he looked for corroboration to the group who had

gathered round us, all of whom with one accord wagged their heads in

the negative.

"'Is there a hotel here?'

"'No.'

"'Isn't it a town?'

"'No,' much intensified.

"I knew that there are many stations in France consisting of a

single building located in the midst of fields: these places take

their names from the nearest town (which may be several

miles distant), and are marked on the maps by a black spot like a

hyphen: many of them are served by an omnibus. I found, on further

questioning, that this was one of the aforesaid black spots, minus

the omnibus.

"'What is the nearest town?' I continued.

"'Liancourt is a little more than a mile off, but it is a village.'

"'Is there an inn there?'

"'I believe there is.'

"By this time most of my audience had satisfied their curiosity and

departed, leaving only the boy, and an old man who attracted my

attention. He held a lantern which illuminated a kindly,

weatherbeaten face, looking like that of an old sailor. I discovered

later that he had come from Normandy, and like most Normans had

spent half his life on the waves. He seemed interested in my hapless

plight: perhaps he would assist me.

"'I want to go back to Creil' (I knew I should find a hotel there):

'won't you come with me and show me the way with your lantern?'

"'Can't, mademoiselle: can't leave here.' He gave an indicative jerk

of his head and thumb in a certain direction toward the railroad.

"'Why not?'

"'I am the night-watchman, and should lose my place if I left.'

"Then please point out the road: I shall have to return alone.'

"'Can't, mademoiselle: it is too dark. You would get lost.'

"I thought I could not get much more lost than I was at that moment,

but did not say so. Just then a bright idea struck me: 'I will walk

back on the railroad: I cannot fail to find my way.'

"The old man looked aghast at the proposition, and pointed to the

long line of high thick hedge that bordered it on each side.

"'How could you leave the track if you did get to Creil? They are

locked up there for the night. Besides, you would be crushed by

passing trains, and you would be fined too, for it is against the

law. Now,' he went on in that patronizing manner which, from its

naïveté is so charming in the French peasant--'now, mademoiselle

does not wish to die to-night, does she, and be also fined?'

"'No,' I replied dolefully, seeing my chances of shelter

diminishing, 'but I shall certainly die if you will not help me to

find a hotel.'

"'Wait,' he whispered--'wait a little until all the world is gone.

It won't be five minutes until every one has departed and every

light is out in the station; then--'

"I could not see how this was to improve my condition, but, having

no choice, I waited patiently while he went and busied himself about

his work. Presently he returned. Everything was silent, and pointing

mysteriously to the waiting-room in the building, he said in a low

voice, '_There_ is where you can stay till morning. They would not

allow it if they knew, but no one will be the wiser. You can leave

as soon as it is light, and to-night sleep on one of the sofas.

That's where I sit at night, and I will give it up to you.'

"The idea was repugnant to me. I could not consent; it was too

frightful; it was impossible. I hastened to say, 'It will not do--I

cannot stay here: you must take me back. Do take me to Creil.'

"'Can't do it.'

"'Well, take me to the next town: there is an inn, and it is not

far.'

"He wavered, and seeing my distress his good-nature conquered. 'I

will go with you,' he answered, slowly shaking his head as if

admonishing himself for being such a fool; 'but if they should find

it out--'

"You may think it was unkind in me to let him run the risk of losing

his place, but what was I to do? I could not submit to stay at the

station like a vagabond, and I could not find my way alone. So,

without allowing him time to change his mind, I set out. The road

was bad and the night dark; the lantern threw a circle of light

around us, but all beyond was impenetrable; still, the hope of

shelter at the end made the walk agreeable to me. We

stumbled along in silence, and by and by heard the barking of dogs

that always heralds a night approach to a village. The first house

that greeted my eyes had the welcome signboard swinging before it,

and above its lintel a bush. It was a tiny place, but it was a

refuge, and I felt quite cheerful as I requested the old tar to

knock.

"He did so, and the sound echoed and re-echoed, but there was no

response.

"'Again,' I said, and 'again,' and 'again,' with no better result.

It was anything but encouraging.

"'They cannot hear, they are asleep: take up a stone and beat the

door. You must awaken them.'

"He obediently picked up a stone, and there followed a noise like

thunder. I should not have been surprised to see the wee house tilt

over and lie down on its side under the force of the blows. Now a

gruff voice called out, 'What do you want?'

"'Lodging.'

"'We have no room for any one: go away.'

"'Tell him I must stay,' And with the help of my prompting the old

fellow put my case in the most persuasive light possible, but,

although we talked and knocked with perseverance, the owner of the

voice neither appeared, nor would he vouchsafe us another answer.

One might have thought the house had been suddenly enchanted.

"'It is of no use--of no use whatever: they will not open,' finally

said my exhausted companion.

"'Is there no other inn here?'

"'No: you will have to return.'

"'Then you must take me to Creil.'

"'That I can't do. I have been away too long already: there is a

freight-train expected, and I must see that the track is clear. We

must go back;' and he turned resolutely and led the way.

"Just as we left the village a gay party of peasant-girls passed us

coming from a ball, laughing and chatting merrily with their beaus.

I had an insane idea of accosting them, appealing to their pity, and

asking them to keep me for the night, but fear lest they should

refuse restrained me: I was too dejected to risk a second repulse.

I have been able to realize the poetical things they tell us of the

sensations of outcasts, of adventurers; and homeless wanderers ever

since. The sight of this merry party made me feel more terribly

alone; and the beaus--well, I confess I did wonder what Fred was

doing at that moment. Then I thought of the horror of my aunt could

she know where I was, and what she would think of the 'footsteps'

her own niece was making just then, could she see her.

"When we arrived at the station my guide preceded me to the

waiting-room, and I, completely worn out, meekly followed him.

"'This is much better than sleeping in the fields,' he remarked

cheerily as we entered: 'shall I make you a fire?'

"'No, thank you, but let me go into the other room.' My reason for

this was that its sofas and chairs had some pretensions to comfort,

being 'first class.' He went to open the connecting door. It was

locked.

"'This is the only room that is open: I am sorry. Wait a moment: I

will bring something to make a pillow, and you can sleep like a

top.' He went out, and returned with an old coat, which he folded

for me, and which, after covering it with my handkerchief, made a

tolerable resting-place for my head. My bed was a hard bench.

"'Now,' said my protector in a tone of much satisfaction--'now, you

will be well. _Voilà un bon gîte_! Both these other doors are

fastened, and this one you can lock after me. Very early I will come

and take you part of the way back, and by daylight you can easily

find the rest yourself. _Bonne nuit, mademoiselle: dormez bien_.' He

went to the door, and taking the key from the outside put it inside.

It would not turn. The lock had been made to work with two keys, and

the other was absent.

"'I will tell you what I will do,' said my friend, not in the least

discomfited: 'I will lock the door and take the key with me. I must

go up the road about two miles on my beat, but you can feel

quite safe: no one can get in while I am gone. There is another

watchman on the road: he might come while I am away, and--and raise

a row. It is best to lock you up.' He nodded his head with great

complacency at his good management, and prepared to leave me. I

could suggest nothing better. I was at the end of my resources, and

had to accept my fate. It would be interesting to know what the

Pompadour or Queen Elizabeth would have done under the

circumstances, wouldn't it?

"It was with no pleasant feeling that I saw the door shut, heard the

key turned, then withdrawn: the lantern glimmered for a moment

through the window, and I was left in the darkness a prisoner.

Thoroughly a prisoner, for none of the three doors had keys on my

side, and the windows, with their tiny panes of ground glass, were

high above the floor. Then, too, the old man had insisted on

speaking in a whisper, and walked about on tiptoe. Who were those

persons he evidently feared to waken? Persons near by, of course.

Probably they carried the missing keys and could enter at any

moment. And the other watchman? What if he should come, and, this

being the room allotted to himself and companion, refuse to be

barred out? Those other unknowns would be aroused by his knocking,

and rush in to seek an explanation. If I were found there, should I

be taken before the police as a vagabond? Or imagine a fire--a fire

and no one knowing that I am here! A fire and no means of escape! My

friends losing all trace of me, unable to ascertain how I came by my

death! And such a horrible death! Four hours yet till dawn! What

might not happen in four hours? The man himself might only have gone

to seek an accomplice to murder me. He might have known that the key

would not turn on the inside. But at last, in spite of myself,

fatigue conquered fear and I slept.

"I cannot say how long I had been unconscious when I was awakened by

hearing a key turning in the lock: the door cautiously opened, and a

man entered and came toward the bench where I was lying. My

drowsiness calmed me. I wondered quite placidly whether it was to be

robbery or murder. What a paragraph it would make in the _Moniteur_

next day! I would cheerfully give him my watch and purse if they

would content him. I might call out and rouse the house, but most

likely Brunhilda in my situation would have held a parley. A good

precedent. I sat up to show that I was awake, and in doing so

recognized my old man. Though nothing could look more threatening as

he stealthily advanced, shading his light, taking pains to make no

noise, I could not entirely mistrust the weatherbeaten face with its

anxious, benevolent eyes that met mine.

"'Is it time to go?' I asked.

"'Not yet, but soon. I have just returned, and came in to know if

you would have a fire: it is cold outside.'

"'No, never mind: I am doing well enough. I think I will take

another nap.'

"'Very well: I shall be near for the rest of the night, so you need

not be afraid.' And he left, carefully locking me in again.

"When he came for me the dawn was beginning to break; the morning

star was shining in the sky; the earliest birds were twittering, and

cocks answered each other from distance to distance; but not a human

being was to be seen. We crossed ploughed fields and stubble to find

the road, and I felt the truth of my guide's augury of the night

before. Had I attempted to go alone I should have become bewildered,

and ended by sleeping in the fields. It did strike me that if the

man wished to rob me, now would be his chance, and at first I

intentionally kept a little behind; but his innocent garrulity was

such as to allay all suspicions, and we jogged on very amicably

until, coming to two roads, he pointed out that which leads to

Creil, and bade me good-bye.

"Had I had the giving of a medal of the Legion of Honor, I should

have decorated him on the spot. I believe it repaid me for my

annoyance to have found such ample goodness, such chivalry, such

kindness, growing as it were by the wayside. It was as if

the world had rolled back into the days of knight-errantry, when to

rescue and protect distressed damsels ranked next to religious

worship. Sure am I if my weatherbeaten old man had lived at that

time, none would have been more renowned for gentle deeds: in this

prosaic age he is but a watchman on a railroad. I was about to pour

out my gratitude, when I remembered we were in the nineteenth

century, and looking into his face, I fancied that something more

substantial would be better. I drew out my purse. He was frankly

delighted with what I gave him, saying only that it was too much,

and we separated mutually pleased.

"I sauntered on, lingering by the way to avoid waiting at Creil;

consequently, I was just able to procure my ticket and a paper of

brioches at the buffet when the English train came in. As I stood at

the door, knowing that as soon as it moved off the Belgian train was

due, whom should I see get out but Fred! I thought he would re-enter

in a moment, and placed myself so that he could not see me. I was

mistaken. The train started, and mine puffed up: there he was still.

In the crowd I hoped I should not be discovered, but as I stepped

from the door his eyes met mine, and he rushed up to me with the

exclamation, 'In the name of Heaven, how did you get here? Was there

an accident? Are you hurt? What is the matter?'

"It was singular how his voice unnerved me: I could not say a word.

The crowd carried us with them, and he helped me into a car, sitting

by me and recommencing his questions. Then I stammered, 'You will be

taken on if you do not get out: there is nothing wrong.'

"For answer he shut the door of the compartment, and said, 'I am

going with you. Now tell me how you come to be here?'

"I do not know why I should have given way when all danger was

over--I believe there is no parallel case in the life of any

celebrated woman--but I suppose I was tired out. My anxiety and

fright, a night spent on a hard board, the surprise of meeting Mr.

Kenderdine,--whatever it was, I leaned back in the corner of the

seat, took out my handkerchief, and cried harder than I had ever

done in my life before. He was greatly alarmed, but, like a sensible

man, waited until I became more composed, and when I was able to

tell him, instead of blaming me or thinking I was stupid, he

censured himself for not accompanying me.

"'I did mean to ask your permission to do so, Miss Eleanor,' he said

slightly embarrassed, 'and I was prig enough to think you would

allow it, but when you told me of your engagement I did not dare.

After you left I had a dread that something might happen, and I

could not rest satisfied until I had made up my mind to come on and

see that you had arrived safely. I thought you would forgive me, as

it is for the last time, and De Vezin need not be jealous, for he

will have you for ever, while I--' Fred can be wonderfully pathetic.

"Then I made up my mind to undeceive him, as was my duty, you know.

I told him very gently that he was under a false impression. I was

not engaged: my aunt had educated me for a purpose, and we both had

quite determined that I should never marry, but instead do something

great in the world, though I had not yet decided what. I explained

it to him fully, so that there should be no more mistakes about it.

When I ended I did not venture to look at him for a long time,

fearing to see him grieved at this irrevocable barrier; but when I

did, what was my surprise to see his face beaming with joy! He began

impetuously, 'If you had told me I was to be crowned at Brussels, it

would not be better news. I was sure it was De Vezin who separated

us. Now I can hope.'

"'You must not talk in that way if you do not want our friendship to

cease: you offend me deeply. Can't you see that if you persist in

this idea of yours, our pleasant acquaintance must end?' It was so

frivolous in Fred, and I spoke very decidedly.

"'Not at all, Eleanor: it would only begin. Why should not our whole

life be like this past year?'

"'You know it can't,' said I. 'Haven't I told you the reason?'

"'It will be no reason when De Vezin asks you,' said he

suspiciously.

"'De Vezin is nothing to me.'

"'You carry a _gage d'amour_ from him on your watch-chain at this

very minute.'

"Now, wasn't that talk silly? De Vezin had brought me a two-centime

piece one day because I said I had never seen one, and I put a hole

in it and hung it to my chain. Fred to call that a _gage d'amour!_

"'Nonsense!' said I.

"'De Vezin thought the same when he saw it there. I took him for a

fool, but I see he was right.'

"'Well, now you will see you were both fools,' said I angrily, and I

twisted off the coin and threw it from the window.

"'Is only that preposterous notion in the way?' he asked, looking

happy again and taking a seat by me.

"I told you how I cried on first entering the cars, and now--would

you believe it?--I got terribly embarrassed. It seemed as if

everything I did or said made matters worse. I was scarcely able to

stammer, 'My aunt--'

"'I will speak to her. Let me put this on your finger until I can

replace it by another:' and he slipped off his seal and leaned

forward with an entreating look.

"I shook my head.

"'I won't ask you to promise anything: only wear it that I may not

be forgotten in Rome.'

"'No, no, I cannot!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands. I suppose the

action and tone were very exaggerated, for Mr. Kenderdine drew back,

saying, 'I shall not _force_ you to take it;' and then went to the

other window, took a newspaper out of his pocket and pretended to

read it, while I was angry and sorry and miserable, though why I

should feel so much like crying at what had only amused me the day

before I cannot understand. I suppose none of those wonderful ladies

would have acted so, would they?