A CONVENT SPECTRE.
A land alive with goblins and sorceries, in which every monk sees
visions, in which every woman is thought to be a witch, presents the
proper scenery for such a legend as that of the convent spectre,
called the Spirit of the Frozen Sea.
Faith in the existence of this phantom is widely spread. I have met
with evidences of this faith not only in the northern seas, but on the
Volga, in hamlets of the Ukraine, and among old believers in Moscow,
Novgorod, and Kief. All the Ruthenians, most of the Don Kozaks, and
many of the Poles, give credit to this tale, in either a spiritualized
or physical form.
Rufin Pietrowski, the Pole who escaped from his Siberian mine, and,
crossing the Ural Mountains, dropped down the river Dvina on a raft,
and got as near to Solovetsk as Onega Point, reports the spectre as a
fact, and offers the explanation which was given of it by his
fellow-pilgrims. He says it is not a ghost, but a living man. Other
and later writers than Pietrowski hint at such a mystery; but the tale
is one of which men would rather whisper in corners than prate in
books.
"You have been to Solovetsk?" exclaimed to me a native of Kalatch, on
the Don, a man of wit and spirit. "May I ask whether you saw any thing
there that struck you much?"
"Yes, many things; the convent itself, the farms and gardens, the
dry-dock, the fishing-boats, the salt-pits, the tombs of saints."
"Ah! yes, they would let you see all those things; but they would not
let you go into their secret prison."
"Why not?" I said, to lead him on.
"They have a prisoner in that building whom they dare not show."
The same thing happened to me several times, with variations of time
and place.
Some boatman from the Lapland ports, while striving, in the first hard
days of winter, with the floes of ice, is driven beneath the fortress
curtain, where he sees, on looking up, in the faint light of dusk, a
venerable figure passing behind a loop-hole in the wall; his white
hair cut, which proves that he is not a monk; his eyes upraised to
heaven; his hands clasped fervently, as though he were in prayer; his
whole appearance that of a man appealing to the justice of God against
the tyranny of man. A sentry passes the loop-hole, and the boatman
sees no more.
This figure is not seen at other times and by other folk. Three months
in the year these islands swarm with pilgrims, many of whom come and
go in their craft from Onega and Kem. These visitors paddle below the
ramparts day and night; yet nothing is seen by them of the aged
prisoner and his sentry on the convent wall. Clearly, then, if the
figure is that of a living man, there must be reasons for concealing
him from notice during the pilgrim months.
"Hush!" said a boatman once to a friend of mine, as he lay in a tiny
cove under the convent wall; you must not speak so loud; these rocks
can hear. One dares not whisper in one's sleep, much less on the open
sea, that the phantom walks yon wall. The pope tells you it is an imp;
the elder laughs in your face and calls you a fool. If you believe
your eyes, they say you are crazed, not fit to pull a boat."
"You have not seen the figure?"
"Seen him--no; he is a wretched one, and brings a man bad luck. God
help him ... if he is yet alive!"
"You think he is a man of flesh and blood?"
"Holy Virgin keep us! Who can tell?"
"When was he last seen?"
"Who knows? A boatman seldom pulls this way at dusk; and when he finds
himself here by chance, he turns his eyes from the castle wall. Last
year, a man got into trouble by his chatter. He came to sell his fish,
and fetching a course to the south, brought up his yawl under the
castle guns. A voice called out to him, and when he looked up
suddenly, he saw behind the loop-hole a bare and venerable head. While
he stood staring in his yawl, a crack ran through the air, and looking
along the line of roof, he saw, behind a puff of smoke, a sentinel
with his gun. A moment more and he was off. When the drink was in his
head, he prated about the ghost, until the elder took away his boat
and told him he was mad."
"What is the figure like?"
"A tall old man, white locks, bare head, and eyes upraised, as if he
were trying to cool his brain."
"Does he walk the same place always?"
"Yes, they say so; always. Yonder, between the turrets, is the
phantom's walk. Let us go back. Hist! That is the convent bell."
The explanation hinted by Pietrowski, and widely taken for the truth,
is that the figure which walks these ramparts in the winter months is
not only that of a living man, but of a popular and noble prince; no
less a personage than the Grand Duke Constantine, elder brother of the
late Emperor Nicolas, and natural heir to the imperial crown!
This prince, in whose cause so many patriots lost their lives, is
commonly supposed to have given up the world for love; to have
willingly renounced his rights of succession to the throne; to have
acquiesced in his younger brother's reign; to have died of cholera in
Minsk; to have been buried in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.
But many persons look on this story as a mere official tale. Their
version is, that the prince was a liberal prince; that he married for
love; that he never consented to waive his rights of birth; that the
documents published by the Senate were forged; that the Polish rising
of 1831 was not directed against him; that the attack on his summer
palace was a feint; that his retirement to Minsk was involuntary; that
he did not die of cholera, as announced; that he was seized in the
night, and whisked away in a tarantass, while Russia was deceived by
funeral rites; that he was driven in the tarantass to Archangel,
whence he was borne to Solovetsk; that he escaped from the convent;
that in the year of Emancipation he suddenly appeared in Penza; that
he announced a reign of liberty and peace; that he was followed by
thousands of peasants; that, on being defeated by General Dreniakine,
he was suffered to escape; that he was afterwards seized in secret,
and sent back to Solovetsk; where he is still occasionally seen by
fishermen walking on the convent wall.
The facts which underlie these versions of the same historical events
are wrapped in not a little doubt; and what is actually known is of
the kind that may be read in a different sense by different eyes.