THE POPULAR CHURCH.
These secret sects and parties would be curious studies--and little
more--if they stood apart, and had to live or die by forces of their
own. In such a case they would be hardly more important than the
English Levellers and the Yankee Come-outers; but these Russian
dissidents are symptoms of a disease in the imperial body, not the
disease itself. They live on the popular aversion to an official
church.
It is not yet understood in England and America that a Popular Church
exists in Russia side by side with the Official Church. It is not yet
suspected in England and America that this Popular Church exists in
sleepless enmity and eternal conflict with this Official Church. Yet
in this fact of facts lies the key to every estimate of Russian
progress and Russian power.
This Popular Church consists of the Old Believers; men who reject the
pretended "reforms" of Patriarch Nikon, and follow their fathers in
observing the more ancient rite. "You will find in our country," said
to me a priest of this ancient faith, "a Church of Byzantine, and a
Church of Bethlehem; a new voice and an old voice; a system framed by
man, and a gospel given by God."
No one has ever yet counted the men who stand aloof from the State
Church as Old Believers. By the Government they have been sometimes
treated in a vague and foolish way as dissenters; though the
governments have never had the courage to count them as dissenters in
the official papers. Known to be sources of weakness in the empire,
they have been hated, feared, cajoled, maligned; observed by spies,
arrested by police, entreated by ministers; every thing but counted;
for the governments have not dared to face the truths which counting
these Old Believers would reveal. A wiser spirit rules to-day in the
Winter Palace; and this great question--greatest of all domestic
questions--is being studied under all its lights. Already it is felt
in governing circles--let the monks say what they will--that nothing
can be safely done in Russia, unless these Old Believers like it.
Every new suggestion laid before the Council of Ministers is met (I
have been told) by the query--"What will the Old Believers say?"
The points to be ascertained about these Old Believers are these: How
many do they count? What doctrines do they profess? What is their
present relation to the empire? What concessions would reconcile them
to the country and the laws?
How many do they count?
A bishop, who has travelled much in his country, tells me they are ten
or eleven millions strong. A minister of state informs me they are
sixteen or seventeen millions strong. "Half the people, even now, are
Old Believers," says a priest from Kem; "more than three-fourths will
be, the moment we are free." My own experience leads me to think this
priest is right. "I tell you what I find in going through the
country," writes to me a German who has lived in Russia for thirty
years, knowing the people well, yet standing free (as a Lutheran) from
their local brawls; "I find, on taking the population, man by man,
that _four_ persons _in five_ are either Old Believers now, or would
be Old Believers next week, if it were understood among them that the
Government left them free." This statement goes beyond my point; yet I
see good reason every day to recognize the fact--so long concealed in
official papers--that the Old Believers are the Russian people, while
the Orthodox Believers are but a courtly, official, and monastic sect.
Nearly all the northern peasants are Old Believers; nearly all the Don
Kozaks are Old Believers; more than half the population of Nijni and
Kazan are Old Believers; most of the Moscow merchants are Old
Believers. Excepting princes and generals, who owe their riches to
imperial favor, the wealthiest men in Russia are Old Believers. The
men who are making money, the men who are rising, the captains of
industry, the ministers of commerce, the giants of finance--in one
word, the men of the instant future--are members of the Popular
Church.
Driving through the streets of Moscow, day by day, admiring the noble
houses in town and suburb, your eye and ear are taken by surprise at
every turn. "Whose house is this?" you ask. "Morozof's." "What is he?"
"Morozof! why, sir, Morozof is the richest man in Moscow; the greatest
mill-owner in Russia. Fifty thousand men are toiling in his mills. He
is an Old Believer."
"Who lives here?" "Soldatenkof." "What is he!" "A great merchant; a
great manufacturer; one of the most powerful men in Russia. He is an
Old Believer."
"Who lives in yonder palace?"
"Miss Rokhmanof. In London you have such a lady; Miss Burdett Coutts
is richer, perhaps, than Miss Rokhmanof, but not more swift to do good
deeds. Her house, as you see, is big; it has thirty reception-rooms.
She is an Old Believer." So you drive on from dawn to dusk. You go
into the bazar--to find Old Believers owning most of the shops; you go
into the University--to find Old Believers giving most of the burses;
you go into the hospitals--to find Old Believers feeding nearly all
the sick. The old Russ virtues--even the old Russ vices--will be found
among these Old Believers; not among the polite and enervated
followers of the official form. "In Russia," said to me a judge of
men, "society has a ritual of her own; a ritual for the palace, for
the convent, for the camp; a gorgeous ritual, fit for emperors and
princes, such as the purple-born might offer to barbaric kings, not
such as fishermen in Galilee would invent for fishermen on the Frozen
Sea."
An Old Believer clings to the baldest forms of village worship, and
the simplest usages of village life. Conservative in the bad sense, as
in the good, he objects to every new thing, whether it be a synod of
monks, a capital on foreign soil, a cup of tea sweetened with sugar, a
city lit by gas. Show him a thing unknown to his fathers in Nikon's
time, and you show him a thing which he will spurn as a work of the
nether fiend.
These Old Believers are as much the enemies of an official empire as
they are of an official church. The test of loyalty in Russia is
praying for the reigning prince as a good Emperor and a good
Christian; but many of these Old Believers will not pray for the
reigning prince at all. Some will pray for him as Tsar, though not as
Emperor; but none will pray for him as a Christian man. They look on
him as reigning by a dubious title and a doubtful right. The word
emperor, they say, means Chert--Black One; the double eagle an evil
spirit; the autocracy a kingdom of Antichrist.
All this confusion in her moral and political life is traceable to the
times of Nikon the Patriarch; a person hardly less important to a
modern observer of Russia, than the great prince who is said by Old
Believers to have been his bastard son.
About the time when our own Burton and Prynne were being laid in the
pillory, when Hampden and Cromwell were being stayed in the Thames, a
man of middle age and sour expression landed from a boat at Solovetsk
to pray at the shrine of St. Philip, and beg an asylum from the monks.
He described himself as a peasant from the Volga, his father as a
field laborer in a village near Nijni. He was a married man and his
wife was still alive. In his youth he had spent some time in a
monastery, and after trying domestic life for ten years, he had
persuaded his partner to become a bride of Christ. Leaving her in the
convent of St. Alexie in Moscow, he had pushed out boldly into the
frozen north.
At that time certain hermits lived on the isle of Anzersk, where the
farm now stands, in whose "desert" this stranger found a home. There
he took the cowl, and the name of Nikon; but his nature was so rough,
that he was soon engaged in bickering with his chief as he had
bickered with his wife. Eleazar, founder of the desert, desired to
build a church of stone in lieu of his church of pines, and the two
men set out for Moscow to collect some funds. They quarrelled on their
road; they quarrelled on their return. At length, the brethren rose on
the new-comer, expelled him from the desert, placed him in a canoe,
with bread and water, and told him to go whither he pleased, so that
he never came back. Chance threw him on shore at Ki, a rock in Onega
Bay; where he set up a cross, and promised to erect a chapel, if the
virgin whom he served would help him to get rich.
On crossing to the main land, he became the organizer of a band of
hermits on Leather Lake (Kojeozersk) in the province of Olonetz. From
Leather Lake he made his spring into power and fame; for having an
occasion to see the Tsar Alexie on some business, he so impressed that
very poor judge of men that in a few years he was raised to the seats
of Archimandrite, Bishop, Metropolite, and Patriarch.
Combining the pride of Wolsey with the subtlety of Cranmer, Nikon set
his heart on governing the Church with a sharper rod than had been
used by his faint and shadowy predecessors. A burly fellow, flushed of
face, red of nose, and bleary of eye, Nikon resembled a Friesland boor
much more than a Moscovite monk. He revelled in pomp and show; he
swelled with vanity as he sat enthroned in his cathedral near the
Tsar. Feeling a priest's delight in the splendor of the Byzantine
clergy, even under Turkish rule, he sought to model his own ceremonial
rites on those of the Byzantine clergy, not aware that in going back
to the Lower Empire he was seeking guidance from the Greeks in their
corruptest time. His earlier steps were not unwise. Sending out a body
of scribes, he obtained from Mount Athos copies of the most ancient
and authentic sacred books, which he caused to be translated into
Slavonic and compared with the books in ordinary use; and finding that
errors had crept into the text, he bade his scribes prepare for him a
new edition of the Scriptures and Rituals, in which the better
readings should be introduced. But here his merit ends. Nikon knew no
Greek; yet when the work was done for him by others, he proceeded,
with an arrogant frown on his brow, to force his version on the
Church. The Church objected; Nikon called upon the Tsar. The priests
demurred to this intrusion of the civil power; and Nikon handed the
protesting clergy over to the police. Alexie lent him every aid in
carrying out his scheme. Yet the opposition was strong, not only in
town and village, but in the council, in the convent, and in the
Church. Peasants and popes were equally against the changes he
proposed to make. The service-books were old and venerable; they
sounded musical in every ear; their very accents seemed divine. These
books had been used in their sacred offices time out of mind, and
twenty generations of their fathers had by them been christened,
married, and laid at rest. Why should these books be thrown aside? The
writings offered in their stead were foreign books. Nikon said they
were better; how could Nikon know? The Patriarch was not a critic;
many persons denied that he was a learned man. Instead of trying to
gain support for his innovations, he forced them on the Church. Nor
was he satisfied to deal with the texts alone. He changed the old
cross. He trifled with the sacraments. He brought in a new mode of
benediction. He altered the stamp on consecrated bread. By order of
the Tsar, who could not see the end of what he was about, the Council
adopted Nikon's reforms in the Church; and these new Scriptures, these
new services, these new sacraments, this new cross, and this new
benediction, were introduced, by order of the civil power, in every
church and convent throughout the land. The Nikonian Church was
recognized as an Official Church.
Most of the people and their parish clergy stood up boldly for their
ancient texts, especially in the far north countries, where the court
had scarcely any power over the thoughts of men. The view taken in the
north appears to have been something like that of our English Puritans
when judging the merits and demerits of King James's version: they
thought the new Scriptures rather too worldly in tone; over-just to
high dignitaries in Church and State; less likely to promote holy
living and holy dying than the old. In a word, they thought them too
political in their accent and their spirit.
No convent in the empire showed a sterner will to reject these
innovations than the great establishment in the Frozen Sea. When
Nikon's service-books arrived at Solovetsk, the brethren threw them
aside in scorn. The Archimandrite, as an officer of state, took part
with the Patriarch and the Tsar; but the fathers put their
Archimandrite in a boat and carried him to Kem. Having called a
council of their body, they chose two leaders; Azariah, whom they
elected caterer; and Gerontie, whom they elected bursar. All the
Kozaks in the fortress joined them; and, supported from the mainland
by people who shared their minds, the monks of Solovetsk maintained
their armed revolt against the Nikonian Church for upward of ten
years, and only fell by treachery at last.
In Orthodox accounts of this siege the captors are represented as
behaving as men should behave in war. They are said to have put to the
sword only such as they took in arms; and borne the rest away from
Solovetsk, to be placed in convents at a distance till they came to a
better mind. But many old books, possessed by peasants round the
Frozen Sea, put another face on such tales. A peasant, living in the
Delta, pulled up a book from a well under his kitchen floor, and
showed me a passage in red and black ink, to the effect that the whole
brotherhood of resisting monks was put to the sword and perished to a
man.
What the besiegers won, the nation lost. This victory clove the Church
in twain, and the end of Nikon's triumph has not yet been reached.