THE
MONASTERY OF PETSCHENGA.
SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LAPLAND.
(FROM HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY SOURCES.)
BY
J. A. FRIIS,
Professor in the University of Christiania.
Translated by Hill Repp.
LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1896.
TO THE PAST AND PRESENT MEMBERS
OF THE
FAMILY OF CARR ELLISON,
OF HEDGELEY, IN THE COUNTY OF NORTHUMBERLAND,
THE FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS OF MY LATE PARENTS,
AND OF THEIR CHILDREN,
THIS TRANSLATION IS LOVINGLY
AND GRATEFULLY
DEDICATED.
NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
To Professor Friis, of Christiania, who very kindly gave me permission
to publish a translation of this book, and to T. M. Fallow, Esq., M.A.,
of Coatham House, Coatham, who has assisted me in the translation, I
offer my sincere thanks.
HILL REPP.
Redcar,
April, 1896.
AUTHORITIES.
A letter, dated Vardö, August 7, 1590, preserved among the State
Archives of Norway; Büschings Magazine, Halle, 1773; Opisanie
Archangelskoi Gubernii, by S. Kosma Moltscanoff, St. Petersburg, 1813;
the periodical Suomi for 1843–1848; Opisanie Archangelskoi Gubernii, by
Poschman, Archangel, 1866; Ruskii Wiestnik, Siderof, 1866; Sapiski dljä
Stenia, Tschubinski, St. Petersburg, 1867; Murmanskii i Terskii Berega,
E. Ogorodnikoff, St. Petersburg, 1869; Novoje Wremja, December 10,
1883.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MILLSTONE 1
II. TRIFON, THE FOUNDER OF THE MONASTERY 10
III. THE MONASTERY AND ITS INDUSTRIES 20
IV. THE MONK AMBROSE AND THE PIRATE ANIKA 29
V. JUSSI AND UNNAS 40
VI. THEODORE AND ANNITA 48
VII. THE DESTRUCTION OF THE MONASTERY ON CHRISTMAS EVE, 1589 71
VIII. REUNION 81
PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.
CHAPTER I.
THE MILLSTONE.
Come with me, and let us take a trip far away to the North Country, to
the coast of the White Sea, to the land of the midnight sun, to the
shores of Russian Lapland. There is very much in those parts that is
still quite unknown. The district to which we journey has never yet
been described, nor has it even been explored. The fisherman has not
visited it. The rivers, with their flowing streams, and their beautiful
pools swirling beneath the waterfalls, remain in their virgin purity,
and have never been whipped by the salmon-fisher. No one has pulled a
line or trawled a net across the lakes, nor has anyone passed to and
fro over them, dragging that miserable implement which is known as an
oter. [1]
No sportsman has been to these parts. The hares skip about, and are as
tame as if they were in the Garden of Eden. The hills and dales have
never echoed to the hare-hunters’ halloo, to the baying of hounds in
full cry to the sound of a gun, or to the death-shriek of the quarry.
The last time I was in this district of Lapland I was sitting, at
eleven o’clock one evening, in beautiful sunlight, outside the door of
a Lapp who lived on the banks of a river which we shall very soon reach
in our journeyings. Suddenly, I observed on the other side of the
river, on a sunny knoll where the herbage springs up early in the
season, five or six dark-coloured animals skipping about. I thought
they were sheep, and I asked the Lapp whether they were his sheep.
‘A sheep,’ said the Lapp; ‘that isn’t a sheep, it is a jenesiä; that is
to say, a hare.’
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘what a scrimmage, what an awful scrimmage there
would be if one were suddenly to let loose in this place a couple of
spirited Christiania harriers!’ At any time of the year, hares are to
be found in almost incredible numbers, and at eleven o’clock at night,
when all is calm and quiet, and the sun is still above the horizon,
they may be seen coming out of their hiding-places, and feeding and
playing about.
Ptarmigan and snipe are also found in great numbers, but none of them
know what a setter or a pointer is like. Not one of them has ever seen
a dog come snuffing and sneaking along, and then suddenly stand
stock-still, as if turned to stone, ready to make a desperate spring.
Too much ink has not been wasted in describing the people who dwell in
this region, and their surroundings. And yet it is a country which has
a remarkable history. It was quite by accident that I was led to make
inquiry about it, and the reader will be able to gather from the
narrative that follows the result of my studies.
First of all, we will make for Finmark, but when we arrive at
Hammerfest we must not forget to apply to the Russian Consul for a
passport, as we then shall be within the territory of the great Russian
Empire. If any of our party can speak a little Russian, it will be sure
to come in useful, as nearly all Russian Lapps can speak that language
after a fashion. From Vadsö we will travel by one of the small fjord
steamboats across to Elvenaes in South Varanger. Perhaps we may be
lucky enough on our way to see a whaler give chase to a whale, and
harpoon one of those monsters.
From South Varanger we can go by foot to our destination, across a
tract of country extending for three or four miles, or we can go by
sea. I propose the latter plan. In a good eight-oared boat we can (we
are three in number—sportsman, fisherman, and botanist) take with us
all that we shall need: tents, bed-clothes, meat and drink, as well as
hunting and fishing tackle. We can sail or row according to the state
of the weather. If we wish to do so, we can, as we go, fish for huge
cod and wonderful haddocks, which bite very differently from the small
fish which are taken in the Christiania fjord. The bait which we shall
need is not an artificial fly from Christiania, but something as thick
and solid as the line itself which is used there. If we have a fair
wind, and do not want to be delayed by fishing, or by shooting
sea-fowl, we can reach our destination in about four-and-twenty hours.
We shall sail past a projecting promontory or peninsula called
Normanssaet, where there was formerly a colony of Norwegians. Then we
must turn to the south, up a small fjord which is called in Russian
Petschenga, but in Norwegian Munkfjord. The latter designation can
scarcely fail to attract attention, but the visitor looks in vain for
the slightest sign or trace of monks or of monasteries. The banks of
the fjord are very lovely; there are undulating ridges of ground
clothed with birch, but the banks are in other parts wild and desolate.
Not an individual is to be seen anywhere. No smoke rises from a single
hearth to point out the dwelling of man. A short way up the fjord, on
the east side, there is an inlet which is rather narrow where it enters
the fjord, but wide, deep, and broad inside, and this inlet affords the
chief harbour for vessels, as it is never blocked by ice. This harbour
is called the Warehouse Inlet, a name which suggests former
inhabitants, but there are no more indications of warehouses now than
there were of monks in Munkfjord.
On the tour of which some details are now given, after passing a small
river known as Trifon’s River (a name pointing to events which occurred
long ago), we reached the head of the fjord where the Petschenga River
discharges itself. Here, at a place called Barken, a few Lapps live.
From these people we each hired a boat of the kind that is now in use
in Finmark. They are long and narrow, almost exactly like those which
are used on the Hallingdal River. The same kind of river has produced
the same type of boat. We transferred our luggage to these river-boats,
and arranged it in the centre, so that, according to our inclination,
we could either sit or lie down in the boats. Then we set off, with a
couple of men in each boat, one in the bow and the other at the stern,
each furnished with a long pole. The boats glided on as the boatmen,
encouraged by us, pushed along the banks of the river, competing with
one another. The banks are covered on both sides with beautiful
white-stemmed birch trees. Here and there a solitary fir is to be seen,
which looks almost black by contrast with the bright green birch
leaves. Further toward the south the firs are more plentiful, and quite
in the distance dense pine-woods appear. The fact is, that the river
rises in the south, and in travelling up it we take a southerly
direction.
A quarter of a mile up the river we reached such a lovely spot that we
decided at once to disembark, and pitch our tents for the night. There
is a level plot of ground a few feet above the river-bed, and it is as
smooth and as flat as a parlour floor, so that it must have been made
at some period by the river itself. Here and there are clumps of trees
that are a hundred years old, birch, aspen, and mountain-ash; and in
the open spaces between the clumps a luxuriant herbage is growing. It
looks as if somebody, a long time ago, had laid out plantations here.
From this level piece of land there is a view across the river, which
flows still and deep just below, and there is another view over the
fjord towards the north, while very far to the south-east, mountains
with the snow upon them can be seen. A more lovely spot for a dwelling
could scarcely be found anywhere, even in Norwegian Finmark.
For about an hour we were busily occupied in pitching our tents,
strewing thin fragrant birch twigs on the ground, spreading
reindeer-skins over the twigs, and arranging our baggage according to
each one’s taste, and idea of order. When all was finished we paid
calls on each other, and discussed the question, what should we have
for supper, or, to speak more correctly, for dinner; for in those parts
one is often at dinner when it is midnight in Southern lands.
‘Fresh salmon,’ said the sportsman.
‘And young ptarmigan,’ said the botanist.
‘And cloudberries for dessert,’ said the fisherman.
‘Do salmon come up the river as far as this?’ I asked of one of the
boatmen.
‘Salmon indeed!’ he replied, ‘why, I should think so; they come up
here, and many miles further to the Harefos, then they can’t get
further, and are packed like herrings in a barrel.’
Out, then, with salmon rod, reel, line, and gaff, and so into the boat
once more. It is just eight o’clock in the evening, and this is not too
late for a bite, before the fish are away to rest for the night. The
sportsman at the same time took his gun, and sallied forth with Pan,
the dog. I put a bright spoon on the line, and got the Lapp to row off
with a single stroke, so as to row ‘poiki, poiki,’ backwards and
forwards, across the stream. It was not necessary to work very long.
The third time of crossing, the line ran buzzing violently off the
reel.
‘Lohi on, lohi on! That’s a salmon, that’s a salmon!’ shouted the Lapp.
‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘but surely you aren’t afraid of a salmon? Why, a
salmon is what we want for dinner!’
At that very moment the salmon took a vigorous leap of three feet into
the air, so that the evening sun glittered on its shining silvery
scales, and it fell again with a splash.
‘Iso on! It is a big one!’ said the Lapp.
‘Yes, it’s an eighteen-pounder,’ I replied. ‘I have taken so many of
them with the line that I am not far wrong, if I can only see the fish
once.’
Another leap into the air, and it became so tractable that we were able
to row with it towards our encampment. There I landed, and soon had it
close to the shore; then, with a final effort, it was off again into
the middle and deepest part of the river. It was, however, quite
powerless to rise, and lay flat on its side. The line was quickly wound
in, and the fish guided to the shore through deep water, when the Lapp
plunged the spear into it. It was ours, and weighed eighteen and a half
pounds. So we had enough fish for ourselves and for the men.
As if by a preconcerted arrangement, at the very same moment a double
report was heard, one shot immediately after the other, from a bleak
spot a little distance off. The sportsman had come upon some ptarmigan.
He is a crack shot, as the two reports following each other so quickly
showed. Immediately afterwards two more shots were heard. Clearly we
had got three young birds at least, one for each of us.
‘But how about the cloudberries?’ I remarked to the botanist, who was
standing and gazing at the salmon.
‘Oh, I have sent a Lapp to pick them,’ he replied; ‘he knows better
than I do where to find them.’
While we were cutting up the salmon the sportsman and Pan returned. The
latter seemed quite crestfallen at the expedition having proved such a
short one.
‘How many reports did you hear?’ the sportsman inquired.
‘Four,’ we replied.
‘Just so: two double ones,’ he said. ‘I have only shot four young
birds; they are, however, enough for us to-day.’
The botanist was with one voice condemned to pluck the ptarmigan, as he
had been too lazy to pick the cloudberries. He went away with the
birds, but, shameful to say, when he came back he had skinned them
instead of plucking them. What barbarism! A fire was lighted, and a
couple of pots were set over it. There was plenty of fuel, and we had
an excellent kitchen. The smoke soon began to curl in the air, and
protected us from the mosquitoes, so that we were able to take the
veils off our faces.
After having regaled ourselves with a capital meal, some of the party
retired to rest. The Lapps laid themselves down on the ground under a
birch-tree. They needed no tent. They drew themselves up, head, legs,
and arms, within their coarse-woven garments, and had by this means
both over and under clothing, as well as a protection from mosquitoes.
Only an old Lapp, Nilas, and I remained sitting at the fire chatting,
and smoking our clay pipes over a glass of grog. The nectar of life
excited the Lapp; he became communicative, and I began to question him
as to whether he knew anything about what had occurred in those parts
in former times. I could see that there must have been people living in
the district at some period. The grassy mounds were in places so
regular, and of so remarkable a shape, besides being so neatly formed,
that they must originally have been the work of man.
‘Have you seen the big wonderful stone that is lying close to the
Kujasuga River?’ asked the Lapp.
‘No,’ I said; ‘I have never been here before, and I have neither seen
nor heard of any stone. But let us go and look at it.’
Two thousand feet or so behind our encampment a small rivulet emptied
itself into the river; it was as bright and clear as crystal. Probably
it was not flowing far from its source, or it would not have been so
free from mud, and so wonderfully clear and cold. Just below a little
waterfall which the rivulet forms, a huge round stone was lying. At
first I thought it might be an old idol which the Lapps formerly
worshipped, but in this I was mistaken. When I got down close to it,
and had cleared it of the branches and rubbish which covered it, I saw
to my amazement that it was—a Millstone. There was no possible mistake
about it. It was a real millstone, and so big that I doubt whether, at
the present day, a bigger one could be found in any water or wind mill.
The hole in the centre was so large that I could easily put my head
through it. It was also quite evident that the stone had been in use at
some time. But how on earth did it get there? How did it find its way
there in the seventieth degree of north latitude, where not a single
blade of corn ever grew, to say nothing of ripening? It could not have
lain there since the Deluge. Nor could it have been brought there by
the ice, like a stray log of wood, for the motion of the ice is from
north to south, and surely in olden times people were not using
millstones at the north pole, unless it should really turn out to be
the case, in accordance with the very newest theory, that Europe has
been peopled from the north! It was an enigma, and one which completely
puzzled me.
A shipwreck? Perhaps, thought I, it was brought there by a shipwreck.
But no; the millstone is about a quarter of a mile from the sea. It was
clear that somebody must have taken it there, and must have had a mill
at that place. But who?
‘Can you tell me anything about the stone, Nilas?’ I asked. ‘Do you
know what such a stone is used for?’
‘No,’ replied Nilas; ‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know whether it has been lying here for a long time?’
‘Yes,’ said Nilas; ‘it has lain here for hundreds of years. I heard
that from my old grandfather.’
‘God bless both you and your old grandfather!’ I said; ‘but who brought
the stone here?’
‘It must have been the monks,’ said Nilas.
‘The monks, do you say? Why, what monks?’
‘The monks who lived here a long time ago, about whom my grandfather
has told me.’
‘You are my friend, Nilas,’ I said; and I rubbed my hands together for
joy. ‘Come, let us get back to the fire, good Nilas, and sit down. You
must tell me all you have heard from your grandfather about these
monks. You mustn’t forget anything. I shan’t let you go till you have
told me all that you know.’
‘Well,’ thought I to myself, ‘here is the explanation of the names
Munkfjord, Warehouse Inlet, Trifon’s River, and others.’
We went back to the fire, and remained sitting through the light
night-time, and far on into the morning, Nilas squatting on the ground,
half in the smoke of the fire, with which he mingled the smoke from his
own pipe, looking, with his red head-covering, just like an imp. I sat
with a veil over my face, and with paper before me, he relating and I
listening, and scribbling down on the paper, as fast as my pen would
go, his strange tales about a big monastery which had once stood where
our tents were pitched, and about a magnificent church, and monks who
used to go in procession, and sing psalms, and burn incense. If I had
not found the millstone, I should most probably never have learnt the
history of this monastery, but the millstone gave me the first clue,
which I resolutely followed up, carefully searching through legends and
manuscripts and books, among the State archives, and in libraries in
Norway, Finland, and Russia. I have picked up and collected every
trustworthy piece of historical and ethnographical information, and
woven these together with the old legends which I heard from the Lapp
Nilas that night on the banks of the Petschenga River.
Before we left the neighbourhood I went once more to the millstone, to
look at it somewhat more closely, and to take leave of it. It had been
the upper of the two stones which are used in a mill. It lay with the
hollowed part uppermost, and a quantity of dead leaves—yellow, green,
and red birch leaves—had collected in the hollow. While I was sitting
quite alone and dreaming of the old times, a little whirlwind arose
which whisked the leaves round in a circle on the stone, and swept them
into the hole, rolled them up again, and then whirled them into the
air, so that they danced about, chasing one another hither and thither
as if at play, just as if they had all of a sudden come to life, and
had been transformed into a variety of yellow, green, and red
butterflies.
Are they the souls of the monks, I thought, which have come back here
again, and are carrying on a sprightly dance over the solitary relic of
their former glory? and is it for joy because now at last, after the
lapse of three centuries, they are to be rescued from oblivion and
brought to the light of day once again? If this be so, then I hope they
will not be altogether displeased with my endeavour to serve them.
We will now take our leave of both the sportsman and the botanist, and
endeavour to recall, and to present to our readers, scenes and
incidents which belong to the middle of the sixteenth century.