THEODORE AND ANNITA.
In the year 1589 the number of monks in the monastery of Petschenga
reached sixty, and there were more than two hundred lay-brothers. On
account of the secular business in which the members of the monastery
were engaged, some of them were always away, either attending to the
mill, the shipbuilding, or the fisheries, or else they were travelling
on business to Vardö or Kola. But on the great festivals they were all
assembled in the monastery, and the services were conducted with full
and impressive solemnity.
The forms of worship in the Eastern Church, which the monks were bound
to observe, are strictly observed at the great feasts, and also during
the forty days of Advent and Lent. The daily offices of the Church are
six, and sometimes seven, in number, according to Psa. cxix. 164:
‘Seven times a day do I praise Thee, O Lord.’ These offices are said
partly during the night, and the following is the appointed order: At
midnight what is called Mesonyktikon is said; this lasts for three
hours. Then there come Matins, and then the lesser Hours. At seven in
the morning the Liturgy itself is celebrated. This is the service in
which the Eucharist is hallowed and administered. The Brethren usually
receive the Sacrament four times a year. In the afternoon Vespers are
said, and finally, at the close of the day, Compline. On fasts and
great festivals ‘Apogrypnia’ is said after ten o’clock at night, and
this is an office which requires that the night shall be passed in the
church and spent in prayer. When ‘Apogrypnia’ is said, it is usual to
celebrate the Liturgy rather earlier, and then the monks go to rest
till Vespers. There is never any sermon at these services, but on the
festivals a portion of the lives of saints and martyrs is read.
Ambrose was not as yet a full monk, but he had completed his novitiate,
and it was decided that he should take the vow on Christmas Eve, 1589.
The venerable and aged Superior, Gurij, had frequently discoursed with
him, and had earnestly explained to him the unalterable nature of the
vow which he was to take, and which would, for all his future life,
bind him to the monastic life. Ambrose had declared that he was ready
to take the vow, and with it to bid farewell to everything in the world
which was not consistent with the strict, secluded life of a monastery.
Nevertheless, old Gurij, who had attached himself more to this young
man than to any of the other monks, had observed at times that there
was an indication of something like suppressed anxiety in his pale face
as the day approached nearer and nearer on which the solemn vow was to
be taken. He fancied that at times there was in Ambrose’s features an
expression as of a profound and unendurable anguish. Ambrose, who was
usually very silent, had never told him much about his earlier career.
It was not improbable, therefore, that in some deep recess of the man’s
heart there lay hidden away memories of occurrences of which nobody had
any knowledge.
The old Superior made up his mind that he would once more speak to him
privately, before he took the irrevocable vow, and he decided to do so
after the first office for the day before Christmas Eve had been said.
When therefore, Mesonyktikon, or the midnight office, was over—that is,
about two o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve—Gurij summoned
Ambrose to his cell.
‘To-day,’ he said, ‘you are to take the final vow and be one of us, and
become a monk for the rest of your life.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘You have no doubt as to your decision?’
‘No.’
‘There is nothing about which you wish to consult me?’
‘No.’
‘There is nothing you wish to confess to me or confide to me?—you know
that I am not only your brother, but an old friend too.’
‘I have no confession to make.’
‘Have you never done wrong? Is there nothing in your earlier career for
which you need to obtain forgiveness or the intercession of the
Church?’
‘Indeed, Father, I have done wrong; but others have done more wrong to
me than I have done to them.’
‘You have no longer any ill feeling; you have forgiven them?’
‘No,’ said Ambrose, after a moment’s reflection.
‘But you must forgive; you will obtain no peace until you do, and you
cannot take the vow while you bear malice in your heart. Before you bid
the world farewell you must realize the calm peace of reconciliation.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Who is it that has wronged you so cruelly?’
‘My father.’
‘Your own father?’
‘Yes, and my relations and friends.’
‘There are also many things connected with the world with which your
heart is still occupied, and on which your thoughts dwell, instead of
being engaged in prayer and fasting.’
‘No; there is nothing in the world in which I have lived that I look
for. All is hidden, forgotten, buried and lost.’
‘But it has left behind bitterness in your feelings. Have you never
loved—loved some woman?’
‘Certainly,’ exclaimed Ambrose, and he thereupon turned paler than
ever. There suddenly arose from the innermost recess of his soul a form
so lifelike, as it stood before him, that he covered his face with his
hands and fell on his knees, and laid his head on the old man’s lap,
while he slowly muttered the name ‘Annita, Annita.’
The old man allowed him to remain thus for a while, as he perceived
that this strong man was weeping like a child. There must, then, as he
had suspected, be events which had taken place in his earlier career
which were now revived with painful vividness.
‘Brother,’ he said, ‘will you here, in the quiet of the night, open
your heart to me, and tell me all about your previous career? I do not
ask you from inquisitiveness, but tell me if you can; I will listen to
you. You know that I am your friend. Moreover, I have loved you, and
will understand you, and sympathize with you.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Ambrose, ‘if you will listen to me, I will tell you
everything. My name is not really Ambrose, but I bear the same name as
our orthodox Czar, whose father conferred on this monastery its
charter. My name is really, like his, Theodore Ivanovitsch, and I come
of an old Russian boyar family. A pious mother taught me in my early
youth to read the lives of the saints and martyrs, and to go to church.
But as I am of noble birth, and at some period would have to serve the
Czar, I also learned to ride and fence and hunt and shoot. I have been
an officer. You see this scar which I have on my forehead? I received
it in battle. There has, as you know, been variance for many years
between the monastery of Solowetski and the Swedish Finns in heretical
Finland. This variance still continues, and none the less now that
there is war between the Czar and John III. of Sweden. The monastery of
Solowetski was, as you know, founded in 1429, and obtained at length
even greater privileges than our own monastery has done. But it was
also bound to protect Karelstrand and the towns in that neighbourhood
against attacks from Finnish pirates. For the protection of the
monastery the Czar has now, as you also know, built a stone wall which
is to have eight towers, and is to surround the churches and all the
buildings. Meanwhile the Swedish Finns, out of their old hatred of the
Russians, had been making piratical incursions into Karelen, attacking
our orthodox people, and the Solowetski people did not hesitate to
retaliate. In this way, about twelve years ago, I was sent as a young
officer to Karelen with a troop of Cossacks to protect the inhabitants
against these Swedish Finns. I must admit that the Cossacks whom I had
to command were wild and cruel men. Young, and unused to the horrors of
war, I often tried to restrain them from needlessly killing men and
women, while they were plundering their dwellings. At times I was,
fortunately, able to save the innocent; but on one occasion, when we
had chased a crowd of Swedish Finns back out of Karelen, into which
they had made a piratical incursion, and had pursued them right into
the district of Kajana, it so happened that some of my men, who were in
the van, had reached the farmstead of Kuolaniemi in Sotkamo before I
came up. They had attacked the farm people, and, as usual, had killed
and plundered them. After this they had fired the houses. I saw the
fire, and pressed on with my men. The farm was beautifully situated on
a projecting promontory by the side of a large lake. The houses and
tall spruce firs down by the lake were so clearly reflected in it, that
it looked as if the smooth depths of the lake below, as well as the
clouds in the sky above, were ablaze. As, in a state of indignation, I
rode inside the burning farmstead, determined more strongly than before
to remonstrate with the more bloodthirsty of my men, I caught sight of
a woman, struggling desperately with a Cossack at the doorway and on
the steps of the burning house. The master of the house they had
already killed, but the mother was clinging, though mortally wounded,
to the leg of a Cossack to save a child—a little girl—whom he was
trying to drag away with him. Before I could reach him, I saw him lift
a spear and plunge it into the mother’s breast, so that she swooned
away and let go her hold of his leg, while at the same moment the child
tore herself away and ran off towards the courtyard. Enraged, the
monster threw his blood-stained spear after the child, and sprang aside
to catch her. Fortunately, he only touched her flowing hair, and at
that moment I and my men reached him.
‘“Monster!” I shouted. “Would you kill an innocent child?” and I placed
my spear on the man’s breast so that he stopped.
‘The child clung to my leg, and cried to me in mortal fear and with
tears in its little eyes, “Save me! save me!” I took her in my arms and
lifted her on to my horse. Poor child! she clung in her terror close to
me, and hid herself under my large riding-coat.
‘The farm continued to burn. No one seemed to think of putting out the
fire, and the people belonging to the farm who had not been able to
escape at once were lying dead in all directions in the burning house.
I gave orders for a retreat within the boundary of Karelen; but what
was I to do with the child whom I had beside me on my horse, a little
girl some six or seven years old? She looked terrified at my men if any
of them came near me, and with her little arms took tight hold of me.
‘“Hold me fast!” she cried; “don’t let go of me, dear, dear man! don’t
let them kill me!”’
‘“No, my child, no one shall touch you,” I said, to pacify her.
‘The district was a lonely one, and the people all about had taken to
flight. I could not, therefore, leave the child at the farm which had
been burnt down. She would have perished of cold and hunger, as most
likely people would not venture there again for some time. I took the
child with me, therefore, to the camp. She was a pretty little girl.
When we dismounted from our horses at the camp, she would not on any
account let go my hand, which she grasped with both her own.
‘“What is your name?” I asked her, when we had entered my tent and her
terror had somewhat subsided.
‘“Nita,” she replied, crying.
‘“Your parents are dead, my poor child,” I said. “Have you brothers and
sisters?”
‘“No; father and mother had only me.”
‘“Have you any relations?”
‘“No; I don’t know of any.”
‘“I really don’t know what to do with you, my poor little Nita, or
where to send you.”
‘“Don’t send me away!” she cried. “Can’t I stop with you? I am so
frightened at all the men here. Can I keep with you? I will be a good
girl, and I am called Annita, too. Annita is my proper name.”
‘We talked for some time together, but I could not make out anything
respecting her relatives. This much only was evident, that her parents
had been ordinary farm-people, but apparently well-to-do folk, for the
child was well dressed, well brought up, and, moreover, intelligent for
her age.
‘She slept in my tent at night, and could not be prevailed upon to
leave me, so afraid was she of my rough men. So I came to the
conclusion to take the little orphan home with me to my parents in
Russia. I explained, therefore, on the next day to my men that for the
future I should consider Annita as my child, and threatened with death
the man who should do her any harm.
‘As there was now not much probability that the Swedish Finns would
soon make a fresh attack on Karelen, I returned to my home on the
border of Lake Ladoga, close to Olonet, not far from Finland, where my
father owned an estate and several hundreds of serfs. My parents were
very much surprised at my bringing home, as a trophy from the
battlefield, a little girl, but when they heard further particulars
they considered that I had done right, and they received the child
kindly. Annita was both a pretty and an amiable child, and she soon
became a favourite.
‘At the end of a year she had learnt to speak Russian, only with me she
preferred to speak Karelsk, her mother tongue, which I could also speak
fairly fluently. It was natural that the child clung to me, and was not
quite satisfied unless I was somewhere near. I had rescued her. She
looked on me as another father. She could be merry, and happy, and
boisterous, like other children, when we went about together, but if I
were from home she used to be silent and quiet. Other people might
praise her, pet her, or scold her, but she did not seem to care much
about it. Only when the praise or blame came from me was she pleased or
sorry. She was educated at my home, and in every respect brought up
like a daughter of the house. Sometimes I used to teach her myself, and
she then was always most diligent.
‘In this way several years passed by. Annita grew up, and by degrees
she began to look upon me as an elder brother. I was, moreover, ten
years her senior. When she was fifteen years old she was sent to a
convent, where she remained for two years. At the same time I was
stationed at Moscow, in Ivan Wasilievitsch’s service, and came to know
personally both him and his son, the pious Theodore, as well as many
other persons who were great and powerful at Ivan’s Court.
‘I remember well that Annita had no wish whatever to go to the convent.
I had to start first, and the day before my departure, when it was
bedtime, I laid my hand on her little head, and said:
‘“Good-bye, Annita; God bless you!”
‘But she only clung to me, and exclaimed:
‘“Take me with you! Can’t you take me with you?”
‘She was simple enough to think that she could travel to Moscow with
me, and that she could there keep house for me.
‘“I cannot take you with me, Annita,” I said; and I tried to take one
hand out of hers.
‘“I won’t go to the convent,” she said with indignation, and she would
not loosen her hold on my hand.
‘“You must go,” I said. “It cannot be otherwise, Annita. I will come
and see you, and look after you. Say good-bye, and be a reasonable
little girl,” I replied, bending down to her.
‘She threw her arms around my neck, sobbed bitterly, and again
exclaimed:
‘“But why can’t you take me with you?”
‘I gently disengaged her arms, kissed her on the forehead, and she went
with my mother into her room.
‘I said good-bye to my parents overnight, as I was to start very early
in the morning. It was still quite dark when I got up and went down to
the sitting-room. When I entered it, I saw Annita standing by a small
table, where the cloth was laid for me.
‘“Annita;” I exclaimed, as she approached me; “are you here, child?”
‘“Yes,” she said; “I wanted to see you before you left.”
‘“But how did you manage to wake up so early?”
‘“I first tried to remain awake in my room, but I couldn’t. Then I went
quietly to the maid’s room, and slept with her so as to be sure to wake
up, and so contrive that you would not leave without my seeing you off.
Are you angry with me?”
‘“No, my child; I am not angry with you. God bless you! Good-bye again,
and be a good girl, and go and lie down again!”
‘She went back again to her room in tears. She had to the very last,
perhaps, entertained a slight hope that I would be prevailed upon to
take her with me. I was sincerely sorry for the child, but it was
altogether out of the question for me to think of taking her to Moscow.
‘On Christmas Eve in 1584 we were both to be at home again. Theodore
had come to the throne, and I obtained leave to go home and visit my
parents. Annita arrived before me, and received me in company with my
father and mother, as I came driving into the courtyard. Annita was in
her nineteenth year, and had so grown that she was almost as tall as my
mother. She was a delicately-made, slender girl, with glossy, fair
hair, which curled slightly over her temples. She still wore her
convent dress, and had during the three years she had been away become
beautiful like a Madonna. But there were two things in particular which
marked Annita out as distinct from any other woman whom I had ever
seen—her beautiful eyes and an engaging smile. When Annita smiled no
mortal man or woman could resist her. I often observed that when she
came into a room, where there were many people, it was as if a ray of
sunshine had suddenly shone into the room. Even if it so happened that
the company had been sitting in silence, Annita’s appearance seemed to
cast a ray of friendliness and harmony over the faces of the company,
and they soon became gay and lively.
‘When I came home on this occasion Annita did not, as usual, spring
wildly to me, and cling fast to my hand with both of hers; but she
stood quite still, and only shook hands with me.
‘“Well, Annita,” I exclaimed, “aren’t you glad I’ve come home again?”
‘“Indeed I am,” she said; “I am very glad;” and she smiled as she
looked at me. To look at those eyes was like looking into the clearest
crystal well. There was no secret hidden at the bottom. No passion had
as yet dimmed the lustre of that depth. Her look was childlike, pure,
innocent, and decorous. And when she slowly opened her large eyes and
gazed at me, it seemed as if I was folded in a wonderfully warm and
enchanting light.
‘I was much taller than she was, and a big, strong man. I had often, in
earlier days, taken Annita in my arms and run off with her over the
fields. She would then, in her wild joy, pull my hair, and call out,
“Gallop, my horse! Gallop, quicker, quicker!”
‘I thought of doing something of this kind again, and half made a sign
of taking her up in my arms, but Annita laughed and jumped aside.
‘“No, thank you,” she said; “I am too big now. You can’t lift me.”
‘“I can try,” I suggested.
‘“No, I won’t let you.”
‘“Am I never more to be allowed to lift you?”
‘“Perhaps, some other time.”
‘The next day I had to go and visit one of our neighbours, a distant
relative, who owned the adjoining estate. The only daughter of the
house, a big, strong girl, was about my own age, and we had played
together as children. It had also, long before, been settled between
our parents that we were to marry one another, so that the two
properties might be united. She and I had quite accepted this
arrangement, and it had never occurred to us to think of raising
objections to our parents’ plans.
‘You well know, Father Gurij, that a Russian master is a patriarch, and
is despotic in his house and family. No person has any right to
question his orders, not even the noblest in the town, not even the
Czar. The house-father is above all written law. His house is not
merely a castle, but a church as well, and whatever he does is sacred
and holy. “Two wills in one house,” says the Russian proverb, “would be
impossible; and would never do.” My father Ivan was a very strong man,
and often he was cruelly severe with his serfs, whom he looked upon and
treated as mere slaves. His will was the one thing which must be
followed and obeyed. Not unfrequently they have felt the
cat-o’-nine-tails, and he was dreaded both by his own servants and by
the serfs in the village. He commanded, and nobody dared to offer the
slightest opposition, whatever the matter might be. If it was his will
that a young man and a girl should marry, then they must marry, and if
any persons wanted to marry, my father had to be consulted, and his
decision accepted.
‘My mother was as weak as a reed, and she would not venture in the
least degree to oppose my father’s will. If he were provoked, it might
happen that he would beat his wife, like an ordinary Russian, who, as
you are aware, does this pretty often—so frequently, indeed, that it
once happened on our estate that the wife of one of our serfs came to
my mother with tears in her eyes, bewailing the fact that her husband
no longer thrashed her as before. She was afraid that it was a sign
that he no longer cared for her.
‘I believe that my mother was fond of Annita. It was impossible not to
be. The servants also were all of them very much attached to her. On
the other hand, my father seemed to be rather hard on her, and I
noticed that at times there was a glance in his eye when he saw her
which seemed to forbode no good. And she, on her part, was afraid of
him.
‘I was again absent at Novgorod for about a year. Some little time
before I was to return I got a letter from my mother, and inside it was
a short note from Annita.
‘“Dear Brother,” she wrote, “come home soon. I am so terrified and
frightened when you are not here. I have never before felt that you
were so long away as this time. Your father has been kind to me,
and has made me a present of a bracelet; but, all the same, I am
afraid of him, as I always have been. How happy I shall be when you
are here once more! I need not see you, but only know that you are
here. I am so safe when I know that you are near me; then I can fly
to you, and cling to you, as I did the first time, when you brought
me here. I shall have no rest or peace until you return to your
little sister,
‘“Nita.”
‘This letter thoroughly opened my eyes. I clearly saw and realized what
I had expected would come about.
‘Father Gurij,’ said Ambrose, ‘you understand that I loved this young
girl whom I had saved, and to whom I had been as a father and a
brother. Now I could no longer think of her merely as a sister. The
spark in my heart had caught fire, and was blazing forth into a strong
flame. But you cannot well understand the depth of my feelings. I was,
indeed, at this time a man of years, yet never before had I been in
love with a woman. It was with a feeling of fear that I realized how
strong my passion was, and how violent it would become, and how
wretchedly unhappy I should be, if anyone deprived me of Annita, or did
any harm to her. I was of a noble family, and a rich man’s only heir,
and I was on intimate terms with many families of quality at Moscow. I
had seen many women, and many women had smiled on me, but their smile
was cold and cheerless, and nothing to that which, in my own home,
beamed on me from Annita. I decided, therefore, at once to return home,
and openly tell my parents that I loved Annita, and that I wished to
have her for my wife, and nobody else.
‘“But what will Annita say?” I thought while I was on the way. “She has
never heard any man whisper a word of love. Perhaps she will be
frightened. Perhaps she will be as much afraid of me as of my father.”
‘I returned home, and I was welcomed by these three on the stairs of
the house. My father was reserved and undemonstrative, my mother was
weeping when embracing me, and Annita looked very pale, as she reached
out her hand to me. I took both her hands in mine, and looked into her
pretty eyes, but she cast them down directly. There must have been
something in my look which she had not seen before, something of a
lover’s look, which caused her to cast her beautiful eyes down to the
ground, while a slight blush tinged her cheeks.
‘The next day I said to Annita, “Come and let us go for a walk;” and we
went together out into the park to her favourite place under a large
oak, where there is a view over Lake Ladoga, which spreads out like an
ocean. On previous occasions, when we had walked about together alone,
she had always been full of fun, and asking questions, and like a child
dragging me hither and thither. But this time she was silent and quiet.
‘“Annita,” I said, when we had seated ourselves under the oak, “can you
remember twelve years ago?”
‘“Yes; I remember everything—my poor parents!”
‘“Can you remember when we came here—how frightened you were? how you
clung to me?”
‘“Yes, I remember it distinctly. I remember the first night I would not
sleep in the servant’s room, but that I cried so, and that I insisted
on having my little bed moved into your room.”
‘“But can you remember what you once said, when we were walking about
here together?”
‘“No; I don’t know what you refer to. I have no recollection of
anything.”
‘“But I remember it very well myself.”
‘“What was it, then? Was it some very silly thing?”
‘“No, it was not silly; but listen: while you held my hand, and skipped
along by my side, you suddenly said to me, ‘Do you know what I am going
to be?’
‘“‘No,’ I answered; ‘I don’t in the least know what.’
‘“‘Very well,’ you said very earnestly, ‘I mean to be your wife. You
and I shall be man and wife.’
‘“‘Oh, of course,’ I said; ‘you shall be Madame Theodora.’”
‘“Yes; but I was a simple child then,” Annita said, “a child that
played with dolls. I did not know what I was saying; besides that, my
dolls were husband and wife, don’t you know.”
‘“No, you did not know what you said, that is certain enough; but now
you are a grown-up young woman, Annita, you are no longer a child.”
‘“No, I am nearly twenty.”
‘“And sensible.”
‘“No, not particularly.”
‘“And pretty.”
‘“Am I?”
‘“Yes, you certainly are; yes, so pretty that I cannot any longer be
your brother.”
‘“Are you angry with me?”
‘“No, I am not angry with you; but there is something I want to tell
you.”
‘“What is it?”
‘“A secret.”
‘“A secret! It will be nice to have a secret. I haven’t any.”
‘“I am not so sure that it is always nice.”
‘“What is the secret? Will you tell me?”
‘“Yes, I will tell you; but you must not be frightened. It is the
greatest secret of my life, Annita, and the secret is this: that I love
you, Annita, seriously and deeply. I am in love with you, and with no
one else, for the rest of my life. Annita, I ask you now, will you be
my wife? Look at me, Annita; what do you say? You care a little bit for
me, Annita, don’t you?”
‘Annita stooped to me in trepidation.
‘“Is it true, Theodore,” she whispered, “that you love me, and will
have me for your wife? Say it once more.”
‘“Yes, Annita, I love you, and you alone, and no one but you in the
whole world,” I said, pressing her to me, and kissing her pale face
till the rosy colour came back in her cheeks.
‘“Theodore,” she whispered, “I have always loved you. I have always
thought of nobody but you. All I have is yours, and has been yours for
many years—heart, soul, and thought.”
‘“God bless you, Annita!” I exclaimed. “At the last minute I began to
doubt. If you had not cared for me, Annita, I should have been very
wretched; in fact, a miserable man, bad, morose, and full of hatred.
But not now: you know what the saying is of catching a sunbeam.”
‘“Can one catch sunbeams?”
‘“Yes, the sunbeam is the smile on your lips, Annita; if I can catch
that smile all my life, then I am saved, and will be a good man and a
happy one.”
‘“You shall have it, Theodore; it shall be yours, and yours only.”
‘The sun was just then setting. The evening was calm; there came gentle
breezes over us from the wind, which was going down. Never had it
seemed to me that the sun set so brilliantly, or that Lake Ladoga ever
looked so beautiful, as on that evening when Annita confessed her love.
As the sun disappeared behind the waves of the lake, and darkness
spread over the sky, I felt that even were the earthly sun to depart,
yet an everlasting dawn of light and joy had arisen in my soul. We
wandered back through the flower-garden to the house.
‘“But what will father and Theodora say?” exclaimed Annita as we
approached the house.
‘“To-morrow I shall talk to my parents and Theodora’s parents,” I said
calmly.
‘The next day I went to my father, and told him that Annita and I were
in love with each other.
‘“Just so,” said my father, “just as you like, as far as I am
concerned.”
‘“Will you consent, then, to our marrying?”
‘“You marry Annita!” he exclaimed.
‘“Yes; I want no one else for my wife.”
‘“You have really thought of marrying the beggar-girl, Annita. Ha, ha,
ha!” laughed my father in derision, and was on the point of breaking
out in an uncontrollable passion, but I saw that he restrained himself;
he very well knew that his beloved son was stubborn, too, and he
considered that at the outset it would be best to proceed cautiously.
‘“Annita is poor,” I said quite quietly; “but she is no beggar, and she
is prettier than any rich girl I have seen; and she has been, moreover,
as well brought up as any Russian lady of rank.”
‘“Her bringing up I have nothing to do with, but you intend, do you? to
break your promise to Theodora, and to set yourself against both my
plans and those of Theodora’s parents.”
‘“I have never proposed to Theodora, neither have I made her any
promise. It has all been arranged between you and her parents, without
our being consulted or having given our consent to it.”
‘“Yes, just so, and just so is it to be. I will in no manner give my
consent to your marriage with a beggar-girl. Your marriage with
Theodora has been put off long enough; and on that account it will be
best that it should take place as soon as possible. I will provide for
Annita myself. There is no hurry as regards her. I will provide a
suitable husband for her in good time from among my serfs or
servants—for example, Anthony Kudsk, or some other suitable youth.”
‘“Father,” I exclaimed in horror, “don’t do it! I ask you dutifully,
and humbly, let me have Annita for my wife! I assure you, solemnly and
truly, that I will marry no other girl.”
‘“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed my father; “when you are married to
Theodora, and Annita has married Anthony, your romantic ideas will soon
disperse, and later on you will be grateful to me.”
‘“Father, don’t joke, or rather make fun of us. Annita would die rather
than marry Anthony, or any other serf. She has been brought up too well
for that; and besides that, she admitted yesterday that she had always
loved me since she was ten years old.”
‘“Leave that to me; I am master here.”
‘“Not over Annita,” I ventured to remark.
‘“Don’t you think so?”
‘“She is not your daughter, and neither a slave nor a serf.”
‘“Who has brought her up for the last twelve years?”
‘“You and my mother have.”
‘“Then I suppose we have something to say as to her future?”
‘“No; when Annita’s future has to be provided for, I have something to
say. It was I who saved her life.”
‘“Ah, well! I have heard that story before now.”
‘“Father, have you anything to reproach Annita for?”
‘“No; but I will not have my son mix Finnish peasant blood with ours. I
will have you marry a girl who is your equal in station and position,
and that Theodora Petrovna is.”
‘“But if I won’t?” I made bold to say once more.
‘“You won’t! You can’t! you shall, though!” exclaimed my father in a
rage.
‘“Will I, though?”
‘“Yes, you shall. I am master in my own house, and in my family. You
are to marry Theodora, even if I have to lead you bound, and cudgelled,
to the altar. In any case, I will never consent to your marriage with
Annita. Now you know my answer, and we have no need to say anything
more about it.”
‘“Just one word,” I said respectfully; “I am your only child and your
heir, and I may presume that you have some little affection for me. Why
can’t you grant me my heart’s fondest wish? Annita would make me a more
faithful and affectionate wife than any other woman I know. Why should
we, who are both in a sense your children, be compelled to curse,
instead of to bless you?”
‘“I see what is for your future good, better than you do yourself. The
whole thing is nothing more than a passing romantic fancy, and it won’t
be long before you yourself will give it up as a piece of folly.”
‘“No,” I exclaimed, “not before Annita or I am dead.” And with these
words I left my father.
‘In bad spirits I went to my mother, and related the whole story to
her; and although she as well would have preferred that I should marry
Theodora, I believe that she would have forgiven Annita and me, and
have given us her blessing. A mother is always ready to pardon her only
son, and I am pretty sure that my mother would have taken my part, even
if I had turned into a brigand or murderer. But her opinion was not of
the slightest weight, against that of my father.
‘I told Annita that my father would not consent to our marrying, but I
assured her, over and over again, that she, and nobody but she, should
be my wife.
‘“And, Annita,” I asked, “what do you say?”
‘“I!” said Annita; “why, he may take my life before I consent to be
married to any of his serfs. You may implicitly rely on me. Neither
persuasion nor threat will ever influence me. I am yours, and never in
this world will I belong to any other man.”
‘In this way time slipped by. Annita and I were happy in the
consciousness of our mutual affection for each other, but we were
unhappy because our parents took no share with us in it. My father was
gloomy, and severe with everybody, and I seldom spoke to him. Annita
had a good voice, and sang our national Russian songs beautifully; but
her singing seemed to give my father pain, and to jar on his ears, for
he left the room as soon as he heard her voice.
‘A short time afterwards, a letter came from a mercantile house at
Novgorod, to say that I must go there to take part in arranging some
complicated money matters connected with a patrimony which had come to
me through the death of an uncle. Annita was in despair at my having to
leave her, but I endeavoured to console her with the thought that it
would not be for long, and that I would hurry as much as possible, and
return as soon as I could. I also tried to comfort her with the
reflection that I had now come in for property of my own, so that we
could marry as soon as we wished, independently of my father, and go
where we liked, and even, perhaps, make a trip to the country of her
own childhood.
‘The business, however, took longer than I had expected, and six months
elapsed before all was settled and I was able to return home. The
nearer I approached my home, the more I hurried on, and at last I drove
from station to station like a madman.
‘Do you believe in omens, Father Gurij? I expected some mishap, and I
was terribly apprehensive; the nearer I approached my home, the more my
fears increased. I reached home in the afternoon. My father and mother
came to receive me. I saluted them, but I saw nothing of Annita.
‘“Where is Annita?” I asked.
‘“She is not at home,” answered my father.
‘“Isn’t she at home? Didn’t she know that I was to be back to-day?”
‘“I don’t know. Perhaps she may come soon.”
‘“Has she gone out?”
‘“Probably.”
‘“Where has she gone?”
‘“I really don’t know; perhaps she has gone across to Theodora’s.”
‘I went over there, but Annita had not been there. I ran back, and
rushed in despair to my mother, and implored her to tell me where
Annita was.
‘“I hope no misfortune has happened to her,” I exclaimed.
‘“I don’t know,” said my mother; “ask your father.”
‘I went to my father, and I must have had a strange look, there must
have been something alarming in my countenance, for he turned pale.
‘“Where is Annita? What have you done with her?”
‘“I don’t know. I have already told you so,” he replied evasively.
‘“You don’t know—‘don’t know,’ you all say. Who, then, does know where
she is?”
‘“Well, that is just what nobody does know.”
‘“If she is dead you may as well tell me at once.”
‘“No, so far as I know, she is not dead.”
‘“But where has she gone, then? In God’s name tell me what you know,
and what has happened.”
‘“She has disappeared.”
‘“Disappeared! Why, in what way?”
‘“About a month ago she was missed, and since that time we have neither
seen nor heard anything of her.”
‘I was on the point of falling, but I collected myself, and went close
up to my father, as pale as death, and with frenzied threatening
gestures, so that he drew back.
‘“Surely you are not going to strike your father,” he exclaimed.
‘“No,” I said; “but I will know the truth. Where is Annita? What have
you done with her? Have you murdered her?”
‘“As I tell you, she disappeared a month ago; nobody knows any more.”
‘“Father, that is not true. You are lying to your son. You hide things
from me, but I will know the truth, even if I have to squeeze it from
you like drops of blood.”
‘“You can do what you like.”
‘“Did you look for her?”
‘“Yes; your mother and the servants searched for her.”
‘“And found no trace?”
‘“No; none that I know of.”
‘I rushed again to my mother, but she called heaven to witness that she
knew nothing. I ran round to the servants, and asked them all the same
question, but I got the same answer, that she had disappeared, and that
no one knew anything as to how it had happened. I rushed to her room,
but all the things were untouched, and the room was as if she had only
just left it. Could she have gone out for a walk, and have been killed
by some wild beast, or robbed and murdered?
‘I couldn’t sleep that night. Overwhelming sorrow kept me wide awake.
Half mad, I went the next day into the village, and made inquiries of
everybody, but nobody had anything to relate except that she had
disappeared. I again went to the house, and asked for Anthony, the
coachman, whom I had not yet seen. I got the same answer from him, that
she had disappeared. Quite infuriated, I made for my father, and had
forgotten myself so far as to grip him by the throat and dash him on
the floor in order to get the real truth out of him.
‘“Lay a hand on your father!” he exclaimed; “you are a fine sort of
son.”
‘I was at once disarmed.
‘“If you have done some unworthy act, father,” I exclaimed, “then own
to it, and make a clean breast of it. I don’t know what I shan’t do to
you or to myself, but I will know the truth.”
‘“I have tried to spare you,” my father said; “but when you go on in
this fashion with violence and threats, then there is nothing to be
done but to tell you exactly what has really happened. The matter is
simply this, that Annita and Anthony Kudst disappeared on the same
night. It pains me to tell you this; but the girl was originally of low
birth, and Anthony has been making good use of the time while you were
away to gain her affection. He was, too, a good-looking fellow, and
from the same country as the girl, and I suppose the beggar-girl
persuaded him to run away with her back to their dear old heretical
fatherland.”
‘“That is not true,” I said; “it is a base, abominable lie, and I don’t
believe it. If it were true I would go after them and murder them both;
but it is not true.”
‘I went down to the village again and threatened both grown-up people
and children, but I could get hold of nothing from anybody. The only
person who knew anything, they declared, must be my father himself. I
never for a single moment yielded to the thought that Annita had gone
off of her own accord with Anthony. I was so fully persuaded of the
impossibility of her doing such a thing that it did not strike me that
she would, in such a case, have taken various things with her, which I
knew remained untouched in her room. If she had gone on account of her
fear of my father, she would also have taken several things with her,
and she could then have been traced, or something would have been heard
of her. But had she been stolen, carried off by force, or kidnapped? If
that were so I could surely find some trace of her. I did not at first
think that she was dead, and this hope kept me going.
‘I noticed that a dog which was very much attached to her, and which
was called Karo, followed me about wherever I went, and was evidently
also trying to find her. This was a further sign to me that she had not
voluntarily disappeared. The dog would have accompanied her. I took the
dog with me, in the hope that it might possibly scent out her
footprints, and we hunted through the house, the park, the village, and
the neighbourhood, but all in vain. I could not find the slightest
trace of her.
‘“Do you still refuse to tell me the truth?” I asked my father when I
returned home. “Can you tell me if Annita is dead? because if I know
that, then I know what to do.”
‘“I can’t tell you more than I know.”
‘“You are lying, father!” I exclaimed in anger; “but it is all the
same; I will find her, or get to know about her. I will not rest,
either day or night, till I find her, living or dead. But may God
punish you with everlasting remorse if I find that you have driven her
with blows to the altar to marry Anthony.”
‘“Unnatural son! go and ask the priest.”
‘I went to the pope in the village. Like one demented, I rushed into
his room and asked:
‘“Have you married Annita and Anthony?” As he hesitated with his answer
I caught him by the throat, threw him on the ground and knelt on his
chest.
‘“Out with the truth, you wretch!” I cried; “have you married Annita
and Anthony?”
‘He assured me, by all that was holy, that he had not married them, and
that he knew nothing about it. I could not but believe him. If I had
felt any doubt as to the truth of his word I believe that, in the
desperate and frenzied state in which I was, I should have held my hand
so long on his throat that I should have choked him.
‘The next day I also disappeared and was away for a whole year. I
wandered about from house to house, village to village, and inquired of
everybody, and promised rewards if anyone would procure me tidings of
Annita. But all in vain. I could find no trace of her. I went to
Finland, to Annita’s homestead, and through Kuolaniemi, where I had
rescued her. The farm-house had been rebuilt, and had a new proprietor,
but nobody had heard anything of Annita.
‘I returned home as ragged as a beggar, sick, haggard, hollow-eyed, and
in despair. I was no longer as angry as before, but dreadfully out of
spirits and broken-hearted. I again begged my father to tell me the
truth, or let me know for certain whether Annita was alive.
‘“I don’t know,” he replied as before. I went off again without even
saying good-bye to my parents. I visited all the convents, but no nun
bore her name, and no one had heard anything of her. I went to Moscow,
to the Czar, to the pious Theodore, in whose service I had been, and I
laid a charge against my father by telling him what I have now told
you. He sent a judge to Olonets and had my father examined, but he
denied, as before, that he knew anything about Annita; perhaps bribed
the judge as well—he was rich enough to do it. After an absence of two
years I returned to my saddened home.
‘“You have been complaining of me to the Czar,” said my father.
‘“Yes,” I replied.
‘“You wanted to have your own father punished as a criminal.”
‘“Yes; because you would not tell me the truth.”
‘“Well, then, I have now just one word to say to you, and that will be
the last word spoken between us.”
‘“Say it, then.”
‘“If you don’t marry Theodora, I shall order my servants to remove you
by force from the house, and then I disinherit you.”
‘“I will not marry Theodora.”
‘“Very well, then, you are no longer my son.”
‘“Be it so,” I said. “Nothing more can wound or grieve me. I am deaf
and dead to all the feelings of a son towards his father, and to all
his father’s threats. I, too, have made my decision.”
‘“And I should like to know what that may be?”
‘“I am going to be a monk, and shall enter a monastery. I renounce the
estates and the property, and everything else in this world.”
‘“And all for the sake of a beggar-girl.”
‘“Yes, for the sake of a poor, harmless, forlorn girl—for the sake of
the one woman whom I have loved, and whom I have lost, and of whom my
own father has deprived me.”
‘“As you will,” said my father, but he hardly believed that I was in
earnest. I made one more desperate journey to seek for some trace of
Annita. At a place in Karelen I was informed that one Sunday a young
couple, who were travelling, had been at church there, and as they were
driving off again, the young woman, when they were crossing a bridge,
either threw herself, or fell into the river and was drowned. But who
they were nobody knew. I called on the priest of the parish, and asked
him, but he could not remember that he had heard the names of Annita or
Anthony, and he had never married persons so named.
‘I returned home, but I could not bring myself to live there. Wherever
I went I was reminded of Annita. I went out in the park, where she used
to play as a child, and where, as a grown-up woman, she had assured me
of her love. I threw myself down on the ground with my face to the
earth, and lay there a long time. I did not give way to tears, but I
had a sense of vacuity about me and around me. A blow had fallen upon
me from a cruel hand, and my life was cut in twain. So I bid farewell
to my parents, and to my home, and I went to Solowetski to be a monk.
But there was too much bustle and secular excitement in that huge
monastery, and I did not find sufficient solitude there. I longed for
solitude, and for a scenery as bare, bleak, and desolate as my own
inner feelings. So I journeyed on foot to this dreary spot. Here, I
will remain, and to-morrow I will take the vows. Annita must be dead,
or, what is still worse, living as dead to me, for not a trace of her
has been found, and it is now three years since anything has been heard
of her. I also will die, therefore, from henceforth to the pleasures
and sorrows of the world. I am weary of life, weary unto death, and I
renounce everything.’
‘Perhaps all this has been for your good, and for the saving of your
soul,’ said old Gurij.
‘No, no!’ Ambrose exclaimed passionately, and springing up from the
place where he was reclining. ‘I could have been so happy in Annita’s
love. You don’t know, nobody knows, what that child was to me. I have
watched at night by her sick-bed, and have felt that were she to die, I
should lose that which nothing could replace. I have carried her in my
arms, and she was more precious to me than my own flesh and blood. I
lived wholly and solely in her love. She was my all—my future was
centred in her. She was my hope, my sanctuary, and my home.’
‘But, perhaps, in the course of time you might fall in love with some
other woman, and be happy in her company?’
‘Never! never! I was no mere lad, who, in the unruly passion of the
passing moment, gave vent to vows, the meaning of which he had never
reflected on. I was a full-grown man who, with my whole understanding,
had pledged myself to that woman.’
‘I can understand how hard it must have been to give up that earthly
hope.’
‘Yes, and you must not suppose either that I have patiently submitted
to my hard fate. No, indeed; there were times when my heart rebelled at
the thought that I was unloved by any human being. Shall I tell it to
you—how I have murmured against Providence, how I have indulged
rebellious thoughts against Providence, and how I dared to reproach the
Divine decrees? But that state of rebellion within me is at an end, and
so are all my hopes. I look for nothing more. I hope for nothing more.
I have now only before my eyes a quiet resignation to my lot and a
humble self-renunciation.’
‘And as regards your father?’
‘Yes, yes, my father.’
‘Do you forgive him?’
‘Yes; may God pardon him for the wrong he did to Annita and to me.’
‘That is right, my son,’ said the old man. ‘Such should be your state
of mind when you take the vows this night, and may it be that you will
find peace within the Church’s fold; for the holy Church alone can
offer balm to your wounded heart here on earth, and give to your soul
everlasting bliss hereafter.’