REUNION.
Pilgrimages are very common throughout the whole of the Russian Empire.
Men, women, and children travel in company, and move from monastery to
monastery, or from one holy place to another, to perform their
devotions in them. There are individuals, even among the womenkind, who
spend the whole of their lives in pilgrimages, although they could be
in possession both of house, and home, and fortune. An unaccountable
impulse seems to force them on. They have scarcely returned home from
one journey, and rested for a day or so, before they are off again to
journey, in want and hardship, to a fresh place, where this or that
saint is buried, or where there is some celebrated shrine, with relics
of this or that martyr.
Many of the pilgrims, even cripples who drag themselves along with
great difficulty, make pilgrimages of this character in fulfilment of
some vow, and in the hope that by fulfilling the vow they may be healed
of their sickness. A pilgrim is accounted a holy person in the eyes of
a Russian. No door, not even that of the richest, is closed against a
pilgrim, and no voice is ever raised against one. On the contrary, it
is esteemed a happy occurrence, and regarded as a good omen, for a
pilgrim to cross the threshold of a house. People are anxious to give
them lodging and to help them on their way to their destination. There
is, probably, no one who has not some sin on his conscience, or who
does not feel himself all the better for making some offering to the
Church, and so obtaining the prayers of some holy person; or has not
had a mass offered for the departed. If a person cannot travel as a
pilgrim himself, he will send offerings by the hands of a pilgrim to
the various monasteries, so that he may be prayed for at this or that
holy shrine. A poor man will often spend his last kopeck with this
object in view. And both the rich and the poor are fully persuaded that
a pilgrim would rather die than deceive them.
Among other shrines, there are, to this very day, annual pilgrimages
made to the monastery at Solowetski. It is now an easy matter to reach
this monastery, for there is a regular service of steam-vessels running
between Archangel and the island on which the buildings stand. But in
olden times, when the events which are related here took place, the
pilgrims often had to wait for a long time before they could secure an
opportunity for reaching the island by means of a boat.
From Solowetski the more zealous of the pilgrims used to prolong their
journeys through Russian Lapland to Kola, and thence to the monastery
on the Petschenga River, celebrated both for its far distant situation
and its sanctity, and for being the place where the holy Trifon was
buried.
In this way it happened that at Christmastide in 1589 a band of
pilgrims arrived at Kola just before the detachment of Swedish Finns
who had destroyed the monastery had been repulsed from Kola, and had
retreated along the banks of the river of Tulom. Among the pilgrims
there were both men and women, rich and poor. They continued their
march from Kola to Petschenga partly on foot, partly with the help of
reindeer, which the Lapps either drove themselves, or allowed the
pilgrims to use. The pilgrims at that time knew nothing for certain
about the destruction of the monastery. Among them was a young woman
who was distinguished from the other women by her pale, but unusually
handsome face. Sorrow had clearly left its traces on her countenance,
and her cheeks lacked their proper fulness. But there flashed a bright
spark of animation from her beautiful eyes, and her smile seemed like a
benediction for those on whom it was cast. She was dressed as a nun,
and was looked upon by the other pilgrims as a saint. She had attached
herself to the band at Olonets, and since then had patiently shared
their wants and hardships. She nursed the sick, consoled the sorrowful,
and was regarded with affection and esteem by the whole of the company.
The pilgrims were naturally greatly alarmed, when they crossed the
Petschenga River, which was at the time covered with ice, and saw,
instead of a splendid monastery, with church, and buildings, and
guest-houses for pilgrims, nothing but a heap of blackened ruins, and
among them a number of unburied corpses. Some of the monks, who had
been away, had returned, as has already been mentioned, and had taken
refuge in the bathing house, but as yet they had not had time to remove
all the corpses for burial. It was of course a pious work for the
pilgrims to assist in. The young woman listened with anxious attention
to the names that were mentioned of the monks who had been killed. She
drew a sigh of relief when she heard that there was nobody among them
named Theodore, but in reply to her inquiry whether any of the monks
who were still alive bore that name, she also received a negative
reply.
‘Are you looking for some relative?’ asked one of the monks.
‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘he ought to be either at Solowetski or here, but
he was not at Solowetski, so I expected to find him here.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was a tall, handsome, and strong-looking man, with fine light hair,
and a scar on his forehead.’
‘Perhaps it is Ambrose, who is lying ill across on the island.’
‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘his name is Theodore Ivanovitsch.’
Meanwhile, Unnas came over from the island to see the pilgrims, and to
talk to them. But there was only one with whom he could at all freely
converse, and that was the young woman who, besides Russian, could also
speak Karelen. He informed her that in a gamme on the island, across in
the river, a poor monk was lying with his face and hands burnt, and he
asked her if she, or one of the others, had any remedy which might do
him good.
‘We have very few remedies,’ she said; ‘but I was taught in a convent
how to nurse sick people, and I will go across with you and attend to
him.’
On their way Unnas told her how the sick man had on one occasion saved
his life, and that he was to have been made a monk and to have taken
the vows on the very night that the monastery was attacked and
destroyed by the invaders.
On a plank bed, in the somewhat dark earth-hut, Ambrose lay with a
bandage over his eyes. Unnas told him that a band of pilgrims had
arrived who knew nothing about the destruction of the monastery, and
that in their company was a young woman—a nun—who understood doctoring,
and who had been so good as to come with him, and that she was now
there in order to examine his injuries.
‘Thanks,’ said Ambrose.
The young woman came to the bedside, and carefully loosened the bandage
over his eyes. The sick man could not open them, as a hardened scab
from the burns had formed over nearly the whole of his face. She
beckoned to Unnas, and told him to bring her some water, so that she
might wash and cleanse the sores on the face of the sick man with her
pocket-handkerchief. At the sound of the strange woman’s voice the sick
man suddenly raised himself up to a sitting posture. There was
something in that voice, and in the sound of the Karelen word which she
uttered, that seemed to strike a chord in the depth of his heart. But
with a sigh he laid himself down again on the bed.
‘I am dreaming,’ he sighed.
The young woman had taken the basin with the water from the Finn, and
she dipped her pocket-handkerchief in it and knelt down beside the sick
man. She carefully undid a little more of the bandage, and began to
wash his face, but suddenly she turned as pale as a corpse, let go the
pocket-handkerchief, and folded her hands. Had she not seen the scar on
that forehead often before!
‘God in heaven!’ she exclaimed, ‘but can it be possible?’
Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead,
his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers
about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She
recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she
had given him.
‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’
she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’
‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who
is here, Unnas?’
‘Annita,’ said she softly.
‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted, ‘where am I? am
I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’
‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and
kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and
God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’
The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by
his feelings.
‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying
it, and have I lost my reason?’
‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage.
I have come straight from your home.’
‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage
off my eyes.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must
not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be
dangerous; you must be careful.’
‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in
mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita.
Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then
you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married
to Anthony?’
‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’
‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’
‘I have come from your home, from our home, and I have brought you a
greeting from your mother.’
‘How has all this come about?’
‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment
and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you
all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not
leave you any more.’
‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose
said when Annita was gone.
‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’
‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to
me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as
he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart,
that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all
my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not
seen Annita.’
‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired.
‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’
Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful
surprise to his friend was plain enough.
The legend has preserved this incident relating to the monk who had
escaped from the massacre, and who had concealed himself on an island
in the Petschenga River. But, according to the legend, it was not a
mortal woman who came and nursed him, but an angel from heaven, who
came down each night to him, and placed her hand on the monk’s eyes,
until he was cured and regained his sight.
When Annita returned, Ambrose’s wounds were dressed, while questions
and answers were exchanged between them. As they spoke in Karelen Unnas
was also able to follow them, and in that way heard much about his
benefactor’s earlier life, of which he had previously known very
little.
‘Your mother sends you her greeting,’ said Annita; ‘she will receive us
with open arms, and give us her blessing when we return.’
‘And my father?’ said Ambrose.
‘Your father?’
‘Yes; will he give us his blessing, too, and forgive us?’
‘Then you don’t know what has happened? You don’t know that your father
is no more? Your father is dead.’
‘May God have pity on his soul!’
‘You have not heard that your father met with an accident?’
‘No. I know nothing about things that have occurred at home since I
left.’
‘While driving with three horses which he had bought, and which he
would drive himself over to one of his neighbours, the horses shied,
and reared, and upset the carriage, and he injured his head so that he
died the day following.’
‘Had you returned home when it happened?’
‘No; your mother told me of it. It is now six months since it happened.
His last words, your mother says, were “Call Theodore back, and Annita;
she is in a convent at——” More he could not manage to utter. I believe
that he intended to forgive us when he saw death approaching.’
‘Were you hidden in a convent?’
‘Yes, in a little nunnery in the neighbourhood of Novgorod.’
‘What is it called, and who took you there?’
‘That I don’t even now know; they were strangers whom I have never seen
either before or since.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘One winter evening I had been sent across to Theodora Petrovna, and
was to drive back again with Anthony Kudst, who came to fetch me. We
were set upon by three men; I was lifted out of the sledge and placed
in theirs, and was driven away, night and day, till we reached the
convent, where I was confined more strictly than any of the nuns, and
was kept under guard, and never allowed to speak to a stranger.’
‘And Anthony, what became of him?’
‘Ah! what became of him nobody knows; most probably your father gave
him money, and sent him back to his own country.’
‘I hunted for you for more than two years, Annita, far and near, as
well as in all the convents.’
‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money,
according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest
information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were
never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less
strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and
more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and
travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way,
to your home.’
‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’
‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the
servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But
where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see
you there.
‘“Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.”
‘“Where?”
‘“Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly,
“Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.”
‘“To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm.
‘“Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that
you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry
Anthony, he decided to become a monk.”
‘“Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?”
‘“Father could have made you.”
‘“Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.”
‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay,
or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of
pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that
I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit
Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then
it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The
monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which
I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go
on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’
‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’
‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’
‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken
them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers
were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’
‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’
‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you
may be sure that I shall leave this place.’
‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with
you?’
‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I
cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you,
Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no
sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the
world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing
without you.’
The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at
Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make
for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were
alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to
remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.
‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now I see you,
that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I
see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman
smiles like you.’
It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the
courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room
was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a
friendly star on a dark night.
‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still
awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.
They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was
kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her,
absorbed in prayer.
‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear
and doubt while we have been so long away.’
‘Let us go in,’ said Theodore.
‘Yes; you go,’ said Annita. ‘I will wait here a little; but be careful,
for your old mother is very feeble now.’
When Theodore had gone, Annita tapped on the window pane, and called
out, ‘We are here, mother,’ so that she might not be startled too
suddenly. The old lady folded her hands together, and partly rose. At
the same moment Theodore entered, and knelt down beside her. She
uttered a shriek such as could only come from a mother’s heart.
‘Theodore, my son! my son!’ and she clung to him, weeping on his neck.
Annita then entered quietly, and shed tears of joy with mother and son.
Afterwards all the servants in the house came and kissed the hands of
the home-comers.
It was a day of rejoicing throughout the estate when Theodore and
Annita returned. When this was reported in the village one of the women
went running home and told her husband. He exclaimed: ‘Is it true what
you say, wife, that Theodore Ivanovitsch and Annita have returned?’
‘Yes, it is as true as that I live,’ she said.
‘Then I will never thrash you again,’ he exclaimed.
All the people streamed up to the castle to see the returned ones, and
to kiss their hands. Theodore and Annita had taken Unnas with them, and
when, half a year later, there was a wedding at the castle, Unnas also
celebrated his wedding in the village.
Theodore had told him that he might choose any girl among all the
serfs, and that he should have her. Unnas fell in love with a girl who
was a complete contrast to himself—the tallest girl in all the
village—and for a good word, and a good house, and a piece of land, she
gave the little Finn both her hand and her heart. She was at all events
certain of never getting a thrashing from her husband. Thus it came
about that to this day Theodore and Unnas’ descendants live at Olonets.
With this, the romance of the monastery comes to an end. As regards the
ethnographical portion of it a little further may be added.
When information of the destruction of the monastery reached the Czar,
the pious Theodore Ivanovitsch, he is said to have been deeply grieved,
and to have expressed his sorrow at the disaster. To assist those of
the monks who had recovered, and were homeless, he gave orders that a
new monastery should be built at Kola, within the fortress, so that it
might be secure from attacks of the Swedes, or other enemies. The
church of the Annunciation of St. Mary in the town was granted, and the
monastery was built close to the church. But in the year 1619 both the
town and the church and monastery were destroyed by fire.
After this, the then Czar, the orthodox Michael Theodorovitsch, ordered
that a monastery should be built in the neighbourhood of the town, but
on the other side of the Kola River. This new monastery received the
name of New Petschenga, or Koloska Petschenga monastery, and had its
own Archimandrites or Superiors, till the bishopric of Archangel was
founded.
In 1675 Alexei Michaelovitsch confirmed to this monastery the
privileges which former monarchs had bestowed on the monastery at
Petschenga. Probably it was the erection of this monastery which caused
one Russian author to state that at one time there were two monasteries
at the Petschenga River.
In the year 1701 it is said there were thirteen monks in this
monastery, and, according to a letter from Laurence, the Superior of
it, to Archbishop Athanasius, the monastery exported in that year
‘12,752 stockfish, 144 pounds of train-oil, and 2,470 salmon.’ But this
is the last occasion on which anything is said of the industrial
activity of the monastery. Among the Archimandrites of the New
Petschenga monastery is mentioned the holy Jonas, a pupil of Trifon;
and, like Trifon, he is still had in reverence by the pilgrims and by
the inhabitants of the district.
In the year 1724 mention is made of three churches at Kola, viz.,
Trinity Church, the Church of the Assumption of St. Mary, and SS. Peter
and Paul’s Church. Eventually, the monastery was dissolved in the year
1764, and annexed to the cathedral church of Kola, and appointed the
residence of the bishop of Kola. The Empress Catherine II. issued, on
February 26 in that year, a brief, according to which the monastery and
churches were deprived of their ancient privileges, as well as of their
tenants and serfs. At the present time both the civil and
ecclesiastical authorities of Russia have their attention directed to
the re-erection of the monastery of Petschenga on its ancient site.
In the year 1881 a commission was appointed in Archangel to consider
what could be done to promote different kinds of industry in those
northern districts, and remedy several defects. This commission decided
that it was of great importance that the Petschenga monastery should be
rebuilt, and in the year 1882 the Holy Synod permitted and sanctioned
its re-erection. Serapion, Bishop of Archangel, has likewise taken
great interest in the scheme. He has procured a copy of the picture of
Trifon, and has, it is said, had it painted at his own expense. It is
thought that the rebuilding of the monastery of Petschenga will, in
time, have the same beneficial effect on those parts as Solowetski
monastery has had on the region of the White Sea. A Special Committee
has therefore been appointed by the ecclesiastical authorities. The
Committee appeals to all who may be supposed to feel an interest in the
undertaking, and invites charitable contributions, which should be sent
to
The Committee at Archangel
For the Restoration of Petschenga Monastery.
NOTES
[1] The ‘oter’ is a Norwegian fishing implement, consisting of a board,
or piece of wood, with a number of hooks attached to it.
[2] He thus gave away that over which he had not undivided proprietary
rights, viz.: the whole of the so-called debatable land over which both
Norway and Russia claimed taxes, and which was parcelled out in 1826
for the first time.
[3] [The inscription Νίψον ἀνομήμα μὴ μόναν ὄψιν occurs on the fonts at
Sandbach Church (Cheshire), Rufford (Lancashire), and elsewhere in
England.—Note by the Translator.]
[4] A monastery on the Dvina, built by Princess Martha, in memory of
her two sons who were drowned there, whose patron was St. Nicholas. It
may be noted that Archangel was first founded in 1584.
[5] According to several writers, the date of the destruction of the
monastery is set down as 1590, but a letter from Vardö, relating to the
destruction, is dated August, 1590, so that it must have occurred on
Christmas Eve, 1589.
[6] A ‘gamme’ is the name given to the mud huts in which the Lapps
live.