It was at this time that I performed the penance.
After my day's work I went to the church, where Brother Nikodime opened
the door for me and locked me in, disturbing the stillness of the
temple with the loud rattle of iron. I waited at the door till the last
reverberation died away on the flagstones, then walked up quietly to
the Crucifix and sat down upon the floor before it, for I was too weak
to stand. Every muscle in my body ached from toil, and I had no desire
to read the Acathistus.
I sat down, clasped my knees and gazed about me with sleepy eyes and
thought about Grisha and about myself. It was summer, and the nights
were hot and close, but here, in the semi-darkness of the church, it
was pleasantly cool. The lamps under the holy pictures twinkled and
winked at each other, and the little blue flames tugged upward as
if they wished to fly toward the cupola, or higher still, to heaven
itself, to the stars of the summer night. The quiet crackling of the
wicks could be heard, each with its own peculiar sound, and half
asleep, it seemed to me that the church was filled with a secret,
unseen life, which, under the flickering of the lamps, held communion
with itself. In the warm stillness and darkness the faces of the saints
floated meditatively, as if something unsolved were before them.
Ghost-like shadows passed before my face and the delicate, sweet odor
of oil and cypress wood and incense surrounded me. The gold and the
bronze of the holy images appeared duller and simpler, the silver shone
warm and friendly, and everything melted and swam fusing into a torrent
large and wide as in a dream.
Like a thick, sweet-smelling cloud, the church swung and swam to the
low whispering of an indistinct prayer. I swung with it in a row of
shadows, until a soft drowsiness took me up from the ground.
Before the ringing of the bell for early mass, the silent Brother
Nikodime would enter and wake me, touching me lightly on the head.
"Go, in God's name," he would say, and I would answer:
"Pardon me, I have fallen asleep again."
Then I would go out swaying, and Nikodime would support me and say
hardly audibly:
"God will pardon you, my benefactor."
Nikodime was an insignificant looking little old man, who hid his face
from all and called every one his "benefactor." Once I asked him:
"Say, Nikodimushke, are you silent because of a vow?"
"No," he answered; "but just so." Then he sighed. "If I had anything to
say, I would say it." "Why did you leave the world?"
"Because I left it."
If you questioned him further, he did not answer at all, but looked
into jour face with guilty eyes, and said in a whisper:
"I don't know why, my benefactor."
At times I thought to myself: "Perhaps this man, also, had sought an
answer at one time."
And I wanted to run away from the monastery.
But here another gentleman appeared, starting up suddenly like a rubber
ball against a fence. He was a strong, short, bold fellow, with round
eyes like an owl's, a bent nose, light curls, a bushy beard and teeth
which shone in a continual smile. He amused all the monks with his
jokes and his shameless stories about women. At night he had them come
to the monastery, smuggled in vodka without end, and was marvelously
handy at everything. I looked at him and said:
"What do you seek in a monastery?"
"I? Things to gobble."
"Bread is given to those who work."
"That," he answered, "is a commandment from the peasants' God, but I am
a man from the town and have also served two years in the Council, and
can count myself as one of the authorities."
I tried to understand this jester, for I had to see all the springs
which moved different kinds of people.
As I became more used to my work, Misha grew lazier, went off somewhere
or other, and although it was more difficult for me alone, still it was
more pleasant. People came freely to the bakery and we talked.
Mostly we were three--Grisha, I and; oily Seraphim. Grisha would be
excited and threatened me with his hands; Seraphim would whistle and
shake his curls and smile. Once I asked him:
"Seraphim, you vagabond, do you believe in God?"
"I will tell you later," he answered. "Wait about thirty years. When
I am in my sixties, I suppose I will know exactly what I believe. At
present I understand nothing and I don't want to lie."
He would tell us about the sea. He spoke about it as about a great
miracle, using marvelous words, now quiet and loud; now with fear, and
with love. And he glowed all over with joy which made him look like a
star. When we listened to him we were silent and even heavy at heart at
his stories of this vast, live beauty.
"The sea," he said with passion, "is the blue eye of earth which looks
out to the far heaven and meditates on infinite space. On its waves,
which are as alive and sensitive as the soul, is reflected the play of
the stars and their secret path; and if you watch for a long time the
ebb and the flow of the sea, then the sky, too, appears like a far-off
ocean, and the stars like islands."
Grisha listened, all pale, and smiled quietly, as if a moonbeam were
playing on him, and he whispered sadly:
"And before the countenance of this mystery and beauty we only
barter--nothing more."
At other times Seraphim would tell us about the Caucasus. He pictured
to us a land gloomy and exquisite, like a fairyland, where hell and
heaven embraced, and were at peace, both equal and both proud in their
majesty.
"To see the Caucasus," Seraphim said in ecstasy, "that means to see the
pure countenance of the earth, on which without inconsistency there
unite in a smile the delicate purity of the childlike soul and the
proud audacity and wisdom of the devil. The Caucasus is the touchstone
of man. Weak spirits are ground to dust there and tremble before the
power of the earth; but the strong, on the other hand, feel their
strength grow and become proud and exalted like the mountain whose
diamond-studded summit sends down its rays into the depths of the
celestial wilderness. And this summit is the throne of the thunder."
Grisha sighed and asked in a low voice:
"And who points out the path to the soul? Should one be in the world or
go away from it? What should one accept and what reject?"
Seraphim smiled distractedly and luminously.
"The glory of the sun is neither augmented nor diminished because you
do not look at the sky, Grisha. Don't bother about that subject, my
dear friend."
I understood Seraphim, but not entirely. I asked him, a little hurt:
"And as to people--what do you think about them? Why are they here?"
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"People--are like weeds. There are various kinds among them. For
those who are blind the sun is black; for those who are not happy
with themselves, God is an enemy. Besides, people are young. To call
three-year-old Jack, Mr. So-and-so is early a bit and doesn't quite
fit."
His mouth overflowed with such quotations. They dropped from his lips
like leaves from an apple tree, just as with Savelko. If you asked
him anything, he immediately overpowered you with his puns, as if he
were strewing flowers on a child's grave. His evasions made me angry,
but he, the young devil, only laughed. At times I would say to him,
irritated:
"You are loafing here, you idle dog, eating bread for nothing."
"That is the way it is with us," he answered. "He who eats his own
bread remains hungry. Look at our peasants. All their life they
sow wheat, yet dare not eat. You're quite right. To work is not my
specialty. You get sore bones from work, but never rich and healthy;
just lie in bed and shirk and you get fat and wealthy. And even you,
Matvei, would rather steal than forego a meal."
I argued with him, but toward the end I myself began to laugh.
He was simple and straightforward, and that attracted me very much. He
never made any pretensions, but said simply:
"I am nothing but a little insect, and not very harmful at that. I only
ask for bread that I be fed."
I saw that his whole make-up was very much like Savelko's and I
marveled how men could keep their clear spirits and their happy frame
of mind in this maelstrom of life.
Seraphim, next to Grisha, was like a clear day in spring compared to a
day in autumn. Nevertheless, they grew more close to each other than to
me. I was a little vexed at this. Soon they both went away together,
Grisha having decided to go to Olonetz, and Seraphim said to me:
"I will accompany him. Then I will rest a week and return to the
Caucasus. You should come along with us, Matvei. In tramping you will
find more quickly what you are seeking, or you will lose what you have
in excess, which, perhaps, is just as well. They can't bribe God away
from the earth."
But I could not go along with them, for at that time I was having my
interviews with Mardarie, and I was especially curious about this
ascetic. I saw them off with great sadness, and my quiet evenings and
my happy days went with them.