At noon I crossed the lake, sat down on the bank and gazed at the
monastery where I had slaved for over two years.
The wood spread out before me with its green wings and disclosed the
monastery on its breast. The scalloped white walls, the blue head of
the old church, the golden cupola of the new cathedral and the striped
red roofs stood out clearly from the splendid green. The crosses
glowed, shining and inviting, and above them the blue bell of heaven
sounded the joyful peace of spring, while the sun rejoiced in its
victory.
In this beauty which inflated the soul with its keen splendor, black
men in long garments hid themselves and rotted away, living empty days
without love, without joy in senseless labor and in mire.
I pitied them and myself, too, so that I almost wept. I arose and went
on.
Perfume was over all, the earth and all that lived sang, the sun drew
forth the flowers in the field and they lifted themselves up toward the
sky and made their obeisance to the sun. The young trees whispered and
swayed, the birds twittered and love burned everywhere on the fruitful
earth which was drunk with its owm strength.
I met a peasant and greeted him, but he hardly nodded. I met a woman
and she evaded me. And all the time I had a great desire to speak with
people, and I would have spoken to them with a friendly heart.
I spent the first night of my freedom in the woods. I lay long, gazed
up at the sky and sang low to myself and fell asleep. In the early
morning I awoke from cold, and walked on, racing to meet my new life as
if on wings. Each step took me farther away, and I was ready to outrun
the distance.
The people whom I met looked suspiciously at me and stepped aside. The
black dress of the monk was disgusting and inimical to the peasants,
but I could not take it off. My passport had expired, but the Abbot
made a note under it which said that I was a novice of the monastery of
Savateffsky and that I was on my way to visit holy places.
So I directed my steps to these places together with those wanderers
who fill our monastery by hundreds on holidays. The brothers were
indifferent or hostile to them, calling them parasites and robbing them
of every penny they had. They forced them to do the monastery work and
imposed on them and treated them with contempt. I was always busied
with my own affairs and seldom met the newcomers. I did not seek to
meet them, for I considered myself something quite extraordinary and
placed my own inner self above everything else.
I saw gray figures with knapsacks on their backs and staffs in their
hands creeping and swaying along the roads and paths, going not
hurriedly but depressed, with heads bent low, walking humbly and
thoughtfully, with credulous, opened hearts. They flowed together in
one place, looked about them, prayed silently and worked a bit. If a
wise and virtuous man happened to be there they talked with him low
about something, and again spread out upon the paths going to other
places with sad steps.
They walked, old and young, women and children, as if one voice called
them, and I felt from this crossing and recrossing of the earth a
strength arise from the paths which caught me also, and alarmed me and
promised to open my soul. This restless and humble wandering seemed
strange to me after my motionless life.
It was as if earth herself tore man from her breast and pushed him
forth, ordering him imperiously, "Go, find out, learn." And man goes
obediently and carefully, seeks and looks and listens attentively,
then goes on farther again. The earth resounds under the feet of the
searchers and drives them farther over streams and mountains and
through forests and over seas, still farther wherever the monasteries
stand solitary, offering some miracle, and wherever a hope breathes of
something other than this bitter, difficult and narrow life.
The quiet agitation of the lonely souls surprised me and made me human,
and I began to wonder,
"What are these people seeking?" Everything about me swayed, frightened
and wandering like myself.
Many like myself sought God, but did not know where to go and strewed
their souls on the paths of their seeking, and were going on only
because they did not have strength enough to stop, acting like the seed
of the dandelion in the wind, light and purposeless.
Others unable to shake off their laziness carried it on their
shoulders, lowering themselves and living by lies, while still others
were enthralled by the desire to see everything, but had no strength in
them to love.
I saw many empty men and degraded rascals, shameless parasites, greedy
like roaches. I saw many such, but they were only the dust behind the
great crowd filled with the desire of finding God.
Irresistibly this crowd dragged me along with it.
And around it like gulls over the sea various winged people circled
noisily and greedily, who astonished me with their monstrous
deformities.
Once in Bielo-ozer I saw a middle-aged man with a haughty mien. He was
cleanly dressed and evidently a man of means.
He had seated himself in the shade of a tree, and had pieces of cloth,
a box of salve and a copper basin near him, and kept crying out:
"Orthodox, those with sore feet from overstraining, come here; I will
heal them. I heal free because of a vow I have taken upon myself in
the name of the Lord."
It was a church holiday in Bielo-ozer and the pilgrims had flocked
there in great numbers. They came up to him, sat down, unwound the
wrappings on their feet, while he washed them, spread salve on the
wounds and lectured them.
"Eh, brother, you are not over-wise. Your sandal is too large for
your foot. How can you walk like this?" The man with the large sandal
answered in a low voice, "It was given to me in charity."
"He who gave it to you has pleased God, but that you should walk in it
is your own foolishness, and there is nothing great about your deed.
God will not count it to your credit."
Well, I thought, here is a man who knows God's meanings.
A woman came up to him, limping.
"Oh, young one," he called out, "you have no corn, but the French
sickness, permit me to tell you. This, Orthodox, is a contagious
disease. Whole families die from it, and it is hard to get rid of." The
woman became confused, rose and went away with her eyes lowered, and he
continued calling:
"Come here, Orthodox, in the name of St. Cyril."
People went up to him, unwound their feet and groaned, and said "Christ
save you!" while he washed them.
I noticed that his refined face twitched as in a cramp and his skilful
hands trembled. Soon he closed up his pious shop and ran off somewhere
quickly.
At night a little old monk led me to a shed, and there I saw the same
man. I lay down next to him and began to speak low:
"How is it, sir, that you spend the night together with these common
people? To judge by your clothes, your place is in the inn."
"I have taken an oath to be among the lowest of the low for three
months. I want to fulfil my pious work to the very end, and let myself
be eaten up by lice with the rest of them. I really cannot bear to see
wounds--they make me sick; still, no matter how disgusting it is to me,
I wash the feet of the pilgrims every day. It is a difficult service to
the Lord, but my hope in His mercy is great."
I lost my desire to speak to him, and, making believe I had fallen
asleep, I lay thinking, "his sacrifice to God is not over great."
The straw underneath my neighbor rustled. He arose carefully, knelt
down and prayed, at first silently, but later I heard his whispered
words:
"Oh, thou, St. Cyril, intercede before God for me, a sinner, and make
Him heal me of my wounds and sores as I have healed the wounds of men.
All-seeing God, value my labors and help me. My life is in Thy hands.
I know that my passions were violent, but Thou hast already punished
me enough. Do not abandon me like a dog, and let not Thy people drive
me away, I beg of Thee, and let my prayers arise toward Thee like the
smoke of incense." Here was a man who had mistaken God for a doctor. It
was unbearable to me, and I closed my ears with my hands.
When he had finished praying he took out something to eat from his bag
and chewed for a long time, like a boar.
I have met many such people. At night they creep before their God,
while in the day they walk pitilessly over the breasts of men. They
lower God to do the duty of hiding their vile actions, and they bribe
him and bargain with him.
"Do not forget, O Lord, how much I have given Thee."
Blind slaves of greed, they place it high above themselves and bow down
to this hideous idol of the dark and cowardly souls and pray to it.
"O Lord, do not judge me in Thy severity nor punish me in Thy wrath."
They walk upon earth like spies of God and judges of men, and watch
sharply for any violation of the church laws. They bustle and flock
together, accusing and complaining. "Faith is being extinguished in the
hearts of people; woe unto us!"
One man especially amused me with his zeal. We walked together from
Perejaslavlja to Rostoff, and the whole way he kept crying out to me,
"Where are the holy laws of Feodor Studite?"
He was well fed, healthy, with a black beard and rosy cheeks; had
money, and at night mixed with the women in the inns.
"When I saw how the laws were violated and the people depraved,"
he said to me, "all the peace of my soul went from me. I gave _my_
business, which was a brick factory, to my sons to manage, and here I
am, wandering about for four years, watching everything, and horror
fills my soul. Rats have crawled into the Holy Sacristy, and have
gnawed with their sharp teeth the holy laws, and the people are angry
with the church, and have fallen away from her breast into vile
heresies and sects. And what does the church militant do against this?
It increases its wealth and lets its enemies grow. The church should
live in poverty, like poor Lazarus, so that the people might see what
true holiness poverty is, as Christ preached it. The people on seeing
this would stop complaining and desiring the wealth of others. What
other task has the church but to hold back the people with strong
reins?"
Those sticklers for the law cannot hide their thoughts when they see
its weakness, and they shamelessly disclose their secret selves.
On the Holy Hill a certain merchant, who was a noted traveler and
who described his pilgrimages in holy places in clerical papers, was
preaching to the crowd humility, patience and kindness.
He spoke warmly, even to tears. He entreated and he threatened, and the
crowd listened, silent and with bowed heads.
I interrupted his speech and asked him "if open lawlessness should be
suffered also."
"Suffer it, my friend," he cried; "undoubtedly suffer it. Christ
himself suffered for us and for our salvation."
"How then," I answered, "about the martyrs and the fathers of the
church? For instance, take St. John Chrysostom, who was bold and
accused even kings."
He became enraged, flared up at me and stamped his feet. "What are you
chattering there, you blunderer? Whom did they accuse? Heathens!"
"Was Eudoxia a heathen, or Ivan the Terrible?"
"That is not the point," he cried, waving his arms like a volunteer at
a Are. "Do not speak about kings, but about the people--the people,
that's the important thing. They are all sophisticated, and have no
fear. They are serpents which the church ought to crush; that is her
duty."
Although he spoke simply, I did not understand at this time what all
this anxiety about the people was, and though his words caused me fear,
I still did not understand them, for I was spiritually blind and did
not see the people.
After my discussion with this writer several men came up and spoke to
me, as if they did not expect anything good from me.
"There is another fellow here; don't you want to meet him?"
Toward vespers a meeting was arranged for me with this young man in
the wood near the lake. He was dark, as if blasted by lightning. His
hair was cut short, and his look was dry and sharp; his face was all
bone, from which two brown eyes burned brightly. The young man coughed
continually and trembled. He looked at me hostilely and, breathing with
difficulty, said: "They told me about you--that you scoff at patience
and kindness. Why? Explain."
I do not remember what I said to him, but as I argued I only noticed
his tortured face and his dying voice when he cried to me: "We are not
for this life, but for the next. Heaven is our country. Do you hear it?"
A lame soldier, who had lost his leg in the Tekinsky War, stood
opposite him and said gloomily: "My opinion, Orthodox, is this:
Wherever there is less fear there is more truth," and turning to the
young man he said: "If you are afraid of death that is your affair, but
do not frighten the others. We have been frightened enough without you.
Now you, red-head, speak."
The young man vanished soon after, but the people remained--a crowd
of about half a hundred--to listen to me. I do not know with what I
attracted their attention, but I was pleased that they heard me, and
I spoke for a long time in the twilight, among the tall pines and the
serious people.
I remember that all their faces fused into one long, sorrowful
face, thoughtful and strong-willed, dumb in words but bold in secret
thoughts, and in its hundred eyes I saw an unquenchable fire which was
related to my soul.
Later this single face disappeared from my memory, and only long after
I understood that it was this centralization of the will of the people
into one thought which arouses the anxiety of the guardians of the law
and makes them fear. Even if this thought is not yet born or developed,
still the spirit is enriched by the doubt in the indestructibility
of hostile laws--whence the worry of the guardians of the law. They
see this firm-willed, questioning look; they see the people wander
upon the earth, quiet and silent, and they feel the unseeing rays of
their thoughts, and they understand that the secret fire of their
dumb councils can turn their laws into ashes, and that other laws are
possible.
They have a fine ear for this, like thieves who hear the careful
movements of the awakened owner whose house they have come to rob in
the night, and they know that when the people shall open its eyes life
will change and its face turn toward heaven.
The people have no God so long as they live divided and hostile to one
another. And of what good is a living God to a satisfied man? He seeks
only a justification for his full stomach amid the general starvation
around him.
His lone life is pitiful and grotesque, surrounded on all sides by
horror.