Night overtook us.
"Stop," he said, "let us find a place to rest."
We found a shelter underneath a large rock which had been torn away
from its mother mountain, and the brush grew upon it, weaving itself
into a dark carpet underneath. We lay down in its warm shadow and built
a fire and boiled tea. I asked him: "Father, what were you telling me?"
He smiled. "I will tell you everything I know. Only don't seek for
assertions in my words. I don't want to teach, but only to relate.
Only those people assert who are afraid of the paths of life, for whom
the growth of truth is dangerous. They see that truth burns ever more
brightly since men have lit its flames more and more in their hearts,
they see it and are afraid. They quickly take a little truth, as much
as is advantageous to them, and press it together into a small roll and
cry to the whole world: 'Here is truth; pure spiritual food, and for
all ages unchangeable,' and they sit, the cursed ones, upon the face of
truth and strangle it, clutching at its throat, and hinder the growth
of its strength in every possible way--they are enemies to us and to
all beings. I can say one thing: that is the way it is to-day; but
how it will be to-morrow I don't know. For you see, to-day there is no
true, lawful master in life. He has not come yet. I do not know how he
will arrange things when he comes; what plans he will establish and
what suppress, and what temples he will cause to be built. The apostle
Paul once said, 'All is for the best,' and many have accepted these
words. But they who have confirmed them are without strength, for they
have remained in one place. The stone is without strength. Why? Because
of its immobility, brother. It is not right to say to man, 'stand
here,' but always, 'go farther and farther.'"
For the first time in my life I heard such speech and it sounded
strange to me. Here was a man who negated himself while I tried to
ratify myself.
"Who is this master?" I asked. "The Lord?"
The old man smiled. "No," he answered. "It is some one nearer us. I do
not want to name him. It is better that you yourself divine it. They
believe strongest in Christ who meet Him first and have Him in their
hearts; and it is by the strength of their faith that they raised Him
to the height of Godhood."
He held me as before a closed door, and did not open it, or tell me
what was hidden behind it. Impatience and pain grew in me and the words
of the old man seemed dark. From time to time sparks flashed from
his words, but they only blinded me and did not light the darkness
in my soul. The night was moonlight, and black shadows surrounded
us. The wood overhead crawled silently up to the mountains, and over
the mountain tops, between the branches of the trees, the stars shone
like lighted birds. A nearby stream murmured. From time to time an owl
called in the wood, and over all the old man's words lived quietly in
the night.
A strange old man! He caught a little insect which was crawling on his
cheek and he held it in the palm of his hand and asked it:
"Where are you going, fool? Go, run in the grass, little creature."
I liked it, for I, too, loved all insects, and I was interested in the
secret life which they led among the grass and the flowers.
I asked several questions of the old man, for I wanted him to
speak plainly and more concisely, but I noticed that he evaded my
problems. In fact, he jumped over them. I liked his lively face. The
red reflection of the fire played lovingly over him, and everything
vibrated with the peaceful joy which I so desired.
I envied him. He had lived twice as long as I, or even more, but his
soul was clear.
"One man told me," I said to him, "that faith comes from imagination.
What do you say?"
"I say," he answered, "that that man did not know what he was talking
about, for faith is a great creative feeling. It is born from the
overflow of the life-forces in man. Its strength is enormous and it
incites the youthful human spirit, driving it to action, for man is
bound and narrowed by his activities, and the outside world hinders
him in every way. Everything demands that he produce bread and iron,
but not the live treasure which is in the lap of his soul. He does not
yet understand how to take advantage of this treasure. He is afraid
of the uproar in his soul. He creates monstrosities and he fears the
reflection of his turbid spirit. He does not understand its being and
he bows to the forms of faith, to his own shadows, I might say."
I did not understand him that minute, but for some reason I became
deeply enraged, and I thought to myself: "Now, I will not let you go
away from this place before you answer the root of the question." I
asked him sternly:
"Why do you evade the question of God?"
He looked at me, frowned and said:
"But, my dear boy, I am speaking about Him all the time. Do you not
feel it?"
He stood on his knees and the fire played on him. He held my hand and
spoke low and impressively:
"Who is God, the worker of miracles? Is He our Father, or is He the
child of our soul?"
I remember that I started and looked about me, for I felt
uncomfortable. Insanity spoke in the old man.
Dark shadows lay about and I listened, while the murmur of the woods
crept around us, drowning the weak crackle of the burning coal and the
quiet sound of the river. I, too, wanted to kneel.
Then he spoke loudly, as if in argument:
"Man did not create God in weakness, no; but from an overflow of his
strength. And He does not live outside of us, but within us. We have
torn Him out of us in our terror at the problems of our soul, and we
have placed Him above us with a desire to bind our pride, which is ever
restless at this binding. I said that they have turned strength into
weakness; they have hindered its growth by force. They have conceived
an ideal of perfection too hurriedly, and it has resulted in harm and
pain to us. Man is divided into two classes: The first are the eternal
creators of God; the second are forever slaves of an overpowering
desire to master the former and to reign over the whole earth. They
have captured power, and it is they who maintain that God exists
outside of man; that He is an enemy of the people, a judge and a master
of the earth. They have disfigured the face of the soul of Christ and
have falsified His commandments, for the real Christ is against them,
and is against the mastering of man by his neighbor."
He spoke, and I felt that a painful tooth gnawed in my soul. I wanted
to tear it out, but it hurt, and I wanted to shout, "That is not the
right!"
There was a holy light in his face and he seemed intoxicated and
transported with joy. I saw that his words were insane, but I loved
the old man through the pain and the yearning in my heart, and I
listened to his speech passionately.
"But the creators of God are alive and immortal, and within them,
secretly and earnestly, they will create God anew. And it is about Him
you are dreaming; about a god of beauty and wisdom, of righteousness
and love."
His words agitated me and lifted me to my feet and gave me a weapon in
my hands. Around me the light shadows shimmered and brushed my face
with their wings. I was terrified, the earth swam about me, and I
thought to myself:
"Perhaps it is true that the devil tempts man with beautiful words.
Perhaps this sly old man is plaiting a noose for me, to catch me in the
trap of the greatest sin of all."
"Listen," I said; "who are the creators of God? Who is the master? Whom
do you await?"
He laughed caressingly, like a woman, and answered:
"The creators of God are the people. They are the great
martyrs--greater than the ones the church has praised. They are God,
the creators of miracles--the immortal people! I believe in their soul;
I have faith in their strength. They are the one and certain basis of
life; they are the father of all gods that have been and that will be."
"A mad old man," I thought to myself.
Up to now it seemed to me that, though slowly, still I was going
toward the heights. More than once his words were like a fiery finger
that pointed to my soul, and I felt that the burn and the sting were
wholesome; but now my heart became suddenly heavy, and I remained
standing in the middle of the road, bitterly disappointed. Many fires
burned in my breast. I suffered, yet I was incomprehensibly happy. I
was bewildered and afraid.
"Is it possible," I asked, "that you are speaking of the peasants?"
He answered loudly and emphatically: "Yes; of the whole working people
of the earth, of all its strength--the one and eternal source of the
creation of God. Soon the will of the people will awake, and that great
force, divided, will unite. Many are already seeking the means by which
all the powers of the earth shall be harmonized into one, and from
which shall be created the holy and beautiful all-embracing God of the
earth."
He spoke loudly, as if not only I, but the mountains and the woods and
all that lived, watching in the night, should hear him. He spoke and
quivered, like a bird which is ready to fly, and it seemed to me that
all this was a dream and that this dream lowered me.
I recalled to my mind the image of my God and placed before His face
the dark rows of enslaved, confused people. Did they create God? I
remembered their petty meanness, their cowardly avarice, their bodies
stooped with degradation and toil, their eyes which were dulled with
sorrow, their spiritual stammering and their dumb thoughts, and all
their superstitions, and could they, these insects, create a new God?
Wrath and bitter laughter disturbed my heart. I felt that the old man
had stolen something from me, and I said to him: "Ah, father, you have
done mischief in my soul, like a goat in a garden, and this is all the
result of your words. Do you dare to talk with every one like that? It
is a great sin in my eyes. You should have pity for people. They seek
comfort, and you go about sowing doubt."
He smiled. "I think you are on the same road as I am."
His smile was offensive to me. "It's a lie!" I answered. "I will never
place man side by side with God."
"You don't have to," he said. "Do not place him there, for in that way
you will put a master over yourself. I am not speaking to you about a
man, but of the whole strength of the spirit of the earth--about the
people."
I became enraged. This "God, creator," in rags, filthy, always drunk,
who was beaten and flogged, became disgusting to me.
"Keep still," I said. "You are a crazy old blasphemer. Who are the
people? They are dirty in body and in thoughts; beggars in mind and in
food, and ready to sell their souls for a kopeck."
Here something strange happened. He jumped to his feet and shouted,
"Shut up!" He waved his arms, stamped his feet, and he looked as though
he were ready to beat me. When he had been in a prophetic mood I stood
far from him, and he seemed funny, but now the human came nearer to me.
"Shut up!" he cried. "You granary mouse! You have rotten noble's blood
flowing through you, that is plain. You, who were abandoned to the
people! Do you know about whom you are speaking? You are all alike. You
proud, lazy land robbers! You don't know against whom you are barking,
you scrofulous dogs! You have plundered and robbed the people; you have
sat on their backs, and you swear at them that they don't run fast
enough!"
He jumped around me and his shadow fell on me, whipping my face coldly,
and I moved away from him, surprised and fearful lest he strike me.
I was twice as big as he was, and ten times as strong, but somehow
I had no desire to stop the man. It was evident that he forgot that
night was around us, and that we were in the wilderness, and that if
I misunderstood him he would lie there alone in that place, without
help. I remembered how that frightened, green Archbishop swore at me
that time, and crazy Misha and other people of the old faith; but here
was a man who was insulting me, and his wrath burned with a different
fire. The others were stronger than I, but in their words I heard fear.
This man was weak, but fearless. And he shouted at me, like a child or
like a mother. His wrath was strangely loving, like the first storm
in spring. I was confused and did not understand the boldness of the
old man, and though his anger was amusing, still it hurt me that I so
enraged him. He scolded insultingly, and I did not like to be called
"abandoned," but his wrath pleased me, for I understood that here was a
man angered, believing truly in his own right, and such wrath does the
soul good. There is much love in it, and sweet food for the heart.
I lay at his feet and he shouted at me from above. "What do you know
about the people, you blind fool? Do you know their history? Read their
life, and you will find them higher than all the saints, this father
of ours, this greatest martyr of all--the People. Then, to your great
fortune, you will understand who it is that is before you, and the
strength that grows around you, you homeless vagabond, in a strange
land! Do you know what Russia is? Do you know what Greece is, which
is called Hellas? Do you know Rome? Do you know by whose will and by
whose spirit all governments were built? Do you know on whose bones
the temples were erected? Do you know with whose tongues the wise men
speak? All that is on the earth and all that is in your mind was made
by the People, and the nobility have only polished up that which they
made."
I remained silent. I liked to see a man who was not afraid to defend
his right. He sat down, damp and red in the face, and breathed heavily.
I saw that there were tears in his eyes, and this surprised me, for
whenever my former teachers were offended with me they did not shed
tears. He cried out:
"Listen, and I will tell you about the Russian people."
"You had better rest," I said.
"Keep still," he said to me, threatening me with his hand. "Keep still,
or I will kill you."
I could hardly contain myself, and laughed outright.
"Dear grandfather," I said, "you are an unspeakably marvelous old man.
Pardon me, in Christ's name, if I have offended you."
"You fool! How could you offend me? But you have spoken badly about the
great people, you unhappy soul. It is advantageous for the nobles to
slander the people. They have to stifle their conscience, for they are
strangers on this earth. But you--who are you?"