I awoke. There was noise, whistling, hubbub, as if at a meeting of all
the devils. I looked out into the court. It was full of youngsters and
Mikhail was among them, in a white shirt, looking like a sailboat among
small canoes. He stood laughing with his head on one side, his mouth
wide open and his eyes twinkling. He in no way resembled the serious
Lenten young man of the night before.
The children were dressed in blue, red and pink. They shone in the sun
as they jumped and shouted. Something drew me toward them and I crawled
out from the shed. One youngster noticed me and cried out:
"Look, fellows, here is a mo-onk!" Like fire that had been set to a
heap of dry shavings, so the children jumped, wheeled about, looked at
me and began to dance up and down.
"Wha-at a red one!"
"And such a hairy one, too!"
"He'll bite you!"
"Oh, don't tease him; he's strong."
"He's not a monk. He's a bell-tower."
"Mikhail Ivanich, who is he?"
The teacher became somewhat embarrassed, and they, the little devils,
laughed. I did not know why I struck them as funny, but I caught the
spirit from them, smiled and cried to them:
"Stop it, you mice!"
The sun was shining, a gay noise filled the air and everything about us
fluttered and floated with it, blinding me with its light and wrapping
me in its warmth.
Mikhail greeted me and shook my hand.
"We are going to the wood," he said. "Do you want to come along?"
It was a pleasant sight. There was one fat youngster who snatched my
cap, put it on his head and flew about the courtyard like a butterfly.
I went to the wood with this band of madcaps, and the day remains
engraven on my memory.
The children poured out into the street and fled to the mountain
lightly, like feathers in the wind. I walked alongside of their
shepherd, and it seemed to me that I had never seen such charming
children before.
Mikhail and I walked behind them. He gave them orders, crying out to
them; but the children refused to listen to him. They jostled, fought
and bombarded one another with pine cones, and quarreled. When they
were tired they surrounded us, crawled about our feet like beetles,
pulled at their teacher's hands, asked him now about the grass, now
about the flowers, and he answered each one in a friendly way, as if
to an equal. He rose above them like a white sail.
The children were all alert, but some of them were more serious and
thoughtful than their age warranted. Silent, they kept near their
teacher.
Later the children again spread themselves out and Mikhail said to me,
low:
"Are they created only for toil and drunkenness? Each one is a
receptacle of a living soul. Each one could hasten the development of
the thought which would free us from the bondage of confusion, yet
they must travel along the same dark and narrow channel through which
the days of their fathers flowed turbidly. They are ordered to work
and forbidden to think. Many of them, perhaps all, pledge allegiance
to dead strength and serve it. Here lies the source of earth's misery.
There is no freedom for the growth of the human soul."
He talked while several young boys walked alongside of him and listened
to his words. Their attentiveness was amusing. What could these young
sprouts of life understand by his words? I remembered my own teacher.
He beat the children on the head with a ruler and would come to school
drunk.
"Life is filled with fear," Mikhail said, "and mutual hatred eats out
the soul of man. A hideous life. But only give the children time to
develop freely; do not transform them into beasts of burden, and free
and alert, they will light up life both from within and without with
the exquisite young fire of their proud souls and the great beauty of
their eternal activity."
Their blond heads, their blue eyes, their red cheeks were around us
like live flowers among the dark green pines. The laughter and clear
voices of these gay birds rang out--these harbingers of new life. And
all this vital beauty would be trampled down by greed! What sense was
there in that? A delicate child is born rejoicing. He grows into a
beautiful child, and then, as a grown-up man, he swears vulgarly and
groans bitterly, beats his wife and drowns his sorrow in vodka. And as
an answer to my thought, Mikhail said:
"They go on destroying the people--the one and true temple of the
living God. And the destroyers themselves sinking in the chaos of the
ruins, see their wicked work and cry out, 'Horrible!' They rush hither
and thither and whine, 'Where is God?' while they themselves have
killed Him."
I remembered Juna's words about the breaking up of the Russian people,
and my thoughts followed Mikhail's words lightly and pleasantly. But
I could not understand why he spoke low and without anger, as if this
whole oppressive life was a thing of the past for him.
The earth breathed warm and friendly, with the intoxicating perfumes of
the sap and the flowers. The birds pierced the air with their twitter,
the children played about and conquered the stillness of the wood, and
it became more and more clear to me that before this day I had not
understood their strength, nor had I ever seen their beauty. It was
good to see Mikhail among them, with his calm smile on his face. I
said, smiling:
"I am going to leave you for a little. I have to think."
He looked at me. His eyes beamed, his eyelashes fluttered, and my heart
answered him, trembling. I had seen little of friendship, but I knew
how to value it.
"You are a good man," I said to him.
He became embarrassed, lowered his eyes, and I also was confused. We
stood opposite each other, silent; then separated. He called out after
me:
"Don't go too far. You will lose your way."
"Thank you."
I turned into the wood, chose a place and sat down. From the distance
came the voices of the children. The thick, green wood resounded with
their laughter and it sighed. The squirrels squeaked over my head, the
finches sang.
I wanted to explain all to my soul; all which I knew and which I had
heard these days, but everything melted within me into a rainbow, and
it enfolded me and carried me on as it floated quietly along, filling
my soul. It grew infinitely large, and I lost myself in it, forgetting
myself in a light cloud of speechless thought.
At night I reached home and said to Mikhail that I would like to live
with them some time, until I learned their faith. For this reason I
wished Uncle Peter to find some work for me in the factory.
"Don't hurry so," he said. "You ought to rest and read some books."
"Give me your books," I said, for I trusted them.
"Take them."
"I have never read worldly books," I said. "Give me what you think I
need; for instance, a Russian history."
"It is necessary to know everything," he answered, and looked at the
books affectionately, as at the children.
Then I buried myself in study, reading all day long. It was difficult
for me, and painful. The books did not argue with me. They simply did
not wish to know me. One book especially tortured me. It spoke about
the development of the world and of human life. It was written against
the Bible. Everything was stated simply, clearly and positively. I
could find no loophole in this simplicity, and it seemed to me that a
whole row of strange powers were around me and that I w as among them
like a mouse in a trap. I read it twice, read it in silence, wishing
to find some flaw in it through which I could escape to liberty. But I
found none. I asked my teacher:
"How is it? Where is the man?"
"It seems to me, too," he said, "that this book is not true, but I
cannot explain where it is wrong. Still, after all, as a guess at the
plan of the world, it is very pretty." I liked it when he answered:
"I do not know; I cannot say." And I stood very close to him, for
evidently in this lay his honesty. When a teacher decides to be
conscious of his ignorance, it must be that he has some knowledge.
He knew much that was unknown to me and which he related to me with
marvelous simplicity. Once he told me how the sun and the stars and the
earth were created, and he talked as if he himself saw this fiery work,
done by an unknown and wise hand. I did not understand his God, but
that did not trouble me. The principal force of this world he called
some kind of matter, but I placed instead of matter God, and all went
smoothly.
"God is not yet created," he said, smiling.
The question of God was a standing source of argument between Mikhail
and his uncle. As soon as Mikhail said God, Uncle Peter would get angry.
"He has begun it again. Don't you believe him, Matvei. He has inherited
that from his mother."
"Wait, Uncle. The question of God for Matvei is the principal question."
"Don't you believe it, Mishka. Send him to the devil, Matvei. There are
no Gods. It is a dark wood--religion, churches and all such things are
a dark wood, where robber bandits live. It is a hoax."
But Mikhail insisted obstinately. "The God about whom I speak existed
when men unanimously created Him from the stuff of their brains, to
illumine the darkness of their existence. But when the people were
divided into slaves and masters, into little bits and pieces; when
they lost their thought and their will-power, God was lost, God was
destroyed."
"Do you hear, Matvei?" Peter would cry out happily. "He is dead! Long
live his memory!"
His nephew looked straight into his face, and lowering his voice,
continued:
"The main crime which the masters of life have committed is the
destruction of the creative power of the people. The time will come
when the will of the people will again converge to one point, and
then, again, the unconquerable and miraculous power will arise and the
resurrection of God will take place. It is He whom you seek, Matvei."
Uncle Peter waved his hands like a wood-cutter.
"Don't believe him, Matvei. He is wrong."
And turning to his nephew, he stormed at him:
"You have caught church thoughts, Mishka, like stolen cucumbers from
a strange garden, and you confuse people with them. When you say that
the working people are called to renew life, then renew it, but don't
gather up that which the priests have brought up from their holes and
dropped!"
It interested me to listen to these people, and their mutual respect
and equality surprised me. They argued with heat, but they did not
offend each other with evil language and abuse. At times the blood
would mount to Uncle Peter's head, and he would tremble; but Mikhail
only lowered his voice and seemed to bend his large opponent to the
earth. Two men stood opposite me, and both of them denied God out of
the fulness of their sincere faith!
"But what is my faith?" I asked myself, and found no answer.
During my stay with Mikhail the thought about the place of God among
people sank and lost its strength and dropped its former boldness and
was supplanted by a quantity of other thoughts, and instead of the
question, "Where is God?" stood other questions: "Who am I, and why?
Wherefore do I seek God?"
I understood that it was senseless.
In the evenings workingmen came to Mikhail and interesting
conversations took place. The teacher spoke to them about life and
explained to them the laws which were bad. He knew them remarkably
well and explained them clearly. The workingmen were mostly young men,
dried up by the heat of the factory. Their skins were eaten by soot,
their faces were dark, their eyes sorrowful. They listened with serious
eagerness, silent and frowning, and at first they seemed to me morose
and servile. But later I understood their life better and saw that they
could sing and dance and joke with the young girls.
The conversations of Mikhail and his uncle were always on the same
subjects--the power of money, the abasement of the workingmen, the
greed of the masters and the absolute necessity of destroying divisions
of men into classes.
But I was no workingman and no master. I was not in search of
money, and they laid too much stress on capital, and thereby lowered
themselves. At first I argued with Mikhail, pointing out that man's
first duty was to find his spiritual birthplace and that then he would
see his own place on earth, and he would find his freedom.
I spoke briefly, but with heat. The workingmen listened to my speech
good-naturedly and attentively, like honest judges, and some of the
elder ones even agreed with me. But when I finished Mikhail began with
his quiet smile and annihilated my words.
"You are right, Matvei, when you say that man lives in mystery and
does not know whether God, that is, his spirit, is his enemy or his
friend. But you are not right when you say that we, who are arbitrarily
bound in the chains of the terrible misery of our daily toil, can
free ourselves from the yoke of greed without destroying the actual
prison which surrounds us. First of all we must learn the strength of
our next-door enemy and learn his cunning. For this we must find each
other and discover in each other the one thing which unites each with
all. And this one thing is our unconquerable, I can say miraculous,
strength. Slaves never had a God. They raised human laws which were
forced on them without, to Godhood, nor can there ever be a God for
slaves, for He is created from the flames of the sweet consciousness of
the spiritual relationship of each toward all. Temples are not created
from gravel and debris, but from strong whole stones. Isolation is the
breaking away from the parental whole. It is a sign of the weakness
and the blindness of the soul, for in the whole is immortality and in
isolation inevitable slavery and darkness and inconsolable yearning and
death."
When we spoke this way it seemed to me that his eyes saw a great light
in the distance. He drew me into his circle and every one forgot about
me, but looked at him with happiness. At first this offended me. I
thought that they misunderstood my thoughts and that no one was willing
to accept any one's thoughts but Mikhail's. Unnoticed I would go away
from them, sit down in a corner and quietly hold council with my pride.
I made friends with the pupils. On holidays they surrounded Uncle
Peter and me like ravens around sheaves of corn. He would make some
toy for them while I was bombarded with questions about Kiev, Moscow
and everything I had seen. Often one of them would ask me a question
which would make my eyes bulge out in astonishment. There was a young
boy there called Fedia Sachkof, a quiet, serious child. Once when I
was going with him through the wood, speaking to him about Christ, he
suddenly said in a firm tone:
"Christ did not think of remaining a small boy all his life--for
instance, a boy of my age. If He had done so, He could have lived and
still have accused the rich and aided the poor, and He would not have
been crucified. He would have been a small boy, and they would have
been sorry for Him. But the way He did it, it is as if He had never
been here."
Fedia was about eleven. His little face was white and transparent, and
his eyes were critical.
There was another boy, Mark Lobof, a pupil of the last class. He was a
thin, quick-tempered, sharp fellow, very impudent and a bully. He would
whistle low, and pinch, beat and push the children. Once I saw him
persecuting a small, quiet boy until the latter burst into tears.
"Mark," I said to him, "suppose he fought you back."
Mark looked at me, laughed and answered:
"He won't fight. He is gentle and good."
"Then why do you hurt him?"
"Just so," he answered.
He whistled and then added: "Because he is gentle."
"Well, suppose he is?" I asked.
"What are the gentle ones made for?"
He said that in a remarkably quiet tone, and it was evident that at
twelve years old he was already sure that the gentle people were
created for insults.
Each child was wise in his own way, and the more I was with them the
more I thought about their fate. What did they do to deserve the
wretched, offensive life which awaited them?
I reminded myself of Christa and my son, and remembering them, angry
thoughts arose in my soul. Do you not forbid the women free birth of
children because you fear that they might give birth to some one
dangerous and inimical to you? Do you not violate woman's will because
her free son is terrible to you, since he is not tied to you by any
bonds? You have time and the right to bind your children whom you have
brought up and equipped for the affairs of life; but you fear that
nobody's child whom you have denied your supervision may grow up into
your implacable enemy.
There was such a nobody's child in the factory. His name was Stepa. He
was black as a beetle, pockmarked, and without eyebrows. His eyes were
little and sharp, and he was quick at everything, and very gay.
Our acquaintance began with his coming up to me one holiday and saying:
"Monk, I heard you are illegitimate. Well, so am I." And he walked
alongside of me.
He was thirteen, had already finished school and was working in the
factory. He walked along, blinked his eyes, and asked:
"Is the earth large?"
I explained to him as best I could. "Why do you want to know?" I asked.
"I need to know. Why should I stick in one place? I am not a tree. As
soon as I learn the locksmithing trade, I am going far into Russia, to
Moscow, and farther still. I am going everywhere."
He spoke as if he were threatening some one. "I am coming!"
I watched him closely after this meeting. He had a serious streak in
him. He was always where Mikhail's comrades talked, and he listened
and squinted his eyes as if taking aim where to send himself. He had a
special way of playing tricks. He teased only those who stood near to
the boss.
Once at dinner, he said: "It is dull here, monk."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but they are a rotten lot. Work and trouble, nothing
more. As soon as I learn my trade I am going to get out of here, quick."
Whenever he spoke of his future wanderings his eyes became large and he
glanced boldly and had the look of a conqueror, who staked his all on
his own strength.
I liked this creature, and I felt something mature in his speech. "He
won't get lost," I thought to myself as I looked at him.
My soul ached for my own son. How was he and what was going to happen
to him on this earth?