It was in the government of Kazan that my heart received the last blow,
the blow which finished the construction of the temple. It was at the
monastery of the Seven Seas, at a procession of the miracle-working
ikon of the Holy Virgin. They were expecting the return of this ikon to
the monastery from the city--the day was a holiday.
I stood on a little hill above the lake and gazed about me. The
place-was filled with people, and the body of human beings streamed
in dark waves to the gates of the monastery, and fought and struggled
around its walls. The sun was setting and its autumn rays shone with
bright red. The bells trembled like birds ready to fly and follow their
own songs, and everywhere the bared heads of the people shone red in
the rays of the sun, like double poppies.
Awaiting the miracle, near the gates of the monastery, stood a small
carriage, in which lay a young girl, motionless. Her face was set as if
in white wax, her gray eyes were half open, and all her life seemed to
be in the quiet fluttering of her long lashes.
Next to her stood her parents. The father was a tall man, gray-bearded
and with a long nose. The mother, stout, round-faced, with uplifted
eyebrows and wide open eyes, gazed in front of her. Her fingers
moved and it seemed to me that she was about to give a piercing and
passionate cry.
The people walked up to them, gazed upon the sick girl's face, and the
father spoke in measured tones, his beard trembling:
"Orthodox Christians, I beg of you, pray for the unfortunate girl.
Without arms, without legs, she has been lying thus for four years.
Beg the Holy Virgin for aid. The Lord will reward you for your holy
prayers. Help deliver the parents from sorrow."
It was plain that he had been carrying his daughter from monastery to
monastery for a long time and that he had already lost all hope of her
recovery. He poured out these same words over and over again and they
sounded dead in his mouth.
The people listened to his prayers, sighed, crossed themselves, and the
lids which covered the sorrowful eyes of the young girl trembled.
I must have seen about a score of weakened girls, about ten who were
supposed to be possessed, and other kinds of invalids, and I was always
conscience-stricken and ashamed before them. I pitied the poor bodies
robbed of strength and I pitied their vain waiting for a miracle. But
I never felt pity to such a degree as now. A great silent complaint
seemed frozen on the white half-dead face of the daughter and a silent
and indescribable sorrow seemed to control the mother.
It was oppressive and I went away. Thousands of eyes were looking
toward the distance, and like a cloud there floated toward me the warm,
dull whisper: "They are carrying it."
Heavily and slowly the crowd proceeded up the mountain like a dark wave
of the sea, and the golden banners burned like red foam, shooting out
their sheaves of bright sparks. The ikon of the holy virgin floated and
swung like a fiery bird shining in the rays of the sun. From the human
body a mighty sigh arose, a thousand-voiced song: "Intercede for us, O
mother of the Lord, most high."
The song was cut short by cries: "Hurry! Move faster! Hurry!"
The lake smiled brightly in the frame-work of the blue wood; the red
sun melted, sinking into the wood, and the copper sound of the bells
rang out gaily. Around me were anxious faces, the quiet and sorrowful
whispering of prayers, eyes dimmed with tears, and the waving of many,
many arms, making the sign of the cross.
I was alone. All this was sad error for me, weak despair, a weary
desire for grace.
The procession marched on, their faces covered with dust, streams of
sweat pouring down their cheeks. They breathed heavily, they gazed
strangely as if they saw nothing, and pushed one another and stumbled
along.
I pitied them. I pitied the strength of their faith which was wasted
on the air. There was no end to this stream of people. A vigorous and
mighty cry arose, but it was dark and sounded reproachful:
"Rejoice, O merciful one," and again, "Hurry! Hurry!"
In this whole cloud of dust I saw hundreds of black faces, thousands
of eyes like stars on the milky way. I saw that those eyes were fiery
sparks from one soul, eagerly awaiting an unknowm joy.
The people went down as one body, pressing close upon one another,
holding one another's hands and walking fast, as if the road was
terribly long, but they were ready to go to what was their end without
stopping.
My soul trembled with an unknown pain. Like a prayer the words of Juna
rose in my memory: "The people--the creators of God."
I started forward. I rushed from the mountain to meet the people, went
along with them and sang with a full throat: "Rejoice, beneficent
strength of all strengths!"
They seized and embraced me, and I seemed to float away and to melt
under their hot breathing. I did not know that the earth was under my
feet, nor did I recognize myself. There was no time nor space, only
joy, vast like the heavens. I was like a glowing coal, flaming with
faith. I was unimportant yet great and resembled all who were around me
at the time of our general flight.
"Hurry! Hurry!"
The people flew over the earth irresistibly, ready to stride over all
obstacles and abysses, all doubts and dark fears. I remember that the
procession stopped close to me, that confusion occurred, that I was
dragged near the wagon of the sick girl and heard the cries and the
murmuring:
"Let us sing the Te Deum; let us sing the Te Deum."
There was great excitement. They pushed the wagon, and the head of
the young girl rocked to and fro, helpless and without strength. Her
large eyes gazed out with fear. Tens of eyes poured their rays out upon
her; hundreds of force streams crossed themselves over her weak body,
calling her to life with an imperious desire to see her rise from her
bed.
I, too, looked into the depths of her eyes, and an inexpressible desire
came over me, in common with all, that she arise; not for my sake, nor
for her own sake, but for some special reason, before which she and I
were like a bird's feather in a fire.
As rain saturates the earth with its live moisture, so the people
filled the dry body of the girl with their strength, and they whispered
and cried to her and to me:
"Rise, dear one, rise. Lift your arms. Be not afraid. Arise, arise
without fear. Sick one, arise; dear one, lift your arms."
Hundreds of stars arose in her soul and a pink shadow lit up her
death-like face, and her surprised and happy eyes opened still wider.
Her shoulders moved slowly and humbly she raised her trembling arms and
obediently held them up. Her mouth was open like a fledgling's about
to leave its nest for the first time. A deep sigh rose around her. As
though the earth where a copper bell, struck upon by a giant sviatogor
with all his strength, the people trembled, and laughing cried:
"On your feet. Help her. Arise little one, on your feet. Help her."
We caught the girl, lifted her and put her on her feet, holding her
lightly. She bent like an ear of corn in the wind, and cried out:
"Oh, dear one, Lord; oh, Holy Virgin!"
"Walk!" the people cried. "Walk!"
I remember their dusty faces, tearful and sweaty. Through the damp
tears a miraculous strength shone out masterful, the faith in the power
to create miracles.
The recovered girl walked quietly among us. Confidently she pressed her
revived body against the body of the people, and smiling and pale like
a flower, she said:
"Let me go alone."
She stopped, swayed, then walked. She walked as if on knives which
cut her feet, but she walked alone; fearful yet bold, like a little
child; and the people around her rejoiced and were friendly as to a
little child. She was excited. Her body trembled. She held her hands
out before her as if she were leaning against the air. She was filled
by the strength of the people and she was sustained from every side by
hundreds of luminous rays.
I lost sight of her at the gates of the monastery, and recovering
myself, I gazed about me. Everywhere there was holiday tumult. There
was a ringing of bells and the powerful talk of the people. The evening
red fell brilliantly from the heavens and the lake clothed itself in
the purple of the reflection. A man walked past me, smiled and asked:
"Did you see it?"
I embraced him and kissed him, like a brother after a long separation,
and we found no words to say to each other. Smiling, we remained silent
and separated.
* * * * *
At night I sat in the wood above the lake. Again I was alone, but now
forever and inseparably united to the soul of the people, the masters
and miracle workers of the earth. I sat and listened to all that I had
seen and known grow and burn within me in one fire.--I, too, would
reflect to the world this light in which everything flamed with great
significance and was clothed with the miraculous. It winged my soul
with a desire to accept the world as it had accepted me.
I have no words to describe the exultation of that night, when, alone
in the darkness, I embraced the whole earth with my love and stood on
the height of my experience and saw the world, like a fiery stream
of life-force, flowing turbidly to unite into one current, the end of
which I could not see. I joyfully understood that the inaccessibility
of the end was the source of the infinite growth of my soul and the
great earthly beauty. And in this infinity were the innumerable joys of
the live human soul.
In the morning the sun appeared to me with a new face. I saw how its
rays cautiously and lovingly sank into the darkness and turned it
away; how it lifted from the earth the veils of night, and there she
stood before me in the beautiful and magnificent jewels of autumn; the
emerald field of the great play of peoples and the fight for free play
was the holy place in the procession of the celebration of beauty and
truth.
I saw the earth, my mother, in space between the stars, and brightly
she gazed out with her ocean eyes into the distance and the depths. I
saw her like a full bowl of bright red, incessantly seething, human
blood, and I saw her master, the all-powerful, immortal people.
They winged her life with a great activity and hope, and I prayed:
"Thou art my God, the creator of all gods, which thou weavest out of
the beauty of thy soul and the labor and agony of thy seeking.
"There shall be no God but thou, for thou art the one God, the creator
of miracles."
This is what I believe and confess.
And always do I return there where people free the souls of their
neighbors from the yoke of darkness and superstition and unite them
and disclose to them their own secret physiognomy, and aid them to
recognize the strength of their own wills and teach them the one and
true path to a general union for the sake of the great cause, the cause
of the universal creating of God.
THE END