It was a clear, calm morning when I went out to the remains of the
Village of God. A tired woman who was driving a lost cow crossed herself,
when she saw the cross of the chapel. A gang of workmen, “panniers” of
Arzamas, were going to their work. A very old peasant, gray as an owl and
with faded but still living eyes, was sitting on the threshold of the
chapel and binding the flaps of his rough boots. The sun had just risen
above the distant forests.
“Greetings, grandsir,” I said to the old man.
“Good morning, son.... Where’re you going?”
“To Sarov.”
“You’re on the wrong road. There’s the proper way.... To the bridge and
then the village there.”
“I know, grandsir. I left the road on purpose, so as to see the houses of
God.”
“Look, son, look.... And pray here too.... It’s a holy place, you
know....”
“Don’t you know who’s buried here?”
“Yes, son, yes! People of every class.... Violence!... A Saltykov, a
landowner from the Vyyezdnaya Sloboda, who oppressed the people,—God
forbid.”
The old man sadly shook his gray beard.
“You know, old people say,—a merchant was going from Makary to
Arzamas,—and offered thanksgiving for arriving safely. Glory to God—he
was at home! At dawn he went out of the city peacefully and met the lord
and his retainers on the bridge. There was no justice.... They hurled him
from the bridge into the Tesha and in a day or two his body floated to
the city.... It was picked up and buried here, on the mountain. And here
it lies till the Day of Judgment....”
I was already familiar with the name of this Saltykov: the old records in
the archives of Nizhny Novgorod preserve the dark memories of the acts of
this noble family, and one is well known from the revolt of Pugachev: his
retainers collected the taxes by robbery. When the glad tidings spread
among the people that Petr Fedorovich had made himself known and was
marching to recover his throne, the serfs of Saltykov thought that there
would be an end to their master’s outrages and their necessarily sinful
lives. The mir assembled, seized and bound their lord, put him in a cart
and took him to the “tsar’s camp” for trial. “But,” said one landowner
who described the incident, “the Lord heard the prayers of the innocent
victim and the rascals instead of going to the camp of the pretender,
carried him to the troops of Mikhelson.”
It goes without saying that the kindly nobleman was quickly released and
the wicked peasants received just punishment. Their bones perhaps joined
those of the followers of Bulavin, the Stryeltsi and the victims of this
same Saltykov. They all lie there together awaiting “the judgment of God”
over all earthly actions....
“Yes, there’s the Sloboda,” said the old man, rising to his feet and
pointing to the village with its columns of smoke and with the morning
fog across the river Tesha. “And there, higher up, were the gardens of
Saltykov....”
“Do you think these houses of God were built since, grandsir?” I asked.
“N-no, friend! Since! N-no.... Much earlier.... Perhaps since Pugachev.”
“Who was Pugachev?”
“Who knows, we are dark people. We heard from our fathers and
grandfathers nothing but Pugachev and Pugachev.... You know the old
story. My father died forty years ago and he was ninety years old when he
died.... And he was still a boy when Pugachev appeared. Count now, how
long ago it was.”
“A hundred and twenty years, grandsir.”
“Yes, a hundred and twenty,—and more!... Pugachev was a stern man. Oh, so
stern. You know, he didn’t love the landowners. He’d go into a village.
‘Give me your lords!’ If the peasants hid them,—God forbid! Cruel.... My
father, God bless him, once told me there were two villages side by side.
The people of one guessed right. They took the ikon and went to meet him,
ringing the bells. He pardoned them, rewarded them, gave them a charter
of his favor.... Ours didn’t; the fools didn’t meet him and he burned the
whole village.”
The old man suddenly looked at me, saw my watchchain and the notebook in
which I began to jot down the main points of his story,—and he suddenly
took off his cap and said:
“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake!”
“What’s the matter, grandsir?”
“That wasn’t so, perhaps.... We’re dark people; how should we know?...
Perhaps he never said it.... But it is true that he was stern.... He
loved order....”
The old man seemed to be afraid that the gentleman would condemn him for
familiar stories about the high qualities of Pugachev, who “loved order”
and issued “charters of his favor”....
I succeeded in calming his anxiety, and we continued to talk. The old
man proved communicative. His memory kept much curious lore and his
simple answers revealed that same vague atmosphere which filled the
place: a feeling of pardoning and timid lack of comprehension, of vague
questioning and of prayer for those who lie here, under the earth, and
perchance had been executed as punishment for crime or perchance had laid
down their lives for a cause punishable here on earth but counted holy
and righteous _there_.
The group of workmen stopped along with me to hear the almost forgotten
traditions connected with this spot.
V
We went together into the little chapel. Its walls were covered with
regiments of ikons, and at the eastern end was a crucifix also surrounded
by ikons. Gloomy faces, dark boards, bereft of heads.... Oh, so many
were lacking heads.... As if the vague feeling of the simple offerers
had sought thus to express their feeling that the punishments were
undeserved....
I was especially surprised by one ikon, of a crucifix painted on the
cubical base. It was not old or had perhaps been renewed and it might
well have been a piece of individual workmanship inspired by the sadness
of this place. On a semi-circular hill with no attempt at perspective
could be seen a severed hand with compressed fingers. Beside it were huge
nails. Hammer and saw were hanging in the air. Fragments of chains....
A column with a bundle of rods and whips fastened to it were painted
against a background of whirling clouds. But a faint light pierced the
clouds and penetrated the mists like a faint gleam of hope. And as if to
emphasize this idea more clearly, the artist had depicted a cock greeting
the sunrise.... On the top of the column the bird was standing with
vibrating wings and open beak, welcoming the morning....
* * * * *
Silently we left the chapel. Although the interior was not dark,—yet it
seemed to me that in passing out through this low door we were passing
from deep gloom into the light of a clear sky.
Directly ahead of me little heads of grain waved their brilliant wings as
if they were alive. The churches and monasteries of Arzamas, like lace,
gleamed on the neighboring mountain. The Vyyezdnaya Sloboda with its
little church looked down beautifully into the Tesha.
“Oh, God,” sighed one of the peasants deeply and slowly.
What did this sigh express? I do not know. Was it a consciousness of the
difficult conditions of life for the workingmen at this present time? Or
was it a feeling that, no matter how hard conditions were now, yet it was
better to live in the present than in the gloomy night of the past?... I
thought it was the second idea.
We parted and each went his own way.