THE DAY AFTER THE FEAST
THE day after a church festival is always the Feast of St Lombard.
Outside all the pawnbrokers’ establishments one sees crowds of poor
people drawn up in line—men, women, children, but mostly women. It is a
pitiable sight. Each person is carrying the article to be pledged, and
whether it be a samovar or a chair, or a petticoat or a pair of
trousers, it is never wrapped up. Russians are not ashamed. The queue
which I saw near the Tverskaya a street long, the day after my return
from Sergievo, would have been thought a disgrace to any English city,
but the Russians looked on with equanimity. And to walk from end to end,
from the pawnbroker’s door to the last person who has just hurried up
with a pledge, was like reading a chapter from the darkest pages of
Gorky. One sees children of sad aspect, with bewildered eyes; young
girls as yet honest and clean, but selling the last things of a home;
raging women, weeping women and laughing women, drunkards and drudges;
or besotted men of the sort who drink away their wives’ and daughters’
honour, hopeless home thieves who would steal away even the clothes from
a bed and turn them into vodka. It is notable that in Russia, as yet, it
is chiefly the men who drink; a drunken woman is very rare. The woman in
Russia is the wisest and strongest person in the home. One poor woman,
stout and rubicund, but of countenance preternaturally solemn, seemed to
me weighed down with responsibility. She had a copper samovar under her
arm, and I asked her what misfortune had overtaken her. It was the old
story; her husband was a cabman, he ought to have taken no holiday
yesterday, the streets were full of people and he might have had many
fares, but he went to a tavern in the morning, and spent all his money
and fought with a man and was arrested by a _gendarme_. I asked her how
much she would get “on” the samovar. “Seventy-five copecks, barin,” she
replied. “Have you got another samovar?” I asked. “No, barin, we shall
have to borrow water; I don’t know what the table will look like without
the samovar, it won’t be home without it, it has always been on the
table; it was my mother’s, and she gave it me when I was married. I am
sure we shall never have good fortune after the samovar has gone.”
I lent her seventy-five copecks—one shilling and sixpence—and told her
to take her beloved samovar home again. She accepted without hesitation.
She put the samovar down on the pavement and embraced me with both arms.
“Bless you, barin, the Lord bless you; come along and have some tea.”
I went to her poor little home—two rooms—in which there was no furniture
beyond the bed, a table, some boxes and the Ikons. Two pallid, starved
daughters, girls of thirteen and sixteen, smiled sweetly and made
themselves happy over our party. I had bought some _barankas_, dry
Russian biscuits, _en route_.
The woman told me the story of how her husband had nearly been cured of
drunkenness by God. A year or two ago a most holy priest at Sergievo had
been empowered by God to cure drunkenness. Thousands and thousands, tens
of thousands of drunkards had made pilgrimages from Moscow and Kiev and
Odessa and the country, and had been cured by the priest by miracle, and
Vania had gone from Moscow and had been a whole month sober, because of
the prayer of the holy man. Then suddenly the holy man was removed and
Vania got drunk again.
It was like this. Vania went on foot to Sergievo and saw the monk. First
he was anointed, and then received communion, and then he went to the
priest’s house, where he had to tell his story to the holy man. Then
they prayed before the Ikon that God would have mercy upon Vania. After
the prayer the priest rose and said, “God knows now that you want to
become sober and lead a new life. You must remember that He is looking
at you particularly, just as He would at a new plant that was beginning
to bud. To-day He sees you all White and beautiful, and He says to the
angels, ‘Look at my servant Vania, how well he is living.’ Each morning
and evening God will say how much brighter and more beautiful he is
becoming.”
“_Slav Bogou_, Glory be to God,” replied Vania.
“Now,” said the priest, “for how many days can you keep sober, for how
many days can you live without touching a drop of beer or vodka?”
“For ever, a thousand days,” replied Vania.
“A thousand days is only three years; it’s not for ever,” said the
priest.
Vania blinked his eyes.
“You must kneel on your knees and swear to God that you will not drink,”
said the priest. “But if you break the vow it will be very dreadful.”
“Yes,” said Vania, “I shall swear it.”
“You are very weak,” said the priest; “you must pray God each morning
when you get up and each night before you go to bed that He may give you
strength. Perhaps you will fail, perhaps you are lost, but God is going
to give you a chance. He’s going to watch you for one week first, for
one little week. You must swear to God that you will not drink vodka or
beer for one week.”
Vania, on his knees, repeated the oath after the priest.
“Rise now, Vania,” said the priest; “I think you will keep this little
oath, but if you feel you can’t you must come straight to me and I will
release you. You mustn’t break it. I can let you off quite easily if you
come to me. But if you break it, God may strike you dead, or He may give
you to the Devil. The Devil would be very glad to have you, Vania, but
it would be very bad for you. To-day is Sunday; I shan’t be angry if you
come to me to-morrow or on Tuesday and say, ‘Release me, father.’ I will
then release you and pray God to have mercy on you and to send angels to
help you.”
Vania went away and kept his vow on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, but on Friday, a very cold day, he wanted a drink very badly.
Comrades laughed at him, too. He drove up and down the city and got only
one little fare the whole morning. There were fifteen copecks in his
pocket. He might get two glasses for that. Every tavern tempted, and the
Devil seemed waiting at every tavern-door. At two o’clock he drove home
quickly and gave the fifteen copecks to his wife; at half-past two he
rushed home again and begged the fifteen copecks back. He entered the
shop and placed his bottle on the counter and asked for vodka. The woman
behind the railing of the “monopoly” counter stepped back to pick out
what he wanted, and at that moment Vania, all of a tremble, looked up
and saw the holy Ikon in the shop, a figure of Christ staring at him.
The woman, when she brought the bottle, thought the customer had a fit,
for he suddenly shrieked and bolted from the shop.
“Oh, Lord, have mercy!”
On Friday night Vania saw the priest again and asked to be released. The
priest praised him and prayed with him and offered him release, and then
Vania would not take it. He asked to swear again. So he was sworn in
again and this time for ten days.
Vania went home and prayed, and successfully resisted temptation for ten
days, and very proud he was at the end of that time when he returned to
the holy man and the latter praised him and hung a sign of God by a
little chain round his neck.
The priest prayed with him again and sent him away for a fortnight on
the same conditions.
Vania was sober in this way for a whole month, and all his family with
him, and he prospered with his cab and bought their furniture out of
pawn. God was evidently very pleased with Vania.
But at the end of that time a catastrophe happened. Vania went to the
shrine to be re-confirmed in his new life, and behold the priest was not
there any more. He had been removed by the Bishop, and no one knew where
he had gone to. There was unutterable sadness and despair in the crowds
of drunkards that Vania found there, weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The Government, hearing of the success of the priest, and noting the
diminution in the sale of vodka, had suppressed the holy man in order
that there might be no shortage in the treasury. There was the interest
on foreign loans to pay!
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