THE IKON NOT MADE BY HANDS
VLADIMIR ALEXANDROVITCH was, I suppose, one of the minor clergy. It was
evident he was very poor; his house consisted of one room only, and was
furnished by two chairs and a table. Several Ikons hung on the walls. On
the floor a rough black sheepskin mat showed where he slept. He wouldn’t
find me a lodging, but bade me welcome to his own. We ate _kasha_
together, buckwheat porridge, and then he put the samovar on and we had
tea. The Ikons were all Christ-faces, and they watched us all through
the meal in a way that gave the place a strange atmosphere. At my elbow
stood a famous picture, one that many Russians love beyond all others as
a comforter. It is called “The Joy of all the Afflicted”; it is, of
course, a portrait of Christ painted in the features of a Russian
peasant. It means nothing to a foreigner, but somehow it appeals to the
peasant; it brings Christ very near to him, it makes Him a fellow-man.
Opposite me was “The Ikon not made by hands,” also a peasant face, but
having an expression as cold as the other was warm. But this one was
arresting; one’s eyes continually rested upon it and tried to discover
some hidden meaning. I asked the priest to tell me the story of it, and
it was not until the end that I discovered that it was a version of the
St Veronica legend. I don’t know now whether he would agree with the
version of his story I should tell. But this is how it remains in my
mind.
The fame of Jesus spread into many countries, even before the time of
His death. It came to Abyssinia where a queen was dying. The tidings
came of the healing of the sick, the raising from the dead, tidings of
all the wonderful faith-miracles wrought in the distant land where Jesus
was teaching. The tidings were brought to the dying queen, and as she
heard a light passed over her face. All those who stood by wondered and
hoped, for in the sudden light in the eyes of the queen they deemed they
saw the promise of new life. The queen was silent, and looked on them,
and then the light faded away, and she said: “If I might see Him it is
possible I should live, but how could it happen that He should come
hither, so many hundred miles o’er hill and vale and desert and sea, for
the sake even of a queen?” So she spoke and was silent, and yet was not
without hope. And those around her were sad, and they waited for the
queen to say more. But the queen lay still and spoke no more, and with a
strange thought of comfort her feeble body and spirit slid gently into
sleep. Sweetly and gently her eyes and soul closed to the day, and her
night eyes and soul opened to the night. She dreamed. She dreamed, and
then even her dreaming self fell asleep.
In the morning she opened her eyes and remembered that she had dreamed,
and she remembered a voice in the dream, and a face and a promise. She
remembered the strange words that had been spoken to her dreaming
self—“Andray, the painter, shall bring you the face that shall save you
from all harm.”
The queen bade heralds sound for Andray, the painter. They sounded, and
a painter, Andray by name, was found, and they brought him before the
queen. Then, when he was come, and he stood before the pale queen, she
told him the purport of the dream, and told him of the tidings of that
Jesus of Galilee whose comfort her soul craved. Andray understood his
quest—that he should paint the face—and that day, ere the sun set, he
departed on his long journey. His long travelling commenced. Far over
hill and vale and sea and desert he journeyed to the Holy Land, there to
see the Saviour and paint the face that should save the queen.
And a high faith held the pale queen between life and death during the
intervening weeks, and a kindred faith bore Andray through hardship and
peril and the fear of man and of beast. The commotion and stir and
rumour with regard to the Saviour grew noisier as Andray came nearer
Palestine. At length he arrived.
Jesus was teaching among the people, living in His heart the life of
everyone He saw, living from His heart in living veins over the whole
earth. Of the queen He knew in His heart, and of her faith, and of the
painter and his faith, and He in His own heart had the fulfilment of
each, the answer to each. And as part of that answer, on the day on
which Andray arrived, He stood upon a slope teaching, and below Him were
a thousand people, listening, calling, reviling, praying, and the
disciples were bringing sick people to and fro at the Master’s feet. So
great was the crowd that Andray found it impossible to get near, or he
was too tired to struggle through. So he climbed the opposite hill, that
which faced the one whereon Jesus was working, for the people were in a
valley between two hills. And from that eminence Andray had a perfect
view of the face that he needed to paint.
So the painter settled down to make his study, and he found the face
such a subject as he had never yet imagined, such a face as was only one
with his highest dream of an ideal, one with the fleeting fancy of the
golden moment of his greatest love. Eagerly he drew—eagerly for a
moment—and then stopped in perplexity. There was something wrong; he put
aside his first attempt and eagerly started a second. But the second
also he put aside, and started a third; and a fourth and a fifth he
started, for he found that directly he traced a line it was wrong. The
slightest feature that he drew seemed at once a lie. For the living face
of the Teacher changed constantly, like the flash of the sun on the
waves; it was not one face only that he saw, but a thousand faces; not a
thousand faces only, but every face, and even for a moment his own face.
Jesus knew that he was there, and had marked him where he sat at work
upon the opposite hill. And now He beckoned to him, and Andray gave up
his efforts and made his way down the slope. Then one of the disciples
found him at the edge of the crowd and brought him to the throng, to the
place where Jesus was teaching. And when he was brought Jesus looked at
him and said, “My face may not be drawn by hands, lest in the days to
come man should say _this only_ is the likeness of Christ. There is not
one face alone for all, but for each man his own vision. There is one
common knowledge for all, _that_ only the heart may know. What wouldest
thou then?”
“I would that I had the likeness that alone can save my queen.”
Then Jesus took a towel and pressed it to His face, and then gave it to
Andray. And on the towel was imprinted a strange likeness of Christ. And
all who looked upon the picture marvelled, for there was in it
portraiture such as never painter’s hand could follow. And Andray gazed,
rapt, upon the living, breathing treasure that was his, and he marvelled
at the depth and plenitude of power and love that breathed from its
unfathomable calm; it seemed a myriad souls were merged in one face. And
he looked questioningly at the thorn crown upon the head and the blood
marks on the brow, for in such guise was the face portrayed. There was
much in the picture that was as yet hidden from his heart.
This was the face that Andray, the painter, brought from Palestine,
which restored to life the pale queen, and which, set in the holy seat
of the capital, wrought many wonders and miracles. It is told that
Andray, though his paintings are now lost, became the most wonderful
painter, and his fame went throughout the land; for before taking away
the Ikon of Christ he had received a blessing. At parting Jesus breathed
on the eyes of the painter, and said, “Thou couldest not find My face
for the reflection there of the soul of the common man. Behold now, thou
shalt not look upon the face of any common man but thou shalt find My
face there also.”
I liked the priest’s legend and probably read much more in it than he
intended. Indeed, he seemed mildly surprised at my enthusiastic
inquiries as to points in the story. Shortly after he concluded the lamp
burned out, and as he had no more oil we went to bed. And I slept very
soundly, for I had had a stiff day’s walk, and had not slept
particularly well since I left Vladikavkaz.
Next day I was awakened by the sun full in my face. It was time to go
out. I left the priest fast asleep and went out to see the Kazbek
Mountain. The air was so cold that it was necessary to run to keep warm
even though the sun shone. There was mist on the mountains and the sun
was fighting it. Far distant peaks looked immense and elemental, like
chaotic heaps awaiting the creation of a world. And the conquering sun
was creating all things anew, and momentarily all around me the gems of
the earth were, as it were, answering _adsum_ to the morning roll-call.
Hyacinth and iris glittering with dew crept out of the wet scrub and
gleamed in the sunlight, and fritillary butterflies came flitting down
upon the blossoms.
Then above me rose the majestic mountain to which in old time
Prometheus, as the story goes, was bound, Mount Caucasus, the wonder of
the way. Its high-born pinnacle of snow seemed to have riven the very
sky itself, and was all glistering white, as if catching the radiance of
another world. Mount Kazbek seemed a god; the other mountains were men.
The other mountains were like grandfathers, hoary old men who wanted
children playing at their knees. They enticed me. Grandfathers are very
fond of their children’s children.
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