§12
I was about fifteen when my father summoned a priest to the house to teach me as much Divinity as was required for entrance at the University. I had read Voltaire before I ever opened the Catechism. In the business of education, religion is less obtrusive in Russia than in any other country; and this is, of course, a very good thing. A priest is always paid half the usual fee for lessons in Divinity; and, if the same priest also teaches Latin, he actually gets more for a Latin lesson than for instruction in the Catechism.
My father looked upon religion as one of the indispensable attributes of a gentleman. It was necessary to accept Holy Scripture without discussion, because mere intellect is powerless in that department, and the subject is only made darker by human logic. It was necessary to submit to such rites as were required by the Church into which you were born; but you must avoid excessive piety, which is suitable for women of advanced age but improper for a man. Was he himself a believer? I imagine that he believed to some extent, from habit, from a sense of decency, and just in case—. But he never himself observed any of the rules laid down by the Church, excusing himself on the plea of bad health. He hardly ever admitted a priest to his presence, or asked him to repeat a psalm while waiting in the empty drawing-room for the five-rouble note which was his fee. In winter he excused himself on the plea that the priest and his clerk brought in so much cold air with them that he always caught cold in consequence. In the country, he went to church and received the priest at his house; but this was not due to religious feeling but rather a concession to the ideas of society and the wishes of Government.
My mother was a Lutheran, and, as such, a degree more religious. Once or twice a month she went on Sundays to her place of worship—her Kirche, as Bakai persisted in calling it, and I, for want of occupation, went with her. I learned there to imitate with great perfection the flowery style of the German pastors, and I had not lost this art when I came to manhood.
My father always made me keep Lent. I rather dreaded confession, and church ceremonies in general were impressive and awful to me. The Communion Service caused me real fear; but I shall not call that religious feeling: it was the fear which is always inspired by the unintelligible and mysterious, especially when solemn importance is attached to the mystery. When Easter brought the end of the Fast, I ate all the Easter dishes—dyed eggs, currant loaf, and consecrated cakes, and thought no more about religion for the rest of the year.
Yet I often read the Gospel, both in Slavonic and in Luther’s translation, and loved it. I read it without notes of any kind and could not understand all of it, but I felt a deep and sincere reverence for the book. In my early youth, I was often attracted by the Voltairian point of view—mockery and irony were to my taste; but I don’t remember ever taking up the Gospel with indifference or hostility. This has accompanied me throughout life: at all ages and in all variety of circumstances, I have gone back to the reading of the Gospel, and every time its contents have brought down peace and gentleness into my heart.
When the priest began to give me lessons, he was astonished, not merely at my general knowledge of the Gospel but also at my power of quoting texts accurately. “But,” he used to say, “the Lord God, who has opened the mind, has not yet opened the heart.” My theological instructor shrugged his shoulders and was surprised by the inconsistency he found in me; still he was satisfied with me, because he thought I should be able to pass my examination.
A religion of a different kind was soon to take possession of my heart and mind.