CHAPTER I
In the forest along the Vetlouga there stood a Raskolnik settlement of the “Old Believers” called “the Bank of Mosses.” The roads leading to it were impassable on account of the swamps. It was not an easy task to get there in summer, along the narrow raised paths, which led through thickets quite dark even in the day time. In winter it was accessible on snow shoes.
According to the legend of its origin, three monks from the forests of Olonetz, near the lake Tolveoye, had come here after the destruction of their monastery by the Nikonians; they had followed the lead of a miraculous icon of the Virgin, which had gone before them, suspended in the air. On the spot where the icon descended to the earth they built a hut, and began to live the austere life of hermit monks. They tilled the ground and, burning down the wood along the ridges, sowed rye-corn among the ashes. Disciples collected around them. When the three old men died, they did so on the same day, at the same hour, saying to their disciples: “Children, continue living in this blessed retreat. You may roam far and wide but you will not come across another refuge like it. It has been predestined for the foundation of a large and glorious monastery.”
The prophecy was fulfilled; the settlement grew in the thickly wooded dale, like a lily of Paradise under the protection of the Virgin.
“A miracle!” cried the settlers. “Holy Russia has grown dark while the gloomy regions of the Vetlouga have become radiant; the desert has been peopled with saints who have assembled there like the six-winged seraphim.” It was here that, after long roaming in the forests of Kerjenetz and Tchernoramensk, Father Cornelius, the prophet of the Red Death, and his disciple the runaway Tichon Zapólsky, son, as the reader will remember, of a Streletz rebel, had taken up their abode.
One night in June, not far from the settlement, on a steep rock overhanging the river, a fire was burning. The flames lit up the lower branches of a pine to whose trunk an old Raskolnik’s brass icon was nailed. Two persons were sitting near the fire; the young girl-novice Sophia, and the lay brother Tichon. Sophia had been in the wood searching for a young calf which had strayed; Tichon was returning from a distant hermitage, whither Cornelius had sent him with a letter. They had met by chance at the crossing of the two paths, late at night, when the gates of the monastery were closed; and they decided to await the dawn together near the fire. Sophia watching the flames was singing in a low voice:—
Christ Himself, the blessed King of Heaven,
Speaks to us His children, thus:
“Let not yourselves be conquered
By the seven-headed snake, the Evil One.
Rather flee and hide in caves and mountains,
Where build up large piles of faggots—
Pour burning sulphur over them—
And burn thereon your earthly bodies
For your glorious faith in Me!
Short your suffering, My beloved!
To reward you I will open
All my Father’s Heavenly Mansions;
I will take you into Heaven,
Where we all shall dwell together.”
“So it shall be, brother,” concluded the young girl, fixing on Tichon a long steady look, “he who will be burned shall be saved. It is well to burn for the love of Christ!”
Tichon remained silent. He watched the moths fluttering round the fire till they perished in the flames, and remembered Cornelius’ words: “Like gnats and midgets, the more you try to kill them the more in numbers come! So the sons of Russia shall cast themselves by thousands into the Red Death!”
“What are you thinking about, brother?” the girl asked. “Are you afraid of the furnace? Courage! Despise it! fear not! The pain won’t last a moment! and quick! the body will release the soul! The fear lasts only while waiting, but once in it all is forgotten. When it begins to burn, you will see Christ, with legions of angels, drawing the soul out of the body; and Christ our Hope blesses the soul, endows it with a divine power, and no longer heavy, but as on wings, it flutters about with the angels, like a bird, rejoiced to have escaped its prison! Long it had cried unto the Lord; ‘Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name.’ And now what it asked for has been granted. The prison is burning in the furnace, and the soul like a pearl, like pure gold, is soaring up to the Lord!”
Such joy shone in her eyes, that she might have been already beholding what she was describing.
“Tichon, Tichon dear, don’t you wish for the Red Death, or do you dread it?” she repeated with a caressing whisper.
“I am afraid to do wrong, Sophia. Surely it cannot be God’s will that men should perish so? Are you certain that it is not the lure of Satan?”
“What are we to do, then? We are driven to it by necessity!” She clasped her thin, pale hands, the hands of a child.
“We cannot escape, we cannot hide ourselves from the dragon, neither in the mountains nor in caverns, nor in the chasms of the earth; he hath empoisoned the earth, the water, the air. Everything is defiled, and accursed.”
The night was still. The stars shone like the innocent eyes of children; the crescent of the waning moon rested upon the black tips of the fir trees. The soothing cry of the night-jar rose through the mist from the bog below. The pine forest exhaled a dry, warm, resinous perfume. Near the fire a lilac harebell, lit up by the red glare of the flames, bent on its stalk as if nodding its delicate, drowsy little head.
The moths continued to flutter round the fire and perish in the flames.
Tichon closed his eyes, wearied by the fire-glow. He remembered one summer’s noon, that scent of the pines, in which the fresh smell of apples seemed mingled with the aroma of myrrh; a glade, sunshine, bees buzzing round clover, snail-trefoil, and pink silene; in the middle of the fine glade stood a weather-beaten, half-rotten, wooden cross, probably indicating the last resting-place of a saintly hermit. “Fair Mother Solitude”—he began to repeat his favourite poem. God had answered his prayers. He had brought him to this quiet resting-place. He knelt, and burying his head in the tall grass, kissed the ground and prayed:—
Oh, wondrous Queen, Mother of God!
Earth, thou bountiful mother of all.
and, looking up towards the sky, he continued:—
Descend, thou glorious Mother, from thy hall,
Thou wondrous Queen, mother of God.
The earth and the sky had become one. In the heavenly countenance, radiant as the sun, the countenance of the woman with glowing eyes and fiery wings, Saint Sophia, the Wisdom of God, he saw a countenance familiar to him upon earth, one he longed yet feared to recognise. He rose and went further into the wood. How long and how far he no longer remembered. At last he saw a small round lake; the steep banks covered with firs were reflected in the water like one uninterrupted green wall. The water, thick as resin, green as the pine needles, was so still it was hardly noticeable, and seemed an opening into Hades. On a stone, close to the water, sat the young novice Sophia. He recognised, and yet saw she was a stranger. She had a wreath of white flowers on her flowing hair, the black habit was a little raised, her bare white feet were dipping in the water, her eyes had a drunken look in them. And gently swaying to and fro, looking at the underground kingdom of the water, she sang a gentle song, one of those which are sung on St. John’s eve at the old revels among the bonfires:—
Loved sun, so fair and bright,
Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!
Dear flowers bursting in the night,
Old, old Lado! Old, old Lado!
Earth, earth, fertile Mother of all.
There was something ancient and wild in this song, which recalled the sad plaintive notes of a yellow-hammer in the lifeless hush of noon before a storm. “A water nymph!” thought he, daring neither to move nor breathe. A twig snapped under his foot. The young girl turned round, shrieked, jumped off the stone and fled back to the wood. Nothing remained save the ever widening circles round the wreath which had fallen into the water. He felt terrified as if he had really witnessed a sylvan apparition, an infernal mystery. And remembering the human likeness in the heavenly countenance, he recognised Sister Sophia, and the prayer to the “Mother of all” seemed a mockery. He never confided to anybody what he had seen near the Round Lake, but the vision often returned to his mind, and in spite of all his struggles against this temptation he could not overcome it; at times even in his purest prayers he would see the human face as it were through the heavenly countenance.
And now Sophia, continuing to look at the flames with a fixed and wistful gaze, was singing about St. Cyros, the child martyr, whom the infidel king Maximian had cast into a glowing furnace.
Fair Cyros in the furnace stands,
Chanting the song of cherubim.
Green grass is growing at his feet,
Bestarred with florets blue and sweet.
He feels no fire, but with them plays,
His garment like the sun ablaze.
Tichon too was gazing at the fire, and it seemed to him he recognised the song’s celestial flowers in the blue heart of the flames. Blue as the sky they seemed to promise an inexpressible blessedness; yet to reach that heaven the red flame had to be passed through.
Suddenly Sophia turned to him, laid her hand on his, brought her face so close to his that he felt her breath come and go, ardent and passionate, like a kiss, and began to whisper in a persuasive murmur:—
“Together, together, we will burn, my brother, my beloved! Alone I fear it; with you it will be easy! Together we will go to the marriage feast of the Lamb.”
She repeated with infinite tenderness in her voice, “We will burn, we will burn!” Across her pale face, and in her black eyes, which reflected the glow of the flames, again there flitted that ancient, wild expression, which he had felt in her song near the Round Lake.
“We will burn, Sophia!” he murmured with terror. She drew him as the flame draws a moth.
The sound of footsteps was heard on the path which led along the precipice below.
“Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us sinners,” said a voice.
“Amen,” responded Tichon and Sophia.
The newcomers were pilgrims. They had lost their way in the wood, and narrowly escaped being engulfed in the bog; perceiving the light of the fire, they had after considerable difficulty found their way to it.
They sat down round the fire.
“Is it far to the monastery, friends?”
“’Tis just here at the foot of the hill,” answered Tichon, and looking steadfastly at the woman who put the question, he recognised Vitalia, the same who led the life of a migrant bird, roaming, flying everywhere, whom he had met two years ago in Petersburg on the oak-rafts of the Tsarevitch Alexis, on the night of the Venus festival. She too recognised Tichon and was delighted. With her was her inseparable companion Kilikeya the possessed; the runaway recruit Petka Gisla, whose hand, branded with the government stamp, the mark of the Beast, had withered; and the old boatman, Simple John, who, waiting for Christ’s coming, sang every night the song of the coffin-liers.
“Whence come ye, Orthodox folk?” asked Sophia.
“We are pilgrims,” answered Vitalia, “we wander everywhere, persecuted by the heretics; we have no abiding city, we are waiting for the New Jerusalem. We are now coming from Kerjensk. Cruel persecutions are going on there now. Peterin, the fierce wolf, the vampire of the church, has destroyed seventy-seven monasteries and cast out the holy monks.”
They began telling about the persecutions.
One old father had been flogged in three torture chambers, his ribs had been broken with iron tongues, he was dragged by the navel, and then (it was a very cold winter) he was stripped and ice-water was poured over him until icicles reached from his beard to the ground; at last he found death in the flames.
Others were tormented in iron collars, collars which draw head, hands and feet all together; with the result that the spine and the limbs were dislocated, and blood spurted from the mouth, nose, eyes and ears of the martyrs.
Others were forced to partake of the Lord’s supper by having a gag put into their mouths. The soldiers dragged a youth to church, laid him on the bench, the priest and deacon approached with the vessel. He was held down, his mouth was opened and the wine poured in. He spat it out. Then the deacon dealt him such a blow with his fist, that his lower jaw was broken. The lad died from this blow.
One woman to escape the persecutions made a hole in the ice, pushed her seven small children under, and then drowned herself.
A pious husband had his pregnant wife and three children baptized and killed them that very night in their sleep. In the morning he came to the authorities and said:—
“I was the executor of my family, you will be my torturers; they suffered from me, I shall suffer from you, and together we martyrs of the Old Faith will be in heaven.”
Many escaping from Antichrist sought death in the flames.
“They do well. This self-immolation is acceptable to the Lord. Even God cannot save those who fall into the hands of Antichrist. The pains are unbearable, no one can resist him. Better burn here than be cast into the eternal flames,” concluded Vitalia. “Yes; there is no means of escape but by fire or water.”
The stars grew dim. Pale streaks appeared among the clouds on the horizon. Through the mist, the river winding among the limitless woods glittered like dull steel. On the river bank at the foot of the precipice the monastery was slowly emerging out of the gloom. It was surrounded by a palisade which gave it the appearance of an ancient wooden fortress. A large wooden gateway, surmounted by the image of Christ, opened upon the river. Inside the palisade stood a group of buildings with raised ground floors, vestibules, corridors, closets, attics, summer rooms, turrets, watch towers with narrow windows like fortress barbicans, and steep wooden roofs. Round these clustered a smithy, a tailor’s shop, a tanyard, a cobbler’s shop, a hospital, a school, and a place where icons were painted. The chapel, dedicated to the Virgin of Tolveoye, was also a simple building of logs, only larger than the rest, surmounted by a wooden cross and a shingled dome; near it was the belfry which stood out black against the pale sky.
A faint plaintive sound came floating through the air; this was the summons to early mass. Instead of bells, knockers were used,—oak boards hung on ropes made of twisted ox-sinews, a huge three-sided nail being used to hammer them. According to tradition Noah had summoned the animals to the ark in similar fashion. In the responsive silence of the woods the sound rang singularly sweet and sad.
The pilgrims, looking towards the holy monastery, last refuge of the persecuted, crossed themselves.
“Holy, Holy, Holy New Jerusalem, may God’s glory descend upon thee,” chanted Kilikeya. A transfiguring joy lit up her pale, waxen face.
“All the monasteries have been destroyed; this one alone has remained untouched,” remarked Vitalia; “the Queen of Heaven has evidently taken it under Her holy protection. It is written in Revelation: ‘And to the woman were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness.’”
“The Tsar’s arm is long, but it won’t reach as far as this,” said one of the pilgrims.
“This is the last refuge of ancient holy Russia,” concluded another.
The sound died away, all remained quiet. It was the silent hour, when, according to tradition, the waters remain motionless, the angels pray, and the seraphim move their wings in holy awe before the throne of the Most High.
Simple John, sitting with his arm round his knees, his motionless eyes fixed on the brightening east, sang his eternal song:—
A coffin of pinewood tree
Stands ready prepared for me,
Within its narrow wall
I’ll await the judgment call.
And again, as on the rafts at Petersburg on the night of the Venus festival, the talk turned upon the end of the world, and Antichrist:
“Soon, soon! He is already at the door,” began Vitalia. “Now we just manage to get along; but when Antichrist has come our lips will be sealed, and only in our hearts shall we be able to cling to God.”
“It is terrible, terrible,” moaned Kilikeya.
“I have heard,” continued Vitalia Avilka, “a runaway Cossack from the Don, relate a vision he had in the steppe: three men came to his hut, all exactly alike in countenance, they spoke Russian, but with a Greek accent. ‘Whence come ye,’ he asked, ‘and whither do ye go?’ ‘From Jerusalem,’ they answered, ‘and from the Lord’s Sepulchre to Petersburg, to see the Antichrist.’ ‘What Antichrist?’ he asked. ‘He whom you call Tsar Peter; he is the Antichrist. He will conquer Constantinople, and collect the Jews and take them to Jerusalem where he will reign. And the Jews know he is the real Antichrist. And with him has come the end of the world.’”
Again all remained silent, as though in expectation. All at once from the dark forest there came a long cry, like that of a weeping child; it probably was a night-bird. A tremor passed through them.
“Friends, friends,” stuttered Petka, his voice shaking with gasps, “I am afraid. We speak of him, the Antichrist, and perhaps he is here in the wood near us! See how we all are troubled.”
“Fools, fools, blockheads!” suddenly cried a voice like the angry growl of a bear. They turned round and saw a man whom they had not noticed before. He had probably come out of the wood while they were talking, had sat down on one side in the shade, and had remained silent. He was a tall stooping man, with grizzled red hair. His face could hardly be discerned in the morning twilight.
“The Tsar Peter makes a poor kind of Antichrist; he is a drunkard, a vagabond, a profligate,” continued the old man; “a pitiful Antichrist! The Last of the Devils will go about his work differently; he will have more brain than Peter.”
“Abba, Father,” prayed Vitalia, trembling with fear and curiosity, “enlighten our darkness with the light of truth. Tell us everything you know about the coming of the Son of Perdition.”
The old man groaned; at last after considerable difficulty he succeeded in rising to his feet. There was something heavy, awkward, and bear-like in his whole frame. A boy led him by the hand up to the fire. Under the shrivelled touloupe or sheepskin coat, which he obviously never took off, he wore two stone slabs hung on iron chains, one in front, the other at his back. He had an iron cap on his head, round his loins an iron belt, somewhat like a hoop, to which was riveted a large ring. Tichon remembered Capitone the Great, a saint of Mourom, also had a ring like this fastened to his belt, which by means of a hook in the ceiling was all his rest. He used to sleep hanging by a rope from the hook.
The old man seated himself on the roots of a pine and turned his face eastward. In place of eyes he had two bleeding wounds. The nails which studded the inside of his cap had entered his skull, and had caused him to go blind. His whole face was terrible to look at, but his smile had remained tender as that of a child.
He began to talk, as if beholding with his blind eyes what he was describing:—
“Friends, my poor friends, what has frightened you? He himself has not yet come; nothing has either been seen or heard of him. He will have many precursors; there have been, are, and will be many. They are smoothing his way, and when they have prepared all things and removed all obstacles then he himself will appear. He will be born of an unchaste woman, and Satan will enter into him; and the Deceiver will in all things be like unto the Son of God: he will be chaste, meek, gentle, and kind, he will heal the sick, feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and comfort the mourners. There will come to him those who were bidden and those who were unbidden, and they will make him ruler over all nations. And he will collect his forces from the east even unto the west; his white sails will cover the sea, his black shields the earth. He will say: I will gather the world into my hand like a nest, and rob it as I would steal the abandoned eggs. And he will do great wonders; move the hills, walk on the waves, bring down fire from heaven, cause devils to appear like angels of light, and armies of numberless spirits. The Prince of Darkness, radiant as the sun, will rise up to heaven and descend again upon the earth with great glory, the trumpets will sound and much crying and wondrous singing will be heard. And he will sit in the temple of God saying: ‘I am God!’ and the people will bow before him saying: ‘Thou art God; there is none other God but thee!’ And the abomination of desolation will stand in the holy place. And then earth shall wail and the sea lift itself up in sighing; the heavens will keep back their dew and the clouds their rain; the sea will be filled with gloom and stench, the rivers will dry up, the sources be exhausted, and people will die from hunger and thirst. And they will come unto the Son of Perdition and say: ‘Give us meat and drink,’ and he will mock and insult them. And they will recognise that he is the Beast, and they will flee from his sight, yet no place will give them shelter. And darkness will compass them round. Pangs and sorrows shall take hold of them. Living beings will look like the dead; women’s beauty will fade; man shall behold them without emotion, and man’s natural force will abate. Silver and gold may be scattered in the markets, yet no one will gather it up. Men will die of their grief, they will bite their tongues and shall blaspheme the living God. The powers of the heavens shall be shaken, and then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in Heaven. He is coming. Even so! Come, Lord Jesus. Amen, Amen!”
He finished and turned his empty orbits towards the east, as if beholding on the horizon, in the towering dark clouds, steeped with blood and gold, that which was as yet withheld from the others. The fiery streaks unfurled in the sky like the fiery pinions of seraphim prostrate in the glory of the coming Lord. A glowing dazzling ball rose over the wall of the dark forest; its rays, split by the pointed tips of the black firs, sparkled in iridescent hues. The flames of the fire grew dim before the radiance of the sun. The earth, the sky, the waters, leaves, birds, the whole creation together with the heart of man shouted with great joy, “Even so! Come, Lord Jesus!”
Tichon experienced his old familiar feeling; the fear and the joy of the End.
Sophia crossed herself at the first appearance of the sun, invoking the baptism of fire, the eternal sun, the Red Death. But Simple John alone remained sitting as before, his arms clasped round his knees. He gently swayed to and fro, and looking towards the east, the dawn of day, he sang about the last setting, the end of days:—
Ye hollowed oak-trunks, ye will prove
Fit house for us who on earth do move;
Night approacheth, endeth Day,
And Death his scythe doth lay
To the root of all that live....