Epilogue
THE COMING CHRIST
CHAPTER I
“Our faith is not the true one; it is not worth perishing for. Oh could I but find the true faith, I would let my body be cut to pieces for it!”
Tichon often remembered these words while on his long wanderings after he had fled from Cornelius and the Red Death: they were the words of a wanderer, too; one who had tried all creeds and accepted none.
Once, late in the autumn, after his flight from the priests of the Vetlouga, Tichon was resting at the Pestchersky monastery in Nishni-Novgorod, doing the duties of a copyist, one of the monks, Father Nicodemus, talking with him about religion, said:—
“I know what you need, my son. Wise people are living in Moscow. They possess the water of life. Having once drunk of it, you will never thirst again. Go to them. Should you be found worthy, they will reveal to you a great mystery.”
“What mystery?” Tichon asked eagerly.
“Don’t be so hasty, my son,” retorted the monk with kindly severity. “The more haste the less speed. If you really desire to be initiated in that mystery, accept the trial of silence. Whatever you hear or see, keep it to yourself. You know the prayer: ‘I will not deliver your secret to the enemy, I will not give you the kiss of Judas.’ Do you understand?”