Yemelian looked steadily at him, and Tichon felt thrilled by sudden fear, as though he had looked into some dark, transparent, bottomless pool.
Yemelian, exchanging glances with his master, suddenly stopped.
“Does this mean that salvation can be found neither in the old nor the new Church?” Tichon hastened to question, afraid lest Yemelian, like Mitka, would say no more.
“What is your Church?” Yemelian shrugged his shoulder in contempt. “An anthill, a dilapidated synagogue, a Jewish market! Its spiritual life has been lost in its rites and buildings. She used to be a spirit and a fire, but now she has become precious stones and gold, or icons and priests’ palls. God’s word has become stale, like old dry bread which breaks the teeth and cannot be chewed.”
And leaning over to Tichon, he added in a whisper:—
“There is a true, mysterious, new church, a bright hall of Zion, whose framework is made of cypress, barberry and anise-wood. Not dry crusts, but soft fresh cakes, straight from the oven, are served out there; words of life out of the mouths of prophets. Heavenly joy abounds in it, and spiritual drink about which the Church sings: ‘Come! and drink from the new, incorruptible spring which flows from the tomb of the living Christ!’”
“Ah, what a drink! there is no need to sip it, to look at it is sufficient,” exclaimed Parfen Paramonitch, and raising his eyes, he began to chant in a quite unexpectedly high-pitched voice:—
God Himself has brewed the drink,
The Holy Ghost has mingled it.
Yemelian and Mitka chimed in, beating time with their feet, twitching their shoulders, as if eager to whirl away in a dance. All three had a Bacchantic look in their eyes.