Then the merchant realized that it was not for him to judge those who were now standing before a far different tribunal, pleading there their own and others’ sins, their own and others’ wrongs, their own and others’ blood. In that dreadful hour he took a solemn oath to bury all those who had been executed and yearly to have a requiem for them.
Since then, it is said that the houses of God have stood in Arzamas. Since then the clergy sing the requiem over the nameless graves and the ikons which have been brought hither do not perish unnoticed....
IV
It was a clear, calm morning when I went out to the remains of the Village of God. A tired woman who was driving a lost cow crossed herself, when she saw the cross of the chapel. A gang of workmen, “panniers” of Arzamas, were going to their work. A very old peasant, gray as an owl and with faded but still living eyes, was sitting on the threshold of the chapel and binding the flaps of his rough boots. The sun had just risen above the distant forests.
“Greetings, grandsir,” I said to the old man.
“Good morning, son.... Where’re you going?”
“To Sarov.”
“You’re on the wrong road. There’s the proper way.... To the bridge and then the village there.”
“I know, grandsir. I left the road on purpose, so as to see the houses of God.”