IV

The sternness I had at first shown to Kiriak I now directed on the other monks of my little monastery, in whom, I confess, I did not find the simplicity of Kiriak, nor any good works useful to the faith; they lived, so to speak, as outposts of Christianity, in a heathen land, and yet the lazy beggars did nothing – there was not even one among them who had taken the trouble to learn the language of the natives.

I admonished them, I admonished them privately, and at last thundered at them from the pulpit the words Tzar Ivan addressed to the reverend Guri: “it is vain to call the monks angels – they cannot be compared with angels, nor have they any likeness to them, but they should resemble the Apostles, whom Christ sent to teach and baptize.”

Kiriak came the next day to give me a lesson and fell at my feet.

“What is it? What is it?” I asked lifting him up, “worthy teacher it is not seemly that you should bow to the ground before your pupil.”

“No, Vladyko, you have comforted me greatly, you have comforted me as I never hoped to be comforted in this world.”

“In what way, man of God,” I said, “have I pleased you so greatly?”

“In that you have ordered the monks to learn, and when they go forth, first to teach and then to baptize. You are right, Vladyko, to make this rule; Christ Himself ordered it, and His disciples say: ‘Where the spirit has not been taught there can be no good.’ They can all baptize but to teach the Word they are not able.”

“Brother, you have understood me in a wider sense than I intended,” said I; “according to you, children need not be baptized either.”

“For Christian children it is different, Vladyko.”

“Well, yes, but Prince Vladimir would not have baptized our forefathers at all if he had waited long for them to learn.”

But he answered me:

“Ah, Vladyko, it might perhaps really have been better to have taught them first. You know well – you have read the chronicles – the brew was boiled too quickly – ’inasmuch as His piety was joined with fear.’ The metropolitan Platon said wisely: ‘Vladimir was too hasty, and the Greeks were cunning, they baptized the ignorant – and unlearned.’ Are we to imitate their haste and cunning? You know they are ‘even flatterers to this day.’ And thus we are baptized in the name of Christ, but we are not clothed in Christ. It is futile to baptize in this way, Vladyko.”

“How is it futile, Father Kiriak?” I asked. “What is this that you preach, my friend?”

“Why not, Vladyko?” he answered. “Is it not written in the Holy Books that baptizm with water alone is not sufficient to ensure eternal life?”

I looked at him and answered seriously:

“Listen to me, Father Kiriak, you are talking heresy.”

“No, I am not heretical,” he replied. “I do but repeat the orthodox words of the holy Cyril of Jerusalem: Simon can wash the bodies of the magi with water in the font, but he cannot illuminate their hearts with the Spirit; the body can be anointed above and below, but the soul cannot be buried and rise again.’ Although he had been baptized, although he had washed his body, he was no Christian. The Lord liveth and the soul liveth, Vladyko – remember is it not written there will be those that are baptized who will hear: Verily I say unto you, I know you not,’ and the unbaptized, who for their deeds of righteousness will be saved and enter, because they observed righteousness and truth. Is it possible you deny this?”

Well, I thought, we could wait to talk about this, and said to him:

“Let us learn the heathen tongue, brother, and not the language of Jerusalem; begin to teach me, and be not angry if I am slow of comprehension.”

“I am not angry, Vladyko,” he answered – and in truth he was a wonderfully good-natured and open-hearted old man, and taught me admirably. He disclosed to me with quickness and intelligence all the secrets of acquiring this speech, which is so poor and possesses so few words that it can scarcely be called a language. It is certainly nothing more than the language of the animal life, and not of the intellectual life; nevertheless, it is difficult to master; the phraseology is laconic, and it has no periods; from this arises the difficulty of all attempts at translation into this speech of any text expressed according to the rules of a developed language, possessing complicated periods and subjunctive propositions, while poetical and figurative expressions are impossible to render; besides the meaning they convey would be quite unintelligible to this poor people. How could you explain to them the meaning of the following words: “Be as crafty as the serpent and as gentle as the dove,” when they have never seen a serpent or a dove, and are even unable to form an idea of them. It is impossible to find words that they would understand to express martyr, baptist, forerunner, and if you translated the Holy Virgin into their language – “Shochmo Abya” – they would understand, not our Virgin Mary, but some sort of Shamonist female deity – in fact, a goddess. Of the merits of the Holy Blood, or of any other mysteries of our faith it is even more difficult to speak. You could not think of constructing for them any theological system, or of mentioning a child born of a Virgin – without a husband – they would either understand nothing, and that might be best, or else they would perhaps laugh in your face.

All this Kiriak communicated to me, and imparted it so admirably that when I had learned the spirit of the language, I could understand the whole spirit of this poor people; and what amused me more than anything about myself was that Kiriak had succeeded in the most imperceptible manner in removing all my assumed sternness: the pleasantest relations developed between us; they were so easy and so playful, that when I had finished my lessons, still retaining this playful tone, I ordered a pot of gruel to be prepared, placed upon it a silver rouble and a piece of black cloth for a cassock and, like a scholar, who has finished his studies, took it myself to Kiriak’s cell.

He lived under the belfry in such a small cell, that when I entered there was no room for the two of us to turn round and the vaults seemed to press on the crowns of our heads; but everything looked tidy, and in the dim grated window there was even an aster growing in a broken cooking pot.

I found Kiriak at work; he was threading fish scales, and sewing them on to linen.

“What are you doing there?” I asked.

“Little ornaments, Vladyko.”

“What sort of little ornaments?”

“Ornaments for the little savage girls. They come to the fair and I give them ornaments.”

“So that’s how you give pleasure to the unbelieving heathen.”

“Oh, Vladyko! Why do you always keep on saying the unbelieving, the unbelieving? All were created by one God, these poor blind people ought to be pitied.”

“They must be enlightened, Father Kiriak.”

“To enlighten?” he said. “It is a good thing Vladyko, to enlighten. Yes, enlighten, enlighten —” and he murmured, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works.”

“I have come to you,” I said, “to thank you for teaching me, and have brought you a pot of gruel.”

“Excellent!” he said. “Sit down to the pot of gruel yourself, and be my guest.”

He asked me to be seated on a block of wood, and himself sat down on another, and placing my gruel on a bench between us said:

“Well, Vladyko, won’t you partake of it with me? It’s your gift and I bow to the ground and thank you for it.”

So we began to partake of the gruel, the old monk and I, and conversed the while.

V

I must confess I was greatly interested to know what it was that had induced Kiriak to give up his successful missionary work, and caused him now to regard it so strangely, and to behave so reprehensibly and even so criminally, according to the views I held at that time.

“Of what shall we converse? After so warm a welcome we must have a good talk. Tell me, don’t you know how we are to teach the Faith to these natives, whom you always take under your protection?”

“We must teach them, Vladyko, we must teach them, and show them a good example by good living.”

“But how are we to teach them, you and I?”

“I do not know, Vladyko; one ought to go to them and teach them.”

“That’s just what is wanted.”

“Yes, they must be taught, Vladyko; in the morning the seed must be sown, and in the evening, likewise, you must not give your hand any rest – you must sow the whole time.”

“You talk very well – why don’t you do so?”

“Excuse me, Vladyko, do not ask me.”

“No, you must tell me.”

“If you require me to tell you, then explain to me why I should go there?”

“To teach and baptize.”

“To teach? I am incapable of teaching, Vladyko!”

“Why? Is it the devil who won’t allow you?”

“No, no! What is the devil? What danger is he to a Christian? You have but to make the sign of the cross with one finger, and he will disappear, but the little devils interfere; that’s the trouble.”

“What little devils?”

“The wearers of epaulets, the philanthropists, the pettifoggers, the officials with all their red tape.”

“These seem to be stronger than Satan himself.”

“Of course; you know, this is a race that nothing will exorcise, not even prayer and fasting.”

“Well, then, you must simply baptize, as all baptize.”

“Baptize?” Kiriak repeated after me – and suddenly was silent and smiled.

“What is it? Go on.”

The smile faded from Kiriak’s lips, and he continued, with a serious, almost stern look:

“No, I don’t want to do this in a hurry, Vladyko.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to do it in this way, Vladyko,” he said with firmness, and again smiled.

“What are you laughing at?” I said. “And if I order you to baptize.”

“I will not obey you,” he answered, smiling good-naturedly, and slapping me familiarly on the knee continued:

“Listen, Vladyko, I don’t know if you have read it. In the Lives of the Saints there is a fine story —”

But I interrupted him and said:

“Spare me the Lives, I beg you; here it is a question of the Word of God and not of the traditions of man. You, monks know, that you can find all sorts of things in the Lives and therefore love to quote them.”

“Vladyko, let me finish,” he answered. “I may find, even in the Lives, something appropriate.”

And he told me an old story, from the first centuries of Christianity, about two friends – one a Christian, the other a heathen. The first often talked to the latter about Christianity and annoyed him with it so much, that though at first he had been indifferent, he suddenly began to abuse it, and at the moment he was showering the greatest blasphemy on Christ and Christianity, his horse kicked and killed him. His friend, the Christian, saw in this a miracle and was appalled that his friend, the heathen, had departed this life in such a spirit of enmity towards Christ. The Christian in his distress wept bitterly and said: ‘It had been better had I never spoken to him about Christ – he would then not have been provoked and would not have answered as he did.’ But to his consolation, he was informed spiritually that his friend had been accepted by Christ, because, though the heathen had been provoked, by such insistent talk, he had inwardly reflected about Christ and had called to Him with his last breath.

“And He was in his heart,” Kiriak added. “He embraced him and gave him a refuge.”

“So I suppose this brings us again to ‘in his little bosom.’”

“Yes, ‘in his little bosom.’”

“Well, Father Kiriak,” I said, “this is just your trouble, you rely too much on the ‘little bosom.’”

“Oh, Vladyko, how am I not to rely on it; great mysteries go on there – all blessings come from it: mother’s milk that nourishes the little children, and love and faith dwell therein. Believe it, Vladyko, it is so. It is there, it is all there, it is only from the heart it proceeds, and not from the reason. With reason you cannot construct it – but can only destroy: reason gives birth to doubt, Vladyko; faith gives peace, gives happiness. This, I tell you, consoles me greatly; you see how things are going and are angry, but I always rejoice.”

“Why do you rejoice?”

“Because all is very good.”

“What do you mean – ’all is good’?”

“All, Vladyko, that is revealed to us, and all that is hidden from us. I think, Vladyko, that we are all going to a feast.”

“Please be clearer; do you simply set aside the baptism with water? It that so?”

“Well, I never. I set it aside. Oh, Vladyko, Vladyko! How many years I have been pining, always waiting for a man with whom I could converse freely about spiritual things – soul to soul – and when I knew you, I thought, this is the man I am waiting for, and now you are splitting hairs like a lawyer! What do you want? All words are vain, and I too. There is nothing I set aside. Consider what various blessings come to me – and from love, but not from hate. Have patience listen to me!”

“Very well,” I answered, “I will listen; what do you want to preach?”

“Well, we are both baptized, so that is very good – that is like a ticket given us for a feast; we go to it, and know that we are invited, because we have a ticket.”

“Yes.”

“Well, and then we see that alongside of us another man is wandering thither, but without a ticket. We think, what a fool! It is useless for him to go – he will not be allowed to enter! When he arrives the door keeper will turn him out. We come there and see the door-keeper wants to turn him out, as he has no ticket, but if the master sees him, perhaps he will allow him to enter – he will say: It does not matter that he has no ticket – I know him even without a ticket; you may enter – and he leads him in and behold, he shows him more honour than to many another who comes with a ticket.”

“Is that what you instil into them?”

“No, why should I instil this into them? It is only to myself I argue thus, of Christ’s goodness and wisdom.”

“Yes, but do you understand his wisdom?”

“Vladyko, how can we understand it? It can’t be understood, but… I only say what my heart feels. Whenever I have anything I ought to do, I ask myself: Can I do this to the glory of Christ? If I can, then I do it, if I cannot, – then I do not do it.”

“Then is this the chief principle of your teaching?”

“This, Vladyko, is my chief and only principle; all is in it; for simple hearts, Vladyko, this is so easy; it is so simple. You can’t drink vodka for the glory of Christ, you can’t fight or steal for the glory of Christ, you can’t abandon a man without help… The savages soon understand this, and approve of it. ‘He is good, your little Christ,’ they say. He is just – that is how they understand it.’ “

“After all, they may be right.”

“Yes, Vladyko, it is possible, but this is what I don’t find right, that the newly baptized come to the town, and see what all the Christians do and ask: ‘Can this be done for the glory of Christ?’ What can we answer them, Vladyko? Are the people Christians or not Christians? One is ashamed to say they are not Christians, and to call them Christians would be a sin.”

“How do you answer them?”

Kiriak only made a movement with his hand and murmured:

“I say nothing… I only weep…”

I understood that his religious morality had come into collision with a species of politics. He had read Tertullian “On Public Spectacles,” and concluded that “for the glory of Christ” it was impossible to go to the theatre, or to dance, or to play at cards, or to do many other things which our contemporary, outwardly seeming Christians, could not do without. He was in some ways an innovator, and seeing this antiquated world, was ashamed of it, and hoped for a new one full of spirit and truth.

When I suggested this to him he at once agreed with me.

“Yes,” he said, “these people are of the flesh; why show the flesh? – it must be hidden so that the name of Christ should not be brought to contempt by the hypocrites.”

“How is it that people say the natives still come to you?”

“They trust me, and they come.”

“So it appears, but why?”

“When they have a dispute or a quarrel they come to me. ‘Settle this matter,’ they say, ‘according to your little Christ.’”

“And you settle it?

“Yes, I know their customs; I apply the wisdom of Christ, and settle the matter.”

“They accept it?”

“Yes, they accept it – they like His justice. At other times the sick come, and the possessed – they ask me to pray for them.”

“How do you cure the possessed? Do you heal them by saying prayers?”

“No, Vladyko; I pray for them, and then I comfort them.”

“Their sorcerers are said to be skilled in that.”

“It is so, Vladyko – the sorcerers are not all alike; some really know many of the secret powers of nature – some of the sorcerers are not so bad… They know me and even send some of their people to me.”

“How is it you are on friendly terms with the Shamanists?”

“This is how it happened; The Buddhist lamas made a descent on them, and our officials took many of these Shamanists and put them to prison – the wild man is dull in prison – God only knows what happened to some of them! So I, poor sinner, used to go to the prison and took them buns, that I had begged from the merchants, and comforted them with words.”

“Well, and what then?”

“They were grateful, they took them in Christ’s name and praised Him; they said He was good – and kind. Yes, Vladyko, hold your peace, they themselves did not know that they were touching the hem of His garment.”

“Yes, but how do they touch it?” I said. “All this has no meaning.”

“Ah, Vladyko, why do you want to have everything at once. God’s work goes its own way, without bustle. Were there not six water pots at the wedding of Cana, and they were certainly not all filled at the same time, but one after the other. Why Father, even Christ, great wonderworker that he was, first spat on the blind Jew’s eyes, and then opened them; but these people are more blind than the Jews. How can we demand much from them all at once? Let them touch the hem of His garment – His goodness is felt, and He will entice them to Himself.”

“Come, now, entice?”

“And why not?”

“What improper words you use!”

“In what way are they improper, Vladyko? – the word is quite a simple one. He is our benefactor, and is also not of boyard stock. He is not judged for His simplicity. Who knows His descent? But He went about with shepherds, He consorted with sinners, He had no aversion for a scabby sheep, but when He found one He would take it on His holy back, just as it was, and bear it to the Father. Well, and He – what was He to do? Not wishing to grieve His much suffering Son, He admitted the defiled one into His sheep-fold.”

“Very good,” I said, “as a catechist, you won’t do at all, brother Kiriak, but as a baptizer, though you talk somewhat heretically, you can be of use, and notwithstanding your wishes I will send you to baptize.”

Kiriak became frightfully agitated and perturbed.

“Good gracious, Vladyko, why do you wish to force me? Christ will forbid it. Nothing will come of it, nothing, nothing, nothing!”

“Why should it be so?”

“It is so, because the door is closed to us.”

“Who closed it?”

“He who has the Key of David: ‘he that openeth and no man shutteth, and shutteth and no man openeth.’ Or have you forgotten the Apocalypse?”

“Kiriak, too many books will make you foolish.”

“No, Vladyko, I am not foolish, but if you do not listen to me, you will wrong many people and give offence to the Holy Ghost, and the ecclesiastical office will rejoice that in their reports they will be able to boast and tell more lies.”

I ceased listening to him, but did not renounce the idea of being able to overcome his whim, and send him after all. But what do you think happened? It was not only the simple-hearted Amos of the Old Testament who suddenly began to prophesy, while picking berries – my friend Kiriak had also prophesied and his words, “Christ will forbid it,” began to be fulfilled. At that very time, as if on purpose, I received a notification from Petersburg that authority had graciously been given to increase greatly the number of Buddhist temples, and that the lists of lamas permitted in Siberia had been doubled. Although I was born in Russia, and had been taught not to be surprised at anything unexpected, still, I must confess, this condition contra jus et fas astonished me, and what was much worse, it quite confused the poor people, who had been recently baptized, and even to a greater degree the unfortunate missionaries. The news of these joyful events, to the detriment of Christianity, and to the advantage of Buddhism, spread over the whole district like a whirlwind. To carry the report horses galloped, reindeer bounded, and dogs raced on every side, and Siberia was informed that the all-overcoming and all-renouncing god Fo had also overcome and cast away the little Christ in Petersburg. The triumphant lamas asserted that our rulers and even our Dalai Lama, that is the Metropolitan, had accepted the Buddhistic faith. The missionaries were alarmed when they heard this news; they did not know what to do. Some of them, I think, even began to doubt. Was it not perhaps possible that in Petersburg things had swung round to the lama’s side in the same way as things had turned in those artful and intriguing times towards Roman Catholicism, and are now, in these foolish days that are so full of fancies, turning towards spiritualism? Only, of course, it is being accomplished more quietly, because now, although the chosen idol is but a puny one, nobody wants to overthrow it. But then such cold-blooded tolerance was wanting in many, and I, poor sinner, was among that number. I could not look with indifference on my poor baptizers, who came wandering on foot out of the deserts, back to me for protection. In the whole district there was not one old nag for them, not one reindeer, not a single dog, and God only knows how they had crawled back on foot through the snow drifts. They arrived dirty and in tatters – certainly not like the priests of God Almighty, but more like real wandering cripples. The officials and the whole of the ordinary administration protected the lamas without the slightest pricks of conscience. I had almost to fight the Governor in order to persuade that Christian boyard to check his assistants from quite openly providing for Buddhism. The Governor, as usual, was offended, and we had a violent quarrel. I complained to him about his officials; he wrote to me, that nobody interfered with my missionaries, but that they were idle and unskilful. My deserter-missionaries in their turn whined that, although their mouths had not actually been gagged, they could not get a horse or a reindeer anywhere, because everywhere in the desert the people were afraid of the lamas.

The lamas, they said, were rich – they gave money to the officials, but we have nothing to give.

What could I say to comfort them? I might have promised to propose to the Synod, that the monasteries and convents which had “much money” should share it with us who were poor, and give us a certain sum to bribe the officials, but I was afraid that in the vast halls of the Synod this request might be found out of place, and, having prayed to God, they might refuse me assistance for the purpose of bribery. At the same time, even if such means were in our hands, this might also be uncertain: my apostles had disclosed to me so much weakness in themselves, which in conjunction with the circumstances, had a very grave significance.

“We feel compassion for the savages,” they said, “They will lose the little sense they have from all this worry; to-day we baptize them, tomorrow the lamas convert them and order them to deny Christ, and as a penalty take anything they can find belonging to them. The poor people are beggared of their cattle and their scanty understanding – all the religions become muddled for them, they limp on both legs, and complain to us.”

This contest greatly interested Kiriak, and taking advantage of my favour he often stopped me with the question:

“Vladyko, what has the enemy written to you?” or:

“Vladyko, what have you written to the enemy?”

He once even came to me with a request.

“Vladyko, consult with me, when you write to the enemy.”

This was on the occasion when the governor had informed me that in the neighbouring diocese where the conditions were exactly the same as where I was stationed, preaching and baptizing were progressing successfully, and at the same time pointed out to me a certain missionary named Peter, a Zyryan, who baptized great numbers of the natives.

These circumstances disturbed me, and I asked the neighbouring bishop if it was so.

He answered it was quite true he had a Zyryan priest Peter, who had twice gone out to preach and the first time had baptized so many, that he had “no crosses left,” and the second time had taken double the number of crosses, and had still not had enough, and had been obliged to take them from one neck to hang them on another.

When Kiriak heard this he began to weep.

“My God,” he said, “from whence has this crafty worker come to add to all our trouble. He will drown Christ in His Church in His own blood! Oh, what a misfortune! Have pity, Vladyko, – hasten to ask the bishop to restrain his too faithful servant – to leave something to the Church even if only power for sowing.”

“Father Kiriak,” I said, “you are talking nonsense, How can I attempt to restrain a man from such praiseworthy zeal?”

“Oh, no, Vladyko,” he implored me, “beg him; this is incomprehensible to you, but I understand what is now being done in the desert. All this is not for Christ’s sake; but the work done there serves His enemies. He will be drowned. They will drown Him, the little Dove, with blood, and for a hundred years more the people will be frightened away from Him.”

Of course, I did not listen to Kiriak, but on the contrary wrote to the neighbouring bishop, asking him to give me his Zyryan to help me, or as the Siberian aristocrats say in French: “au proka.” At that time my neighbour had just been rescued from his Siberian penance, and as he was to be recalled to Russia he did not insist on retaining his adroit baptizer. The Zyryan was sent to me: he was large, bearded, and loquacious, an oily man. I sent him at once to the desert and already two weeks later received joyful news: he informed me that he had baptized the people everywhere. There was only one thing he feared: would he have sufficient crosses, though he had taken a very fair sized boxful with him. From this I did not fail to conclude that the draught caught in the net of this successful fisherman was very considerable.

I thought: “Now at last I have found the right man for this work!” I was very glad of it. Very glad indeed. I will tell you frankly – from quite an official point of view – because, gentlemen, a bishop is also a man, and he becomes wearied, when one authority tells him, “Baptize,” and another says “Let it alone.” A plague on them all, I thought. It is best to settle it in one way or the other, and as I have come across a skilful baptizer, let him baptize the whole lot of them together; perhaps people will be quieter then.

But Kiriak did not share my opinion; and one evening when I was crossing the yard from the bath-house we met; he stopped and greeted me:

“Good evening, Vladyko,”

“Good evening, Father Kiriak,” I answered.

“Have you had a good wash?”

“Yes, I’ve had a good wash.”

“Have you washed away the Zyryan?”

I grew angry.

“What is this nonsense?” I said.

But he again began to talk about the Zyryan.

“He is pitiless,” he said. “He is now baptizing here as he baptized in the Transbaikal. Those he baptizes are only tormented by it and they complain of Christ. It is a sin for all, and for you more than for any, Vladyko.”

I considered Kiriak rude, but nevertheless his words entered my soul. What could it be? He was a sagacious old man – he would not chatter to the empty air. What was the secret of all this? How did this adroit Zyryan taken by me “au proka” really baptize. I knew something about the religiosity of the Zyryans. They are especially known as temple builders – their churches, wherever they are found, are fine and even rich, but of all the sects in this world that call themselves Christians, one must confess they are the most superficial. To none, so well as to them can the definition be applied: “God is only in their icons, but not in their souls.” But surely this Zyryan did not burn the savages to make them become Christians. That could not be. What was at the bottom of this business? Why did this Zyryan have success and the Russians have none? And why did I know nothing about it?

Then the thought came to me: “It is because you, Vladyko, and those like you are egoistic and pretentious. You collect much money, and only go about, within the sound of the church bells. You think nothing about the distant parts of your diocese, and only judge of them by hearsay. You complain of your impotence in your own country, while all the time you are trying to snatch at the stars and are asking: ‘What will you give me, and I will deliver Him unto you?’ Take care, brother, that you do not become like that too.”

That evening I paced up and down my dull and empty room thinking, and I walked about until this thought came into my head: Why should I myself not travel through the desert?

In this manner I hoped to be able to elucidate myself, if not all, at any rate, very much; and I must confess to you, I also wanted freshening up a little.

To accomplish such a journey, owing to my own inexperience, I required a companion, who would know the native language well; and what better companion could I wish for than Kiriak? Being impatient, I did not delay long, but sent at once for Kiriak, informed him of my plan, and ordered him to get ready.

He did not gainsay me; on the contrary, he seemed to be very pleased and smiling, kept on repeating

“May God help! May God help!”

There was no reason to delay our departure, so already the next morning after having assisted at very early matins, we dressed ourselves like the natives, and set out, taking the road straight to the North, where my Zyryan was carrying on his apostolic mission.