VI

The first day we drove rapidly along in a good troika. I conversed all the time with Father Kiriak. The dear old man related to me interesting stories of the native religious traditions. The story that interested me most was about the five hundred travellers who, under the guidance of an “Obushy,” which means in their language a “book-man,” started to journey in the world at the time when the god Shigemuny having “conquered all the demoniac powers and repulsed all weakness,” feasted in Shirvas “on viands such as had never been touched before.” This legend is specially interesting because it shows the whole form and spirit of the religious imagination of this people. Five hundred travellers conducted by the Obushy met a spirit, who, in order to frighten them, appeared in the most terrible and disgusting forms, and asked them: “Have you ever seen such monsters?” “We have more dreadful ones,” answered the Obushy. “Who are they?” “All who are envious, greedy, lying, and revengful; after death they become monsters, much more terrible and disgusting than these.” The spirit hid himself and changed into such a lean and gaunt man that the veins stuck to his bones, and then appeared again to the travellers and said: “Have you such people?” “Of course,” answered the Obushy, “there are even much thinner people than you are – they are all those who aspire to honours.”

“H’m!” I interrupted Kiriak, “take care; does the moral not refer to us bishops?”

“God knows, Vladyko,” and he continued: “After some time the spirit appeared in the form of a handsome youth and said: “Have you such as these?” “Of course,” answered the Obushy. “Among men there are some incomparably handsomer than you – they are those who possess keen understanding and having purified their hearts, revere the three beatitudes: God, Faith and Holiness. These are so much more handsome than you are, that you would not even be found worthy to be compared with them.” The spirit was enraged at this and began to test the Obushy in another way. He scooped up a handful of water. “Where is there more water,” he asked, “in the sea or in my hand?” “There is more in your hand,” answered the Obushy. “Prove it.” “Well, I will prove it. If you judge by appearance, there certainly seems to be more water in the sea than in your hand, but when the time comes for the world to be destroyed, and out of the present sun another emerges discharging fire, then it will dry up all the waters in the world, both the large and the small ones, and the seas, and the rivers, and the streams, and even Atlas will crumble away, but whoever in his lifetime has given the thirsty to drink from his hand, or whoever has washed the wounds of the beggars with his hand, even seven suns will not dry up his handful of water, but on the contrary they will multiply and increase it.”

“Well, gentlemen, what do you truly think of this? It is not so very stupid?” asked the narrator, pausing for a moment. “Eh? No, really, what do you think of it?”

“It is not at all stupid, Vladyko, not at all stupid.”

I must own, to me too, it seems more intelligent than many a lengthy sermon about justification. Well, it was not only of this we talked. After that we had long discussions about the best method to convert the heathen to Christianity. Kiriak was of the opinion that for them it was best to have the least possible amount of ceremony, because otherwise they would even surpass Kirika himself with questions like, “Can one administer the Communion to one who taps his teeth with an egg?” One must also not dogmatize too much, he said, because their weak understanding grows weary of following any abstraction or syllogism, but one must simply tell them about the life and miracles of Christ, so that it should appear to them in the most lifelike manner, and in a way that their poor imagination could grasp. But the most important, and on this he continued to insist, is that “he who is wise and skilful must show them goodness by his life; then they will understand Christ”; otherwise, he said, our work would go badly, and our true faith, although we may proclaim it among them, will remain inferior to their own untrue faith. Ours will be nominal, the other active. What good is there in it, Vladyko? Judge for yourself: Will this be for the triumph of the Christian faith or for its degradation? It will be still more bitter if they take something from us, and who knows what they may make of it? There is no use hastening to proclaim it, we must sow; others will come and water it, and God Himself will make it grow… Is it not in this way, Vladyko, that the Apostle teaches? Eh? Remember Him; it must be thus. Otherwise, if we hasten, see that we do not make people laugh, and cause Satan to rejoice.”

I must confess in my soul I agreed with him, on many questions, and in these simple and peaceful conversations, I did not notice how the whole day passed away; the evening brought us to the end of our journey with horses.

We passed the night near the fire in a nomad tent, and the next morning started in reindeer sledges.

The weather was beautiful, and the drive with reindeers interested me very much, though it did not come up to my expectations. In my childhood I often liked to look at a picture representing a Laplander in a reindeer sledge. But the reindeers in the picture were slight, light-limbed creatures that flew along like the wind of the desert, throwing back their heads and branching antlers, and I always thought: “Could I but drive like that, if only once. How delightfully rapid that pace must be.” However, in reality it was quite different. I had before me not those flying antlered whirlwinds, but shaggy, heavy limbed animals that plodded on with hanging heads and fleshy straddling legs. They ran at an uneven, uncertain pace with bent heads and such heavy breathing that anyone not used to seeing them would have been sorry for them, especially when their nostrils became frozen and they opened their mouths wide. They breathed so heavily that their breath formed clouds and hung like a streak in the frozen air. This means of travel and the desolate monotonous country that revealed itself to us, made such a tedious wearisome impression that one did not even feel inclined to talk, and Kiriak and I hardly conversed at all, during the two days we travelled in reindeer sledges.

On the evening of the third day this mode of travelling ceased; the snow became less compact, and we exchanged the unwieldy reindeer for dogs. They were gay, shaggy, and sharp-eared dogs, that looked like wolves, and even yelped almost like wolves. They are harnessed in great numbers, as many as fifteen to the sledge, and for an honoured traveller perhaps even more are attached, but the sledges are so narrow that two cannot sit abreast, so that Father Kiriak and I were obliged to separate. I and a driver had to go in one sledge, and Kiriak with another driver in another. The drivers seemed to be much the same in skill, and their countenances were so much alike, you could not distinguish one from the other, especially when they were wrapped up in their reindeer fur coats that looked like soap-suds: both were equally beautiful. But Kiriak discovered a difference in them and insisted upon seating me in the sledge of the one he considered most trustworthy, but wherein he discovered this trustworthiness he did not explain.

“It is so, Vladyko,” he said; “you are less experienced than I am in this country, so go with this man.” But I would not listen to him, and sat down in the other sledge. Our baggage we divided. I took a bundle of linen and books at my feet, and Kiriak hung the chrismatory and the pyx round his neck and placed at his feet a wallet with oatmeal, dried fish and the remainder of our modest provisions for this campaign.

We settled ourselves in the sledges, well wrapped up in reindeer fur coats, with reindeer skin-covers fastened over our legs, and recommenced our journey.

We proceeded much faster than with the reindeer, but it was so uncomfortable to sit in the sledge, that before an hour had passed my back began to ache terribly. I looked at Kiriak – he sat as straight as a post that had been stuck into the sledge, while I swayed from side to side – I always wanted to keep the balance, and owing to these gymnastics, I was even unable to speak to my driver. I only found out that he had been baptized and baptized quite recently by my Zyryan, but I had not time to examine him. By evening I was so exhausted that I was unable to bear it any longer and complained to Kiriak:

“I’m feeling bad; from the very beginning something seemed to shake me.”

“That’s because you did not listen to me – you would not go with the driver I wanted you to go with. This one drives better, much quieter. Please change sledges tomorrow.”

“Very well,” I said, “I’ll do as you wish,” and the next day I got into the other sledge and we set out again.

I do not know if, during the previous day, I had become accustomed to sitting on this sort of peasant’s sledge, or if it was really that this driver managed his long stick better, but it was much more comfortable, and I was even able to converse with him.

I asked him if he was baptized or not.

“No, Bachka, me no baptized, me happy!”

“In what way are you happy?”

“Happy, Bachka; Dzol-Dzayagachy have give me Bachka. She take care me.”

Dzol-Dzayagachy is a goddess of the Shamanists, who gives children, and who looks after the happiness and the health of those children who have been born, thanks to prayers addressed to her.

“That’s all very well,” I said, “but why don’t you get baptized.”

“She would not allow me to be baptized, Bachka.”

“Who? Dzol-Dzayagachy?”

“Yes, Bachka, she won’t allow.”

“Ah! It is well that you told me this.”

“Of course, Bachka, it is well.”

“Yes, but just for that, in spite of your Dzol-Dzayagachy, I will order you to be baptized.”

“What do you mean, Bachka? Why anger Dzol-Dzayagachy? She will be enraged – she will beat me!”

“What do I care for her, your Dzol-Dzayagachy? You shall be baptized – that is enough.”

“No, Bachka, she won’t allow me to be wronged.”

“How can that wrong you, you stupid fellow?”

“Why, Bachka, you baptize me? It do me much wrong, Bachka. Zaysan comes; he beat me because baptized. Shaman comes, again beat. Lama comes – also beat and drive away reindeer. Bachka, great wrong to me.”

“They won’t dare to do it.”

“How, Bachka, they won’t dare? They dare Bachka, they take all, they ruined my uncle, Bachka… Yes, Bachka, they ruined my brother Bachka, ruined…”

“Have you a brother, who has been baptized?”

“Of course, Bachka, I have a brother, Bachka. I have one.”

“And he has been baptized?”

“Yes, Bachka, twice baptized.”

“What do you mean? Twice baptized? As if one is baptized twice?”

“Indeed, Bachka, they baptized twice.”

“You lie.”

“No, Bachka, it’s true. He was baptized once for himself, and once for me.”

“How for you? What nonsense you are talking.”

“What nonsense, Bachka? No nonsense. I hid myself from priest, Bachka, and he baptized my brother instead of me.”

“Why did you cheat in that way?”

“Because, Bachka, he is kind.”

“Who is kind? Is your brother kind?”

“Yes, Bachka, my brother. He said: ‘It’s all the same, I am lost – baptized; hide – I will be baptized again’ – so I hid.”

“Where is your brother now?”

“He is gone to be baptized again.”

“Where is this idle fellow off to now?”

“There, Bachka, where one hears a hard priest is travelling.”

“Ho, ho! What has he got to do with this priest?”

“Our people are there, Bachka, our people live there, indeed good people, Bachka. He is sorry. Bachka… sorry for them, Bachka – he has hurried to be baptized for them.”

“What sort of a ‘Shaytan’ is this brother of yours? How dare he do such a thing?”

“Why not, Bachka, it’s nothing; for him it’s all the same, Bachka, but for them, Bachka, the Zaysan won’t beat them, and the lamas won’t drive their reindeer away.”

“H’m! Still, I must keep an eye on your idle brother. Tell me his name?”

“Kuz’ka-Demyak, Bachka.”

“Kuz’ma or Demyan?”

“No, Bachka, Kuz’ka-Demyak.”

“Yes, it’s easier for you – Kuz’ka-Demyak, or a copper pyatak – but they are two names.”

“No, Bachka, one.”

“I tell you they are two.”

“No, Bachka, one.”

“Get along, you evidently know this better than me, too.”

“Of course, Bachka, I know it better.”

“Did they give him the names of Kuz’ma and Demyan at the first or second baptism?”

He looked fixedly at me but did not understand; but when I repeated my question he thought and answered:

“That is so, Bachka; when he had been baptized for me, then they began to mock him as Kyz’ka-Demyak.”

“And after his first baptism, how did they mock him?”

“I don’t know, Bachka – I have forgot.”

“But possibly he knows it.”

“No, Bachka, he has also forgot it.”

“It is impossible,” I said.

“No, Bachka – it’s true he has forgot it.”

“Well, I will have him found and will ask him.”

“You may have him found, Bachka, you may have him found; but he will say he has forgot it.”

“Yes, but when I find him, brother, I will give him up to the Zaysan.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bachka, nothing matters to him now, Bachka – he is already lost.”

“In what way is he lost? Is it because he has been baptized? Is it that?”

“Yes, Bachka; the Shaman drives him away, the Lama has carried off his reindeer, none of his people trust him.”

“What do you mean, you foolish savage? You lie. Why can’t the baptized be trusted? Is the baptized man worse than you idolaters?”

“Why worse, Bachka? – he’s also a man.”

“Now you yourself agree he is not worse.”

“I don’t know, Bachka – you say he is not worse, and I say so; but he can’t be trusted.”

“Why can’t he be trusted?”

“Because the priest forgives him his sins, Bachka.”

“Well, and what is there wrong in that? What, is it better to remain without forgiveness?”

“How can one remain without forgiveness, Bachka? That’s impossible, Bachka, one must ask forgiveness.”

“Well, then, I don’t understand you; what are you talking about?”

“This is what I say, Bachka: a baptized man will steal, and tell the priest, and the priest, Bachka, will forgive him; and therefore people won’t trust him, Bachka.”

“What nonsense you are talking! And this, of course, you think is not right.”

“This, we think, doesn’t do for us, Bachka.”

“How ought it to be to your thinking?”

“In this way, Bachka, if you have stolen from anybody, take the thing back to him, and ask for forgiveness; if the man forgives, God forgives too.”

“Yes, but the priest is a man also, why can’t he forgive?”

“Why should he not forgive, Bachka? The priest can also forgive. If he had stolen from the priest, Bachka, the priest can forgive.”

“But if he had stolen from another, then he can’t forgive?”

“How can he, Bachka? He can’t, Bachka: it will be untrue, Bachka, the faithless man, Bachka, will go everywhere.”

So, so, you unwashed booby, I thought to myself, what fine arguments you have built up for yourself! and I continued to question him.

“And have you heard anything about our Lord Jesus Christ?”

“Certainly, Bachka – I have heard.”

“What have you heard about Him?”

“He walked on the water, Bachka.”

“H’m. Very well, He walked on the water; and what else?”

“He drowned the swine in the sea, Bachka.”

“And more than that?”

“Nothing, Bachka. He was kind and compassionate, Bachka.”

“Well, how was He compassionate? What did He do?”

“He spat in the blind man’s eyes, Bachka – and the blind man saw; He fed the people with bread and fishes.”

“I see, brother, you know much.”

“Certainly, Bachka, I know much.”

“Who told you all this?”

“People, Bachka, the people told me.”

“Your people?”

“The people? Of course, Bachka – our people, our people.”

“And from whom have they heard it?”

“I don’t know, Bachka.”

“Well, and don’t you know why Christ came here upon earth?”

He thought a long time, but did not answer.

“Don’t you know?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I told him all about the Orthodox faith, and I was not sure if he listened or not; all the time he was whooping at the dogs or brandishing his long stick.

“Well, have you understood what I have been telling you?” I asked.

“Of course, Bachka, I’ve understood: He drowned the swine in the sea, he spat in the blind man’s eyes – the blind man saw again; He gave bread and fishes to the people.”

They had stuck in his head these swine in the sea, the blind man, and the fishes, and nothing more could penetrate there… I remembered Kiriak’s words, about their poor understanding, and how they themselves did not notice how they touched the hem of His garment. What then? This one too had possibly touched the hem, but certainly only just touched it – hardly touched it – only felt it with the tip of his finger: how could he be taught to catch hold of it more firmly? So I tried to converse with him in the most simple manner about the blessings of Christ’s example and the object of His sufferings; but my listener continued imperturbably to brandish his long stick in the same way. It was difficult to deceive myself. I saw that he did not understand anything.

“You have understood nothing?” I asked.

“Nothing, Bachka – you making lies of truth; I am sorry for Him. He was good, the little Christ.”

“Good?”

“He was good, Bachka, He must not be wronged.”

“You ought to love Him?”

“How could one not love Him, Bachka?”

“What You could love Him?”

“How could I not, Bachka – I always loved Him, Bachka.”

“That’s right, my good lad.”

“Thank you, Bachka.”

“Now it only remains for you to be baptized. He will save you, too.”

The savage was silent.

“What is it, friend?” I said. “Why are you silent?”

“No, Bachka.”

“What do you mean by ‘No, Bachka.’”

“He won’t save me, Bachka; for Him the Zaysan beats, the Shaman beats, the Lama drives away reindeer.”

“So that’s the chief misfortune!”

“Yes, Bachka.”

“You must bear the misfortune for Christ’s sake.”

“Why, Bachka – He is compassionate, Bachka. When I die, He Himself will be sorry for me. Why should we wrong Him?”

I wanted to tell him, that if he believed Christ would have compassion on him, he ought also to believe that He could save him too – but refrained so as not to hear again about the Zaysan and the Lama. It was evident that for this man Christ was one of his kind deities, perhaps even his kindest, but not one of the strong ones; kind, but not strong – not protective. He would not defend him from the Zaysan, nor from the Lama. What was to be done in this case? How was I to persuade the savage of this when on Christ’s side there was no one to support Him, and on the other side there was much defence. A Roman Catholic priest, in the same circumstances, would have used cunning, as they had used cunning in China; he would have placed a small cross at the feet of Buddha and he would have bowed down before it assimilating Christ and Buddha, and he would have been proud of his success; and another innovation would have explained such a Christ, that nothing would remain to believe in – only think of Him becomingly and – you will be good. But even that was difficult in this case: how was my fine fellow to commence thinking, when all his thinking powers were frozen into a lump, and he could not thaw them again.

I remembered how Karl von Eckartshausen with the simplest comparisons was able admirably to convey to simple people the greatness of Christ’s sacrifice in coming to earth, by making the comparison of a free man who, through his love for criminal prisoners, went to dwell with them in prison so as to share their sinful nature. Very simple and good; but my hearer, thanks to circumstances, knew no greater villains than those from whom he was running away to prevent them from baptizing him; he knew no other place, that might have produced on him greater horror, to compare with the terrible place he always inhabited… Nothing could be done for him – either with Massillon or Bourdalone, or Eckartshausen. There he was poking his stick into the snow or cracking it – his face like a lump of soapsuds – there was no expression in his peep-holes (it would be a shame to call them eyes); there was not a spark of the soul’s fire; even the sound of the words that issued from his throat seemed somehow dead: in grief or in joy there was always the same intonation – slow and passionless – half the words were swallowed in his gullet, half were squeezed by his teeth. How was he with these means to seek for abstract truths, and what could he do with them? They would be a burden to him: he must only die out with his whole race as the Aztecs have died, or the Red Indians are dying. – A terrible law! What happiness that he does not know it. – He only knows how to thrust his stick into the snow – first he sticks it in on the right side then he sticks it in on the left side; he does not know where he is driving me, why he is driving me, or why, like a child with a simple heart, he is unfolding to me, for his own harm, his most sacred secrets… His whole talent is small, and it is a blessing for him that little will be asked of him. He was being carried on into the boundless distance, flourishing his long stick, which waving before my eyes, began to have the effect of a pendulum on me. These regular flourishes, like the passes of a mesmerist, caught me in their somnolent meshes; drowsiness crept over my brain and I fell asleep quietly and sweetly – I fell asleep only to awaken in a position, in which, God forbid, any living soul should find himself.