For some weeks Father Sergius
had been living with one persistent
thought: whether he was right
in accepting the position in
which he had not so much placed
himself as been placed by the
Archimandrite and the Abbot.
That position had begun after
the recovery of the fourteen-year-old
boy. From that time, with each
month, week, and day that passed,
Sergius felt his own inner life
wasting away and being replaced
by external life. It was as if
he had been turned inside out.
Sergius saw that he was a means
of attracting visitors and contributions
to the monastery, and that therefore
the authorities arranged matters
in such a way as to make as much
use of him as possible. For instance,
they rendered it impossible for
him to do any manual work. He
was supplied with everything
he could want, and they only
demanded of him that he should
not refuse his blessing to those
who came to seek it. For his
convenience they appointed days
when he would receive. They arranged
a reception-room for men, and
a place was railed in so that
he should not be pushed over
by the crowds of women visitors,
and so that he could conveniently
bless those who came.
They told him that people needed
him, and that fulfilling Christ's
law of love he could not refuse
their demand to see him, and
that to avoid them would be cruel.
He could not but agree with this,
but the more he gave himself
up to such a life the more he
felt that what was internal became
external, and that the fount
of living water within him dried
up, and that what he did now
was done more and more for men
and less and less for God.
Whether he admonished people,
or simply blessed them, or prayed
for the sick, or advised people
about their lives, or listened
to expressions of gratitude from
those he had helped by precepts,
or alms, or healing (as they
assured him)--he could not help
being pleased at it, and could
not be indifferent to the results
of his activity and to the influence
he exerted. He thought himself
a shining light, and the more
he felt this the more was he
conscious of a weakening, a dying
down of the divine light of truth
that shone within him.
'In how far is what I do for
God and in how far is it for
men?' That was the question that
insistently tormented him and
to which he was not so much unable
to give himself an answer as
unable to face the answer.
In the depth of his soul he
felt that the devil had substituted
an activity for men in place
of his former activity for God.
He felt this because, just as
it had formerly been hard for
him to be torn from his solitude
so now that solitude itself was
hard for him. He was oppressed
and wearied by visitors, but
at the bottom of his heart he
was glad of their presence and
glad of the praise they heaped
upon him.
There was a time when he decided
to go away and hide. He even
planned all that was necessary
for that purpose. He prepared
for himself a peasant's shirt,
trousers, coat, and cap. He explained
that he wanted these to give
to those who asked. And he kept
these clothes in his cell, planning
how he would put them on, cut
his hair short, and go away.
First he would go some three
hundred versts by train, then
he would leave the train and
walk from village to village.
He asked an old man who had been
a soldier how he tramped: what
people gave him, and what shelter
they allowed him. The soldier
told him where people were most
charitable, and where they would
take a wanderer in for the night,
and Father Sergius intended to
avail himself of this information.
He even put on those clothes
one night in his desire to go,
but he could not decide what
was best--to remain or to escape.
At first he was in doubt, but
afterwards this indecision passed.
He submitted to custom and yielded
to the devil, and only the peasant
garb reminded him of the thought
and feeling he had had.
Every day more and more people
flocked to him and less and less
time was left him for prayer
and for renewing his spiritual
strength. Sometimes in lucid
moments he thought he was like
a place where there had once
been a spring. 'There used to
be a feeble spring of living
water which flowed quietly from
me and through me. That was true
life, the time when she tempted
me!' (He always thought with
ecstasy of that night and of
her who was now Mother Agnes.)
She had tasted of that pure water,
but since then there had not
been time for it to collect before
thirsty people came crowding
in and pushing one another aside.
And they had trampled everything
down and nothing was left but
mud.
So he thought in rare moments
of lucidity, but his usual state
of mind was one of weariness
and a tender pity for himself
because of that weariness.
It was in spring, on the eve
of the mid-Pentecostal feast.
Father Sergius was officiating
at the Vigil Service in his hermitage
church, where the congregation
was as large as the little church
could hold--about twenty people.
They were all well-to-do proprietors
or merchants. Father Sergius
admitted anyone, but a selection
was made by the monk in attendance
and by an assistant who was sent
to the hermitage every day from
the monastery. A crowd of some
eighty people--pilgrims and peasants,
and especially peasant-women--stood
outside waiting for Father Sergius
to come out and bless them. Meanwhile
he conducted the service, but
at the point at which he went
out to the tomb of his predecessor,
he staggered and would have fallen
had he not been caught by a merchant
standing behind him and by the
monk acting as deacon.
'What is the matter, Father
Sergius? Dear man! O Lord!' exclaimed
the women. 'He is as white as
a sheet!'
But Father Sergius recovered
immediately, and though very
pale, he waved the merchant and
the deacon aside and continued
to chant the service.
Father Seraphim, the deacon,
the acolytes, and Sofya Ivanovna,
a lady who always lived near
the hermitage and tended Father
Sergius, begged him to bring
the service to an end.
'No, there's nothing the matter,'
said Father Sergius, slightly
smiling from beneath his moustache
and continuing the service. 'Yes,
that is the way the Saints behave!'
thought he.
'A holy man--an angel of God!'
he heard just then the voice
of Sofya Ivanovna behind him,
and also of the merchant who
had supported him. He did not
heed their entreaties, but went
on with the service. Again crowding
together they all made their
way by the narrow passages back
into the little church, and there,
though abbreviating it slightly,
Father Sergius completed vespers.
Immediately after the service
Father Sergius, having pronounced
the benediction on those present,
went over to the bench under
the elm tree at the entrance
to the cave. He wished to rest
and breathe the fresh air--he
felt in need of it. But as soon
as he left the church the crowd
of people rushed to him soliciting
his blessing, his advice, and
his help. There were pilgrims
who constantly tramped from one
holy place to another and from
one starets to another, and were
always entranced by every shrine
and every starets. Father Sergius
knew this common, cold, conventional,
and most irreligious type. There
were pilgrims, for the most part
discharged soldiers, unaccustomed
to a settled life, poverty-stricken,
and many of them drunken old
men, who tramped from monastery
to monastery merely to be fed.
And there were rough peasants
and peasant-women who had come
with their selfish requirements,
seeking cures or to have doubts
about quite practical affairs
solved for them: about marrying
off a daughter, or hiring a shop,
or buying a bit of land, or how
to atone for having overlaid
a child or having an illegitimate
one.
All this was an old story and
not in the least interesting
to him. He knew he would hear
nothing new from these folk,
that they would arouse no religious
emotion in him; but he liked
to see the crowd to which his
blessing and advice was necessary
and precious, so while that crowd
oppressed him it also pleased
him. Father Seraphim began to
drive them away, saying that
Father Sergius was tired.
But Father Sergius, remembering
the words of the Gospel: 'Forbid
them' (children) 'not to come
unto me,' and feeling tenderly
towards himself at this recollection,
said they should be allowed to
approach.
He rose, went to the railing
beyond which the crowd had gathered,
and began blessing them and answering
their questions, but in a voice
so weak that he was touched with
pity for himself. Yet despite
his wish to receive them all
he could not do it. Things again
grew dark before his eyes, and
he staggered and grasped the
railings. He felt a rush of blood
to his head and first went pale
and then suddenly flushed.
'I must leave the rest till
to-morrow. I cannot do more to-day,'
and, pronouncing a general benediction,
he returned to the bench. The
merchant again supported him,
and leading him by the arm helped
him to be seated.
'Father!' came voices from
the crowd. 'Dear Father! Do not
forsake us. Without you we are
lost!'
The merchant, having seated
Father Sergius on the bench under
the elm, took on himself police
duties and drove the people off
very resolutely. It is true that
he spoke in a low voice so that
Father Sergius might not hear
him, but his words were incisive
and angry.
'Be off, be off! He has blessed
you, and what more do you want?
Get along with you, or I'll wring
your necks! Move on there! Get
along, you old woman with your
dirty leg-bands! Go, go! Where
are you shoving to? You've been
told that it is finished. To-morrow
will be as God wills, but for
to-day he has finished!'
'Father! Only let my eyes have
a glimpse of his dear face!'
said an old woman.
'I'll glimpse you! Where are
you shoving to?'
Father Sergius noticed that
the merchant seemed to be acting
roughly, and in a feeble voice
told the attendant that the people
should not be driven away. He
knew that they would be driven
away all the same, and he much
desired to be left alone and
to rest, but he sent the attendant
with that message to produce
an impression.
'All right, all right! I am
not driving them away. I am only
remonstrating with them,' replied
the merchant. 'You know they
wouldn't hesitate to drive a
man to death. They have no pity,
they only consider themselves.
. . . You've been told you cannot
see him. Go away! To-morrow!'
And he got rid of them all.
He took all these pains because
he liked order and liked to domineer
and drive the people away, but
chiefly because he wanted to
have Father Sergius to himself.
He was a widower with an only
daughter who was an invalid and
unmarried, and whom he had brought
fourteen hundred versts to Father
Sergius to be healed. For two
years past he had been taking
her to different places to be
cured: first to the university
clinic in the chief town of the
province, but that did no good;
then to a peasant in the province
of Samara, where she got a little
better; then to a doctor in Moscow
to whom he paid much money, but
this did no good at all. Now
he had been told that Father
Sergius wrought cures, and had
brought her to him. So when all
the people had been driven away
he approached Father Sergius,
and suddenly falling on his knees
loudly exclaimed:
'Holy Father! Bless my afflicted
offspring that she may be healed
of her malady. I venture to prostrate
myself at your holy feet.'
And he placed one hand on the
other, cup-wise. He said and
did all this as if he were doing
something clearly and firmly
appointed by law and usage--as
if one must and should ask for
a daughter to be cured in just
this way and no other. He did
it with such conviction that
it seemed even to Father Sergius
that it should be said and done
in just that way, but nevertheless
he bade him rise and tell him
what the trouble was. The merchant
said that his daughter, a girl
of twenty-two, had fallen ill
two years ago, after her mother's
sudden death. She had moaned
(as he expressed it) and since
then had not been herself. And
now he had brought her fourteen
hundred versts and she was waiting
in the hostelry till Father Sergius
should give orders to bring her.
She did not go out during the
day, being afraid of the light,
and could only come after sunset.
'Is she very weak?' asked Father
Sergius.
'No, she has
no particular weakness. She
is quite plump,
and is only "nerastenic" the
doctors say. If you will only
let me bring her this evening,
Father Sergius, I'll fly like
a spirit to fetch her. Holy Father!
Revive a parent's heart, restore
his line, save his afflicted
daughter by your prayers!' And
the merchant again threw himself
on his knees and bending sideways,
with his head resting on his
clenched fists, remained stock
still. Father Sergius again told
him to get up, and thinking how
heavy his activities were and
how he went through with them
patiently notwithstanding, he
sighed heavily and after a few
seconds of silence, said:
'Well, bring her this evening.
I will pray for her, but now
I am tired . . .' and he closed
his eyes. 'I will send for you.'
The merchant went away, stepping
on tiptoe, which only made his
boots creak the louder, and Father
Sergius remained alone.
His whole life was filled by
Church services and by people
who came to see him, but to-day
had been a particularly difficult
one. In the morning an important
official had arrived and had
had a long conversation with
him; after that a lady had come
with her son. This son was a
sceptical young professor whom
the mother, an ardent believer
and devoted to Father Sergius,
had brought that he might talk
to him. The conversation had
been very trying. The young man,
evidently not wishing to have
a controversy with a monk, had
agreed with him in everything
as with someone who was mentally
inferior. Father Sergius saw
that the young man did not believe
but yet was satisfied, tranquil,
and at ease, and the memory of
that conversation now disquieted
him.
'Have something to eat, Father,'
said the attendant.
'All right, bring me something.'
The attendant went to a hut
that had been arranged some ten
paces from the cave, and Father
Sergius remained alone.
The time was long past when
he had lived alone doing everything
for himself and eating only rye-bread,
or rolls prepared for the Church.
He had been advised long since
that he had no right to neglect
his health, and he was given
wholesome, though Lenten, food.
He ate sparingly, though much
more than he had done, and often
he ate with much pleasure, and
not as formerly with aversion
and a sense of guilt. So it was
now. He had some gruel, drank
a cup of tea, and ate half a
white roll.
The attendant went away, and
Father Sergius remained alone
under the elm tree.
It was a wonderful May evening,
when the birches, aspens, elms,
wild cherries, and oaks, had
just burst into foliage.
The bush of wild cherries behind
the elm tree was in full bloom
and had not yet begun to shed
its blossoms, and the nightingales--one
quite near at hand and two or
three others in the bushes down
by the river--burst into full
song after some preliminary twitters.
From the river came the far-off
songs of peasants returning,
no doubt, from their work. The
sun was setting behind the forest,
its last rays glowing through
the leaves. All that side was
brilliant green, the other side
with the elm tree was dark. The
cockchafers flew clumsily about,
falling to the ground when they
collided with anything.
After supper Father Sergius
began to repeat a silent prayer:
'O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of
God, have mercy upon us!' and
then he read a psalm, and suddenly
in the middle of the psalm a
sparrow flew out from the bush,
alighted on the ground, and hopped
towards him chirping as it came,
but then it took fright at something
and flew away. He said a prayer
which referred to his abandonment
of the world, and hastened to
finish it in order to send for
the merchant with the sick daughter.
She interested him in that she
presented a distraction, and
because both she and her father
considered him a saint whose
prayers were efficacious. Outwardly
he disavowed that idea, but in
the depths of his soul he considered
it to be true.
He was often amazed that this
had happened, that he, Stepan
Kasatsky, had come to be such
an extraordinary saint and even
a worker of miracles, but of
the fact that he was such there
could not be the least doubt.
He could not fail to believe
in the miracles he himself witnessed,
beginning with the sick boy and
ending with the old woman who
had recovered her sight when
he had prayed for her.
Strange as it might be, it
was so. Accordingly the merchant's
daughter interested him as a
new individual who had faith
in him, and also as a fresh opportunity
to confirm his healing powers
and enhance his fame. 'They bring
people a thousand versts and
write about it in the papers.
The Emperor knows of it, and
they know of it in Europe, in
unbelieving Europe'--thought
he. And suddenly he felt ashamed
of his vanity and again began
to pray. 'Lord, King of Heaven,
Comforter, Soul of Truth! Come
and enter into me and cleanse
me from all sin and save and
bless my soul. Cleanse me from
the sin of worldly vanity that
troubles me!' he repeated, and
he remembered how often he had
prayed about this and how vain
till now his prayers had been
in that respect. His prayers
worked miracles for others, but
in his own case God had not granted
him liberation from this petty
passion.
He remembered his prayers at
the commencement of his life
at the hermitage, when he prayed
for purity, humility, and love,
and how it seemed to him then
that God heard his prayers. He
had retained his purity and had
chopped off his finger. And he
lifted the shrivelled stump of
that finger to his lips and kissed
it. It seemed to him now that
he had been humble then when
he had always seemed loathsome
to himself on account of his
sinfulness; and when he remembered
the tender feelings with which
he had then met an old man who
was bringing a drunken soldier
to him to ask alms; and how he
had received HER, it seemed to
him that he had then possessed
love also. But now? And he asked
himself whether he loved anyone,
whether he loved Sofya Ivanovna,
or Father Seraphim, whether he
had any feeling of love for all
who had come to him that day--for
that learned young man with whom
he had had that instructive discussion
in which he was concerned only
to show off his own intelligence
and that he had not lagged behind
the times in knowledge. He wanted
and needed their love, but felt
none towards them. He now had
neither love nor humility nor
purity.
He was pleased to know that
the merchant's daughter was twenty-two,
and he wondered whether she was
good-looking. When he inquired
whether she was weak, he really
wanted to know if she had feminine
charm.
'Can I have fallen so low?'
he thought. 'Lord, help me! Restore
me, my Lord and God!' And he
clasped his hands and began to
pray.
The nightingales burst into
song, a cockchafer knocked against
him and crept up the back of
his neck. He brushed it off.
'But does He exist? What if I
am knocking at a door fastened
from outside? The bar is on the
door for all to see. Nature--the
nightingales and the cockchafers--is
that bar. Perhaps the young man
was right.' And he began to pray
aloud. He prayed for a long time
till these thoughts vanished
and he again felt calm and confident.
He rang the bell and told the
attendant to say that the merchant
might bring his daughter to him
now.
The merchant came, leading
his daughter by the arm. He led
her into the cell and immediately
left her.
She was a very fair girl, plump
and very short, with a pale,
frightened, childish face and
a much developed feminine figure.
Father Sergius remained seated
on the bench at the entrance
and when she was passing and
stopped beside him for his blessing
he was aghast at himself for
the way he looked at her figure.
As she passed by him he was acutely
conscious of her femininity,
though he saw by her face that
she was sensual and feeble-minded.
He rose and went into the cell.
She was sitting on a stool waiting
for him, and when he entered
she rose.
'I want to go back to Papa,'
she said.
'Don't be afraid,' he replied.
'What are you suffering from?'
'I am in pain all over,' she
said, and suddenly her face lit
up with a smile.
'You will be well,' said he.
'Pray!'
'What is the use of praying?
I have prayed and it does no
good'--and she continued to smile.
'I want you to pray for me and
lay your hands on me. I saw you
in a dream.'
'How did you see me?'
'I saw you put your hands on
my breast like that.' She took
his hand and pressed it to her
breast. 'Just here.'
He yielded his right hand to
her.
'What is your name?' he asked,
trembling all over and feeling
that he was overcome and that
his desire had already passed
beyond control.
'Marie. Why?'
She took his hand and kissed
it, and then put her arm round
his waist and pressed him to
herself.
'What are you doing?' he said.
'Marie, you are a devil!'
'Oh, perhaps. What does it
matter?'
And embracing him she sat down
with him on the bed.
At dawn he went out into the
porch.
'Can this all have happened?
Her father will come and she
will tell him everything. She
is a devil! What am I to do?
Here is the axe with which I
chopped off my finger.' He snatched
up the axe and moved back towards
the cell.
The attendant came up.
'Do you want some wood chopped?
Let me have the axe.'
Sergius yielded up the axe
and entered the cell. She was
lying there asleep. He looked
at her with horror, and passed
on beyond the partition, where
he took down the peasant clothes
and put them on. Then he seized
a pair of scissors, cut off his
long hair, and went out along
the path down the hill to the
river, where he had not been
for more than three years.
A road ran beside the river
and he went along it and walked
till noon. Then he went into
a field of rye and lay down there.
Towards evening he approached
a village, but without entering
it went towards the cliff that
overhung the river. There he
again lay down to rest.
It was early morning, half
an hour before sunrise. All was
damp and gloomy and a cold early
wind was blowing from the west.
'Yes, I must end it all. There
is no God. But how am I to end
it? Throw myself into the river?
I can swim and should not drown.
Hang myself? Yes, just throw
this sash over a branch.' This
seemed so feasible and so easy
that he felt horrified. As usual
at moments of despair he felt
the need of prayer. But there
was no one to pray to. There
was no God. He lay down resting
on his arm, and suddenly such
a longing for sleep overcame
him that he could no longer support
his head on his hand, but stretched
out his arm, laid his head upon
it, and fell asleep. But that
sleep lasted only for a moment.
He woke up immediately and began
not to dream but to remember.
He saw himself as a child in
his mother's home in the country.
A carriage drives up, and out
of it steps Uncle Nicholas Sergeevich,
with his long, spade-shaped,
black beard, and with him Pashenka,
a thin little girl with large
mild eyes and a timid pathetic
face. And into their company
of boys Pashenka is brought and
they have to play with her, but
it is dull. She is silly, and
it ends by their making fun of
her and forcing her to show how
she can swim. She lies down on
the floor and shows them, and
they all laugh and make a fool
of her. She sees this and blushes
red in patches and becomes more
pitiable than before, so pitiable
that he feels ashamed and can
never forget that crooked, kindly,
submissive smile. And Sergius
remembered having seen her since
then. Long after, just before
he became a monk, she had married
a landowner who squandered all
her fortune and was in the habit
of beating her. She had had two
children, a son and a daughter,
but the son had died while still
young. And Sergius remembered
having seen her very wretched.
Then again he had seen her in
the monastery when she was a
widow. She had been still the
same, not exactly stupid, but
insipid, insignificant, and pitiable.
She had come with her daughter
and her daughter's fiance. They
were already poor at that time
and later on he had heard that
she was living in a small provincial
town and was very poor.
'Why am I thinking about her?'
he asked himself, but he could
not cease doing so. 'Where is
she? How is she getting on? Is
she still as unhappy as she was
then when she had to show us
how to swim on the floor? But
why should I think about her?
What am I doing? I must put an
end to myself.'
And again he felt afraid, and
again, to escape from that thought,
he went on thinking about Pashenka.
So he lay for a long time,
thinking now of his unavoidable
end and now of Pashenka. She
presented herself to him as a
means of salvation. At last he
fell asleep, and in his sleep
he saw an angel who came to him
and said: 'Go to Pashenka and
learn from her what you have
to do, what your sin is, and
wherein lies your salvation.'
He awoke, and having decided
that this was a vision sent by
God, he felt glad, and resolved
to do what had been told him
in the vision. He knew the town
where she lived. It was some
three hundred versts (two hundred
miles) away, and he set out to
walk there.
|