by Ruskin Bond
Father Alexei, the old village priest, had also heared the muffled question. He sighed deeply and murmured, ‘Let us pray to Jesus.’
Then he made the sign of the Cross, and all those present followed his example—relatives, guests, free men, serfs, rich men, poor men and children alike. It was the right time to pray for help. Before our arms had fallen back to our sides, the doors opened and uncle entered, a walking stick in hand, his two favourite hounds at his heel. Justin followed him, carrying his pipe and the ornate tobacco pouch on a silver tray.
Uncle’s carved armchair stood on a Persian rug in the centre of the room, right in front of the Christmas tree. In silence he sat down, and in silence he took his pipe and pouch from his valet. The hounds settled themselves at his feet, stretching their long noses on the carpet.
Uncle was wearing a silk, dark-blue dressing-gown, beautifully and heavily embroidered. His hand clutched the thin, but strong walking stick, made from the branch of a Caucasian cherry-tree.
He was using the walking stick, for during the recent panic at the bear-baiting, his frisky mount, Monden, had also been nervous; the horse had reared wildly, and side-stepped, pressing uncle’s leg against a tree. The injury caused him severe pain and made him limp slightly. We thought that such an incident could only add fire to his anger and fury. The fact that we all remained perfectly and utterly silent after his arrival in the room also did not help matters, because, like so many suspicious people, uncle detested silence. Father Alexei, who knew uncle well, hastened forward to break the ominous hush and to save the situation as best as he could. As we children had gathered around him, he turned to us, asking if we knew the meaning of the hymn: ‘Our Saviour is Born’. It soon became obvious, that not only us young ones, but many of the grown-ups did not understand the words fully. The priest then went on to explain the true significance of phrases such as ‘Praise Him’, ‘Welcome Him’ and ‘Lift up your hearts and souls’.
As the Father talked of the last expression, he quietly and simply offered his heart and soul to God. And he told us about the gift which now, as always, even the poorest beggar can offer to Baby Jesus. This gift would be more precious than the presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh, brought to him by the wise men from the East. We could offer him our hearts, bettered and reformed by his teaching. The elderly priest talked of love, mercy and forgiveness, of the duty of each one of us to help and comfort friend and foe alike ‘in the name of Christ’.
His words were sincere and convincing, and we all listened intently, in the profound hope that they would reach the heart and soul of the one for whom we knew they were intended. Tears of compassion were glistening in many eyes.
Something fell to the floor with a clatter. It was uncle’s cane. Someone picked it up and handed it back, but uncle did not touch it; instead he sat, slumped to one side, a hand hanging limply over the arm of the chair. His forgotten pipe slid from his grasp, but no one rushed forth to pick it up. Instead everyone’s gaze was glued upon his face, for something unbelievable was happening: Uncle was crying!
The priest quietly stepped through the circle of us children, walked up to uncle and silently blessed him. Uncle raised his head, clasped the frail Father by his hand, kissed it fervently in front of us all and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Then he turned to Justin and ordered him to bring Ferapont to him. Ferapont appeared and stood in front of uncle, white-faced, and with a bandaged hand.
‘Stand over here!’ uncle commanded, pointing to the Persian rug, directly in front of his feet. Ferapont obeyed and fell to his knees. ‘Rise!…on your feet!’ uncle said. ‘I forgive you.’
Ferapont once again fell to his knees, but uncle spoke to him in a strange, passionate voice, ‘You gave a beast deeper love than many of us are capable of giving another human being. Your loyal affection has moved me to generosity. To show my admiration, I am giving you your freedom and one hundred roubles for your journey. Go to wherever you wish.’
‘Thank you, but I shall not go away!’ Ferapont said.
‘What is it that you want?’ his master asked.
‘Because you have shown me kindness, I wish to remain with you; I will serve you more faithfully now when I am a free man, than when I was a serf under your rule of terror.’
Uncle dabbed his eyes with his white handkerchief, then, leaning forward, embraced Ferapont; all of us present also stood up and there was not a dry eye amongst us. We could not help but feel that the Lord’s name had been praised in this very room, and that a reign of happiness and peace had taken over from the former reign of terror.
The good news spread into the village with the barrels of mead, which were sent as a token of goodwill. Soon the sky was lit with the glow of fires, as merriment and happiness entered every heart. People said to one another, ‘This Christmas even the beast has celebrated the birth of our Christ.’
They did not search for Sganarel in the forest. Ferapont, as he was promised, was given his freedom, and before long took over Justin’s duties to become not just a faithful servant, but also a trusted friend. When uncle died, it was Ferapont who closed his eyes for the last time and who buried his remains in the Vagankov cemetery in Moscow. A memorial in his honour stands there to this very day, and there, by uncle’s feet, lies Ferapont.
No one places flowers upon their resting-place now, but in some far corners of Moscow there are still some people left who remember the erect, white-haired man, who had the gift of recognizing true sorrow and who was always ready to help. Sometimes he sent his good, faithful servant to help the needy; but neither of them ever came empty-handed. These two good people, about whose deeds so much more could be told, were my uncle and his loyal servant Ferapont, whom the old master jokingly called: ‘the Beast Tamer’.