by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE HERMIT
Only when Araktseieff had left the Czar did the emperor realize howcompletely alone he was in the world.
There was not a man in whom he could place confidence; in every one hesaw an enemy, a conspirator; and his true friends, if he still possessedany, he had imbittered by Araktseieff's recall. His generals weredisaffected by his not supporting the Greeks. Secret treaties weredirected against him. Those who were already apprised of his declarationof war, and had sufficient energy to act counter to him, had left thefield at the beginning of operations.
On Araktseieff's return to Grusino he had hurried without delay to themausoleum, and, barring the door behind him, had cast himself downbeside Daimona's coffin, and for two whole days nothing was heard withinbut his bitter sobs. He would eat nothing, would make no answer to wordsor entreaties. "Daimona" was the only sound he uttered.
He had loved that woman as only giant beasts love their mates; when thehunter has shot the female he may shoot the male, for it will not leaveits dead. For two whole days Araktseieff's household in vain besiegedthe door of the mausoleum; Chevalier Galban's representations also thathe should come out and take care of his valuable life were fruitless; hepaid no heed to his faithful followers. In vain they called him theirsweet, good master, "sweet friend," "Alexis Andreovitch"; he was deaf totheir voices.
On the third day Photios, the Archimandrite of the Monastery of St.George, came to the mausoleum. He is the holy man, to receive whoseblessing hundreds of thousands make the yearly pilgrimage to themonastery from all parts of Russia. The decree of the saint is as muchesteemed as is a papal bull.
When Czar Alexander I. gave into the hands of Prince Galitzin, thefreethinker, the portfolio of Public Instruction, the Archimandrite,going up to the Czar, exclaimed threateningly:
"If you take the ancient faith from your people you will shake yourempire to its foundations."
Whereupon the Czar dismissed Prince Galitzin, and the education of thepeople was left in the hands of the Sacred Synod. Russians always havetheir "living saints," some of them miraculous.
Photios, standing at the door of the mausoleum, called to Araktseieffwithin, in language unmistakably plain.
"Abandoned criminal, come out!"
The cries within were silenced.
"Come out from there!"
Araktseieff staggered out. He was scarcely recognizable. His beard,untouched for several days, stood out in gray bristles round his face;his eyes were bloodshot with weeping; his lips swollen; his hair laywildly matted on his forehead; his general's uniform was streaked withgreen mould.
"What seek you in that grave?"
"Death."
"Of course you will die, we all shall do so, as penalty for our sins.But do you desire to crown your evil deeds by dying unrepentant? Do youdesire to die beside the coffin of her for the loss of whose soul youare guilty? You were the cause of her sin; will you drag her down tohell? Instead of thinking of repentance, would you follow her tocondemnation? Defiantly would you burst the barriers of that fearfulnext world instead of entreating admission with bended head? Of courseyou will die, but not when it pleases you; rather when it pleases yourMaker to grant you death as a reward for penance.
"Your place is in the deep catacombs," continued Photios; "not by theside of your concubine. Under the rays of the burning sun, in storm, inthe roar of the tempest, under drenching rain, shall you seekrepentance! Stand up! follow me!"
Araktseieff crawled towards him on his knees.
"Now eat!" commanded Photios, throwing him a couple of turnips.
Picking them up, Araktseieff obeyed.
"Now put on these!" And he threw a dilapidated monk's dress towards him,faded out of all color by sun and rain. Araktseieff, taking off hisgeneral's uniform, put it on. And as saints on this earth do not drivein carriages, he followed the saint on foot and barefooted to the gatesof the Monastery of St. George.
St. George's is one of the wealthiest monasteries in all Russia. It issituated near Grusino, at the end of the long peninsula formed by theriver Volkhov and Lake Ilmer. Its gilded cupolas, green from theverdigris which centuries have brought out on the copper, tend tospread its fame far and wide. But entrance within the walls of themonastery oppresses the spirits. Silver dais upon silver dais reach tothe dome; the organ towers aloft, with its pipes of gold; there arepictures of saints dazzling with rubies; mosaics composed entirely ofprecious stones. Upon the elaborately decorated altars lie costly Biblesbound in silver, and enamelled books of the mass. Over one of the altarsis a picture of St. George in beaten silver. But it is only when we cometo the "treasure chamber," with its priceless store of mitres, crooks,crowns, pearl-embroidered stoles, golden monstrances, that we realizehow rich is Heaven's vicegerent--the Church. While the priests who guardall these treasures wander in among them in coarse cassocks and barefeet, that the world may see how poor is man.
But the most jealously guarded of all the treasures stood before thealtar. It was a granite pillar enclosed within silver rails.
On the granite was engraven: "Upon this spot knelt Czar Alexander,attended by his faithful servants, the Archimandrite Photios and AlexisAndreovitch Araktseieff, in the year 1818."
Thither Photios brought the statesman, that he might see his nameperpetuated beside that of the Czar.
"So high you had raised yourself. Now come and see how low you havesunk!"
The Archimandrite led the penitent back to the cloister and showed himhis, the Archimandrite's, cell. It was a space six feet broad by eightfeet long. But there was one luxury in it: it had a window through whichsunshine penetrated. His bed was a coffin roughly put together; his_prie-dieu_ a stone hollowed out by constant kneeling; a jug and a bowlfor the daily _kwas_ the sole furniture of the cell. Yet all this wasluxury compared with what awaited the penitent.
In the catacombs of the cloister were caves hewn out of solid rock, justlarge enough to contain a man kneeling or recumbent; a small hole in theheavy iron door let in air. Total darkness reigned. These caves wereinhabited by the whilom great, powerful aristocrats, masters overhundreds of thousands, now no longer masters of their own souls. It isnot tyranny, not the power of the sacred hierarchy which holds thembound here, but their own blind zeal. Despising, hating the world, theyare self-condemned to the awful imprisonment. The catacombs of thecloisters of St. George and of Solowetshk ever harbor numbers thusself-condemned to a living death.
It pleased Araktseieff.
Lying upon his straw he passed days and weeks. His door was kept lockedby day, only to be opened at sound of the vesper bell, when he went toseek for food, for food is not brought to penitents. Only at dusk maythey steal into the cloister garden to seek for mangel-wurzel, samphire,potatoes, and such like produce of the earth, their sole sustenance. Oneday Araktseieff came across a still more remarkable penitent thanhimself.
He, too, had once been a distinguished bojar; but none knew what hisreal name was. Here he was only known as "Little Father Nahum."
Nahum did not even allow himself the luxury of a ragged cassock. Hissole covering is a rush mat woven by himself, his white hair and graybeard flow wildly down over his dirt-begrimed limbs. Nahum does notallow himself lodging in a cave. In summer he sleeps in pools, inwinter he creeps into a dung-heap. To kneel day after day in his cave isnot humiliation enough for him; he prostrates himself across thethreshold of the church door, that those who enter may walk over him,kick him, spit on him. To gather fresh roots out of the earth and eatthem Little Father Nahum looks upon as sinful gluttony. He seeks hisevening meal from the dust-heap; what is thrown there is his sustenance.
Araktseieff had been doing penance three weeks in the catacombs when,one evening, as he was returning with a bundle of leeks in his hand, hecame upon Nahum feasting off his self-laid dinner-table, the dust-heap.
"Ah," said Little Father Nahum, accosting the new-comer, "I have foundso much to eat here to-night I can share with a friend."
"What has Providence provided for you?"
"Mouldy cheese."
"All right. Give me some."
"Here it is. Take it all," returned Nahum. "He who hankers after apenitent's food should have it all given up to him."
And he handed him the mouldy cheese, with the paper in which it had beenwrapped and thrown upon the dust-heap. Truly, loathsome food! ButAraktseieff's attention was not so much arrested by the contents as bythe paper in which the cheese was enclosed. It was a letter, and in itAraktseieff at once recognized the handwriting of the Czar. His bloodsurged within him. The Czar's writing a cover for stale cheese! And thenthe contents! It was a letter addressed to Photios.
"Call him to you. Speak to him in the name of holy religion; strengthenhim in the faith. Admonish him to preserve his life for the good of hiscountry, which is beyond all other considerations. Thus will youpreserve to the empire a servant of inestimable loyalty, and to me afaithful friend whom I sincerely honor and esteem."
And this was the paper chosen as a cover for mouldy cheese and thrownupon a dust-heap!
"Well, eat away, man," murmured Little Father Nahum, and, taking up thecheese which Araktseieff had let fall on the dust-heap, offered it himin the flat of his dirty hand.
Thrusting his fellow-penitent aside, Araktseieff hastened to Photios.
Photios was in the act of reading vespers. Araktseieff did not sufferhim to come to an end.
"Was this letter from the Czar addressed to you?"
"To me."
"And you threw it on the dust-heap?"
"That you might find it there."
"I have found it. My penance is over. I return to St. Petersburg."
"Just what I wished to accomplish."
"You have accomplished it. But you do not yet know what you were doingwhen you brought Alexis Araktseieff forth from the grave? Youconstrained him back to life and the world, once more to prove the stuffthat is in him. Well may you tremble before a resuscitated Araktseieff!"
"A blessing be upon all your actions!" stammered the Archimandrite, andcontinued his vespers.
Araktseieff left the monastery that very hour. He left it with the samewild frenzy of destruction with which he had entered it, only that thenhis desire was for self-destruction; now had returned the old desirefor the destruction of others.
When Araktseieff, after those three weeks, was seen again in St.Petersburg, every one started back in terror at his appearance. His facewas emaciated, his hair had turned quite white. It was plain to see thathe had risen from the grave.