CHAPTER X

It was at this time that I performed the penance.

After my day's work I went to the church, where Brother Nikodime opened the door for me and locked me in, disturbing the stillness of the temple with the loud rattle of iron. I waited at the door till the last reverberation died away on the flagstones, then walked up quietly to the Crucifix and sat down upon the floor before it, for I was too weak to stand. Every muscle in my body ached from toil, and I had no desire to read the Acathistus.

I sat down, clasped my knees and gazed about me with sleepy eyes and thought about Grisha and about myself. It was summer, and the nights were hot and close, but here, in the semi-darkness of the church, it was pleasantly cool. The lamps under the holy pictures twinkled and winked at each other, and the little blue flames tugged upward as if they wished to fly toward the cupola, or higher still, to heaven itself, to the stars of the summer night. The quiet crackling of the wicks could be heard, each with its own peculiar sound, and half asleep, it seemed to me that the church was filled with a secret, unseen life, which, under the flickering of the lamps, held communion with itself. In the warm stillness and darkness the faces of the saints floated meditatively, as if something unsolved were before them. Ghost-like shadows passed before my face and the delicate, sweet odor of oil and cypress wood and incense surrounded me. The gold and the bronze of the holy images appeared duller and simpler, the silver shone warm and friendly, and everything melted and swam fusing into a torrent large and wide as in a dream.

Like a thick, sweet-smelling cloud, the church swung and swam to the low whispering of an indistinct prayer. I swung with it in a row of shadows, until a soft drowsiness took me up from the ground.

Before the ringing of the bell for early mass, the silent Brother Nikodime would enter and wake me, touching me lightly on the head.

"Go, in God's name," he would say, and I would answer:

"Pardon me, I have fallen asleep again."

Then I would go out swaying, and Nikodime would support me and say hardly audibly:

"God will pardon you, my benefactor."

Nikodime was an insignificant looking little old man, who hid his face from all and called every one his "benefactor." Once I asked him:

"Say, Nikodimushke, are you silent because of a vow?"

"No," he answered; "but just so." Then he sighed. "If I had anything to say, I would say it." "Why did you leave the world?"

"Because I left it."

If you questioned him further, he did not answer at all, but looked into jour face with guilty eyes, and said in a whisper:

"I don't know why, my benefactor."

At times I thought to myself: "Perhaps this man, also, had sought an answer at one time."

And I wanted to run away from the monastery.

But here another gentleman appeared, starting up suddenly like a rubber ball against a fence. He was a strong, short, bold fellow, with round eyes like an owl's, a bent nose, light curls, a bushy beard and teeth which shone in a continual smile. He amused all the monks with his jokes and his shameless stories about women. At night he had them come to the monastery, smuggled in vodka without end, and was marvelously handy at everything. I looked at him and said:

"What do you seek in a monastery?"

"I? Things to gobble."

"Bread is given to those who work."

"That," he answered, "is a commandment from the peasants' God, but I am a man from the town and have also served two years in the Council, and can count myself as one of the authorities."

I tried to understand this jester, for I had to see all the springs which moved different kinds of people.

As I became more used to my work, Misha grew lazier, went off somewhere or other, and although it was more difficult for me alone, still it was more pleasant. People came freely to the bakery and we talked.

Mostly we were three--Grisha, I and; oily Seraphim. Grisha would be excited and threatened me with his hands; Seraphim would whistle and shake his curls and smile. Once I asked him:

"Seraphim, you vagabond, do you believe in God?"

"I will tell you later," he answered. "Wait about thirty years. When I am in my sixties, I suppose I will know exactly what I believe. At present I understand nothing and I don't want to lie."

He would tell us about the sea. He spoke about it as about a great miracle, using marvelous words, now quiet and loud; now with fear, and with love. And he glowed all over with joy which made him look like a star. When we listened to him we were silent and even heavy at heart at his stories of this vast, live beauty.

"The sea," he said with passion, "is the blue eye of earth which looks out to the far heaven and meditates on infinite space. On its waves, which are as alive and sensitive as the soul, is reflected the play of the stars and their secret path; and if you watch for a long time the ebb and the flow of the sea, then the sky, too, appears like a far-off ocean, and the stars like islands."

Grisha listened, all pale, and smiled quietly, as if a moonbeam were playing on him, and he whispered sadly:

"And before the countenance of this mystery and beauty we only barter--nothing more."

At other times Seraphim would tell us about the Caucasus. He pictured to us a land gloomy and exquisite, like a fairyland, where hell and heaven embraced, and were at peace, both equal and both proud in their majesty.

"To see the Caucasus," Seraphim said in ecstasy, "that means to see the pure countenance of the earth, on which without inconsistency there unite in a smile the delicate purity of the childlike soul and the proud audacity and wisdom of the devil. The Caucasus is the touchstone of man. Weak spirits are ground to dust there and tremble before the power of the earth; but the strong, on the other hand, feel their strength grow and become proud and exalted like the mountain whose diamond-studded summit sends down its rays into the depths of the celestial wilderness. And this summit is the throne of the thunder."

Grisha sighed and asked in a low voice:

"And who points out the path to the soul? Should one be in the world or go away from it? What should one accept and what reject?"

Seraphim smiled distractedly and luminously.

"The glory of the sun is neither augmented nor diminished because you do not look at the sky, Grisha. Don't bother about that subject, my dear friend."

I understood Seraphim, but not entirely. I asked him, a little hurt:

"And as to people--what do you think about them? Why are they here?"

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"People--are like weeds. There are various kinds among them. For those who are blind the sun is black; for those who are not happy with themselves, God is an enemy. Besides, people are young. To call three-year-old Jack, Mr. So-and-so is early a bit and doesn't quite fit."

His mouth overflowed with such quotations. They dropped from his lips like leaves from an apple tree, just as with Savelko. If you asked him anything, he immediately overpowered you with his puns, as if he were strewing flowers on a child's grave. His evasions made me angry, but he, the young devil, only laughed. At times I would say to him, irritated:

"You are loafing here, you idle dog, eating bread for nothing."

"That is the way it is with us," he answered. "He who eats his own bread remains hungry. Look at our peasants. All their life they sow wheat, yet dare not eat. You're quite right. To work is not my specialty. You get sore bones from work, but never rich and healthy; just lie in bed and shirk and you get fat and wealthy. And even you, Matvei, would rather steal than forego a meal."

I argued with him, but toward the end I myself began to laugh.

He was simple and straightforward, and that attracted me very much. He never made any pretensions, but said simply:

"I am nothing but a little insect, and not very harmful at that. I only ask for bread that I be fed."

I saw that his whole make-up was very much like Savelko's and I marveled how men could keep their clear spirits and their happy frame of mind in this maelstrom of life.

Seraphim, next to Grisha, was like a clear day in spring compared to a day in autumn. Nevertheless, they grew more close to each other than to me. I was a little vexed at this. Soon they both went away together, Grisha having decided to go to Olonetz, and Seraphim said to me:

"I will accompany him. Then I will rest a week and return to the Caucasus. You should come along with us, Matvei. In tramping you will find more quickly what you are seeking, or you will lose what you have in excess, which, perhaps, is just as well. They can't bribe God away from the earth."

But I could not go along with them, for at that time I was having my interviews with Mardarie, and I was especially curious about this ascetic. I saw them off with great sadness, and my quiet evenings and my happy days went with them.