The Deacon: From a POW camp back home where secrets and lies awaited. Which stole his soul?

Originally designed for 10, prisoners, it now held about 33,, allowing about six square feet of living space per man. Many prisoners lacked clothing or tents and were forced to build crude shelters or dig holes, covering them with blankets to hide from the blazing sun. Often the priest had to crawl on his hands and knees and lie alongside the sick and dying so he could hear their confessions and administer the last rites.

Prisoners died daily from gangrene, scurvy, diarrhea, dysentery and exposure to the elements. Stealing, brutality and even murder by well-organized gangs called "raiders" were rampant. Over its 14 months of operation, approximately 13, men died in the camp. Father Whelan later recalled:. By late September, Father Whelan decided that he could leave, but his ministry to the prisoners was not over.

With this he purchased 10, pounds of wheat flour, then had it baked into bread and distributed at the prison hospital at Andersonville. The prisoners referred to it as "Whelan's bread. Upon returning to Savannah once more, Father Whelan continued his duties as vicar general.

On March 10, , a lung ailment he had contracted at Andersonville began to trouble him. His doctors recommended that he go north to escape the humid air of the Southern coast. The priests' friends in Savannah provided him with the necessary funds to make a trip to New York. But preferring justice to his own good health, he used the money to pay back Henry Horne for the wheat flour. On the evening of Monday, Feb. The local Savannah newspaper described his funeral procession as the longest ever seen in the city.

Eighty-six carriages made their way through the crowded avenues to the cemetery. People from all over the area turned out to bid farewell to this beloved priest, including many who were not Catholics. The procession was lead by the colonel of the old garrison, along with many of his men. Years later, reflecting upon this day in his memoirs, the colonel wrote: Chris Gagliano serves as the studio manager for St. Dominic Productions in Panama City, Fla. He had seen many people like these two patients and he had cared for them all. When they left, he seldom heard of them again.

One of the sick man told him that his name was Sazikov, Ivan Alexandrovich. Father Arseny prayed quietly while he was helping him. You pray to get forgivness of your sins and this is why you help us! Have you ever seen Him? He is here among us and unites you and me! God is in this barracks? I see that your soul is black with sin, but there is room in it for light. I hate the way you think. The second patient was one who was in the camp for a simple reason: His story was the same as that of so many. Some men were killed for things they had said, others for their faith, and then there were those like the second sick man: All of them were sooner or later to die in this camp.

One of those removed from power was Alexander Pavlovich Avsenkov. As soon as he had heard this name Father Arseny remembered him. This was when Father Arseny had been sentenced to be shot for antirevolutionary activity. Later his punishment had been commuted to fifteen years in camp. Father Arseny remembered the name well. He looked forty of fifty, but life in camp had left a heavy imprint on him. His stay in the camp had made him realize the enormity of his mistake.

He realised that he had sent tens, hundreds of thousands innocent people to their death. From his high position he had lost touch with the truth.

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He believed interrogation reports and flattery of his subordinates; listening to absurd government orders he had lost contact with living human beings and life itself. He suffered constantly, but could change nothing about what he had done. His feeling of spiritual emptiness and loss tore him apart. He was quiet, kind, and shared all he owned; he was afraid neither of the administration nor of the criminals. He was frightened when he was angry, but did not lose his head; he tried to protect the innocent and for this he often had to spend time in the punishment cell.

Avsenksov was attached to Father Arseny: We have different points of view. In theory, I should be fighting ideologically with you. Why would you want to fight? You fought as much as you could and where did your ideology get you? It took you to this camp, which swallowed you! As far as I am concerned I had my faith in Christ out there in freedom and I have it here within myself. God is the same everywhere and helps everyone! I trust and believe that He will help you too!

God brought us together a long time ago, and planned our meeting in this camp. How could I have known you? In when communism was trying to eradicate religion, hundreds of thousands of believers were exiled, hundreds of churches were closed and this is when, for the first time, I was sent away to camp on your instructions. In , I was in your jurisdiction again. I wrote an article. As soon as it was published, you arrested me again and convicted me to be shot.

But, thank you, - you commuted the sentence to exile in camp. So finally we meet! All this is the will of God, and my own life is just a drop in the ocean. Of course you cannot remember me. Among the tens of thousands you saw, how could you remember me? God alone knows everyone and everything. The fate of people is in His hands. Knowing this, many of the prisoners did not want to die spiritually and strove to lead an internal battle for their lives and their spirits.

These prisoners talked about science, life or religion, sometimes had lectures on art or scientific research, or discussed books they had read before their arrest, read poetry, or talked about their lives before camp. Against the backdrop of cruelty, coarseness, violence and the awareness of impending, unavoidable death, the hunger, extreme exhaustion, and the constant presence of the criminals, this was truly remarkable. The prisoners often tried to find in each other the support that would make their life bearable.

Depending on the nature of the most recent wave of arrests, different people would arrive at this camp — engineers, soldiers, clerics, scientists, artists, farmers, writers, agronomists, doctors — and the subgroupings of prisoners with similar interests would form naturally. Everyone was downtrodden and exhausted, but you could see that no one wanted to forget his past, his profession.

Debate between groups was very heated — people would become impassioned, see only their own side on an issue, and argue as if their lives depended on it. Father Arseny took part in none of these discussions. He aligned himself with no group nor did he attempt to defend a viewpoint. Whenever a discussion began, Father Arseny would simply go to rest and pray on his bunk. The intellectuals in the barracks looked down their nose at Father Arseny. Often, after roll call was taken and the barracks were locked for the night, a group of ten or twelve writers, art historians, and artists would gather.

The discussion was always heated. This time the topic was ancient Russian art and architecture. One of the prisoners, a tall man who had kept his elegance and poise even in camp, spoke with great assurance on this topic. People around him listened with great interest. This tall and impressive man was surprisingly knowledgeable and very sure of himself; he spoke very convincingly. As he was talking, Father Arseny happned to pass by. The speaker, who was in fact a professor of art history, spoke to Father Arseny condescendingly. Do you think there is such an influence?

The people around him laughed. Avsenikov, who was seated near by, also smiled. Such a question addressed to Father Arseny seemed absurd. Some felt sorry for him, others wanted to have a laugh. Everybody understood that a simple priest like Father Arseny could not answer such a philosophical question. Can you please repeat your question? You may have heard about the art treasures in Suzdal, Rostov, Pereslavl, and the Feraponotovo Monastery. So please explain to us, what connection do you see? It was clear, they thought, that he could not answer; you could see it just by looking at his face.

Many people have written about this including you, professor. You have spoken and written much about it. However, I feel that a great many of your theories and statements are convoluted, incorrect, and contrived simply to satisfy your readers, or the censors.

What you were saying just now is much closer to the truth than what you said in your books. You write that it is only economic and social factors, not the spiritual basis of the Russian people and the beneficial influence of Christianity, which influence art and architecture. My opinion is opposite of yours. I consider that Orthodoxy was the decisive influence on Russian culture from the tenth to the eighteenth century. In the tenth century, the Russian clergy found and accepted the culture of Byzantium and brought it home to influence all of Russia.

They brought books, icons, models of Greek churches, and hagiography to the Russian people. This was the influence that built Russian culture. The Russian people do not approach icons as idols, but as the spiritual image of the one to whom his soul addresses itself in sorrowful and joyous prayer. The Russian iconographer creates his icons with prayer and fasting, and it is understandable that it is said that the hand of the iconographer is held by an angel of God.

In out icons you can feel the spirit of faith, the imprint of Orthodoxy; on western paintings you see a lady, a woman: Just look at the Mother of God of Vladimir. Even his physical demeanor had changed. He spoke about well-known icons and explained each of them, thus revealing the soul of ancient Russian iconography.

He then began speaking about the architecture, giving examples such as those in Suzdal, Vladimir, and Moscow, and showed its connection with Orthodoxy. Father Arseny finished his answer this way: The professor had lost his half-mocking smile, and looked as if he had shrunk. You know fine arts, architecture, and even my own books? Where did you study? I thought you were a priest. Because people like yourself, professor, cover in mind-twisting theories and lies that which is most holy and precious in man.

What is your last name? I could never imagine that I was speaking to a famous art historian, author of many books and articles, teacher of many, a famous professor, now a priest, and asking him such a stupid question. For a number of years no one had heard from you. Nobody knew where you were; only your books and your articles continued expressing your thoughts. How is it that you, such a famous expert, became a priest? Having become Father Arseny I understood as never before that a simple priest must know a great deal.

Until then, the priesthood had been the dynamic force of our country. Avsenkov noticed that from this time on, the intellectuals in the barracks looked at Father Arseny differently. Avsenkov had been a convinced communist who had believed almost fanatically in Marxist ideology. During his first year in the camp he had lived as a loner; then he started to talk to some of the other prisoners and realized that most of his old friends, also communists, now hoped only for a return to the old days when their life was comfortable.

They did not care to do battle with the unjust rule of Stalin. Avsenkov disliked these attitudes and stopped talking to them. He had lost contact with humanity; lectures and newspaper articles had replaced living human beings. In his contact with other prisoners, Avsenkov saw authentic, unartificial life. He was attracted to Father Arseny with his rare attitude towards others and his constant readiness to help everyone with true kindness.

His limitless faith in God and his unceasing prayer had at first alienated Avsenkov, but at the same time had strangely attracted him. He always felt good when he was with Father Arseny.

Father Whelan, Priest to POWs

All the difficulties, the sadness, the oppressive atmosphere of the camp became bearable in his presence. He could not understand. Ivan Alexandrovich Sazikov, one of the ill prisoners whom Father Arseny had cared for, had been, as they learned, an infamous criminal. He loved power, he was a hard man, he knew the community of camp criminals well and had soon subjugated them all to himself. They all obeyed him. His word was law; the prisoners were all afraid of him — but he did not like to mingle in the affairs of the barracks, preferring to stay apart.

For a few months after Father Arseny had nursed him to health, Sazikov did not want to be near him and made believe that he did not even know him. But it so happened that Sazikov hurt his leg and had to lie in his bunk for four or five days; the wound became infected, gangrene set in and he was afraid his leg would have to be amputated. The medics did not force him to go to work, but he was not getting any better. Father Arseny once again patiently nursed him, fed him, and with his support, Sazikov finally got better.

I believe priests even less. But you, Piotr Andreyevich, I trust. You live in your God, you do good not for your own benefit, but for the sake of others. My mother was like that. This story was recounted by Avsenkov and Sazikov. It was confirmed by a number of other prisoners who were interned in the same barracks at that time. Many prisoners froze to death and many new prisoners arrived to work in their stead. For two days in a row their rations were stolen by the prisoners who were criminals. That night, after roll call and the locking of the barracks, a large fight erupted between the two factions over these rations.

He was a hardened criminal, a good-for-nothing, and a murderer many times over. In camp he had also killed more than once; he liked card games in which the one who lost paid with his life. The battle that evening was over the rations which the criminals had taken laughingly — they said they were used to taking what did not belong to them.

The camp administrators, for reasons of personal safety, were always on the side of criminals. The fight started with fists, and then logs, then knives appeared in the hands of the criminals. Knives were, of course, forbidden. The guards searched for them but never seemed to find them. The criminals were cruel. Please help Ivan Alexandrovich! They are cutting people up. There is blood everywhere. I ask you in the Name of God to stop this! The criminals will listen to you! Ivan the Brown has already killed two of your friends, and now he is going to kill Avsenkov.

Your God seems not to notice this!

He saw blood on people, he heard screams, swearing, and moans, and his soul was full of pain for their suffering. There he stood, as if in a different world, as if surrounded by light. He stood there, having receded into himself, praying. He did not hear the dead being carried to the door, nor did he see the wounded being helped. He stood, his attention focused on prayer. All was quiet in the barracks now. You could only hear people getting into their bunks, and the moaning of a seriously wounded man.

I douted your God. I see now that He exists. It even scares me. A great power is given to one who believes in Him. Even I am frightened. Forgive me for making fun of you. You saved my life! Prisoners came, then were buried in the frozen ground. Others came to replace them and the cycle started over. There was no more stealing of rations. If some criminals forgot this new way of life and did steal, the others taught them a hard lesson. Father Arseny worked as usual beyond his own strength, but he was never discouraged. In the barracks in which Father Arseny lived, many people from different backgrounds were thrown together to die.

This situation caused much friction between different groups and Father Arseny served as a buffer for the pain and suffering of all the factions involved. With the warm and kind word he knew how to comfort their souls. A person could be believer, a communist, a criminal, or any other kind of prisoner — Father Arseny always found the right words for each individual.

In some strange way Sazikov and Avsenkov became closer. What could a criminal and a communist idealist have in common? They were somehow invisibly united by Father Arseny. The story was recounted by Avsenkov, Sazikov and three other prisoners. A summons to the Major The supervisor had begun to stop in and make a fuss about every little detail as Father Arseny cleaned the empty barracks and tended to the stoves.

One day he was especially fierce: That evening Father Arseny received the summons to appear before the Major. Everyone knows that to be summoned at night is a bad sign. There was word that a new major had been named as chief of the special camp. This caused fear in all the prisoners.

If you said no, they would beat you savagely. Beatings occurred during interrogations too. The only time they did not beat you was when they called you to announce the decision to extend your sentence. The prisoners feared the special sector. Some 25 people worked there. Many of these workers in the special sector drank heavily.

They knew how to interrogate; they knew how to beat. Father Arseny was met by a young lieutenant. It all started as usual: He started to pray. In about ten minutes he came back and led Father Arseny to the major, the chief of the special sector. Father Arseny, knowing the rules of the camp, understood that this was bad. The major got up, closed the door tightly, returned to his desk, sat down, and started reading the file.

I am the one who called you in here. I put my trust in You. She is alive and in good health. He kept you alive. Be afraid of nothing! Keep praying sic for us sinners. God has preserved many of us. Vera was a nun and his closest spiritual child. There could be no doubt that she was the one who had written all this. They were both silent. Father Arseny was stunned and extremely moved. He could not understand what was happening. The major was silent because he understood the state of shock which Father Arseny was in.

He looked at the person in front of him: He was the author of renowned stidies on ancient Russian art and architecture, and was now a hieromonk. He was the leader of a large and strong religious community that had not dispersed as the authorities had hoped even after Father Arseny had been arrested. This same old man who stood before him, way back when he had lived in the free world, had known how to combine deep faith and a serious scientific mind.

In his books he spoke about the beauty of his homeland and asked his readers to love it. Now the major saw that all this had died in the man sitting before him. He had been trampled on and was broken. Death was upon him. Only the begging of his wife, whom the major loved unconditionally and whom he always heeded, and the request of Vera Danilovna, who had been of great help to his wife and daughter in the past, had led the major to this dangerous act of passing on a letter to a prisoner.

Vera Danilovna was a doctor, and it so happened that the lives of several of the people closest to the major had been saved by her care and devotion. In a camp where all watched each other in the hope they could inform on someone to the administration, it was extremely dangerous for the major to do what he had done. But there was yet another reason why he wanted to make contact with Father Arseny in this camp. I thank you in the Name of the Lord. On the contrary, they had strengthened the power of his spirit. For the eyes of Father Arseny shone with a light and a power the major had never seen before.

And in this strength and this light you could see infinite kindness and a deep knowledge of the human soul. The major sensed that Father Arseny had only to look at someone or say something, and it would be done. His faith had a power over others and it seemed to radiate visibly from him. The major understood that this man was not going to ask him why he, the newly assigned chief of this special camp, had dared to pass him the note.

Father Arseny was looking at something above and just past the major. He stood up, made the sign of the cross several times, and bowed to someone. Seeing him the major stood up too, for before him at that moment stood not an old man in a patched up vest and torn pants, but a fully vested priest, who was performing the sacrament of prayer to God.

The major shrugged at this unexpected and incomprehensible event, and he recalled something he had long forgotten. He remembered the time when his mother used to take him, as a little boy to the small wooden country church to pray on the great feast days. A feeling that was at once gentle and kind seized his soul. Father Arseny sat down and again the major saw in front of him an exhausted old man, but one whose eyes still radiated light. They sent me to work here. I found out you were here. I was in Moscow and told Vera Danilovna, and undertook to bring this message to you.

Of course I will help Alexander Pavlovich Avsenkov. I will pass on to him what you asked me to. I understand it is difficult for you here, Sergei Petrovich; you are not used to this new work of yours. It is extremely difficult to get used to this life. So many awful things happen here! But be as merciful as you can be, and that in itself will be a help to the prisoners. It is difficult everywhere now, this is why I ended up here.

My heart bleeds when I see what is happening around me. People are followed, they denounce each other, secret instructions are given that contradict one another. I am ashamed to admit it, but I am afraid for myself. We will replace him with somebody more decent. I will be sending for you through Markov, the one who just interrogated you. He is a difficult man, always suspicious. That is why I will ask him to keep a special watch on you, and after your interrogations, to bring you to me.

Do not worry, this special surveillance will not be written into your life.

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Many people in high places still remember Alexander Pavlovich Avsenkov, but it is extremely difficult to help him. Alexander Pavlovich knows a great deal, he is a true idealist, and he is straightforward. This kind of person is disliked in the ranks. They want him shot, but Stalin has not given the final order. This will give him moral support. Tell him to beware of Savushkin; he is trying to invent accusations against him. He also lives in your barracks. I am going to write it in at our next meeting. All the prisoners in the barracks breathed a sigh of relief.

It had seemed likely that Father Arseny would have never return. I thank Thee for having shown me Thy mercy. Have mercy on me, Lord. The person will tell if he wants. If you do ask, your fellow inmates might get suspicious of you. Father Arseny did not sleep that night; he was rejoicing in the mercy of God. Father Arseny glorified Him and prayed to the Mother of God. In the morning he got up and started his daily work with a light heart. The searchlights were already running back and forth along the ground. I will tell you everything later. Avsenkov snatched it and started splitting logs with the wooden wedge.

Then, as if he was checking a log under the light, he started reading the note. He read it once, twice, and tears started running down his face. I do not believe in God, but now I am beginning to believe. I just have to believe. I got a letter from my Katia, my wife and in it there is a word from a dear friend of mine, a very important person. He wants to help even though he knows that if somebody finds this note it will be the end of him.

There are still honest, sincere people even outside the camps; not all of them are drowned in dirt. Katia says that she prays to God for me. She probably prays well, because here you are helping me. You keep my heart warm, you do not leave me alone with my thoughts. And not only me. You help so many people. Look what happned to Sazikov, such a cruel man and so fearsome and now he is gentler, he listens to you and trusts you in everything. You probably do not even see this, but I do. I do now believe; your God does it all through your hands.

I do not know if I will ever become a true believer, but I know now, I see that God does exist! Later, Father Arseny told Sazikov about his conversation with the major and the fact that Moscow wanted to get rid of Avsenkov at the hands of the criminals. Father Arseny called Sazikov not Ivan but Seraphim, which was his true name. He was not worried that Sazikov would report this conversation since he had changed a great deal. We will protect Alexander Pavlovich. He is a good man, a worthy man. We have ways among us, I will tell my people about it. We will protect him. Life goes on Winter came to an end and spring arrived.

More and more prisoners were getting sick and dying. The camp hospital was so packed that sick man was forced to stay in their barracks. Father Arseny was very weak, but performed all his duties as before. The weather got warmer, but it was humid — the barracks had to be heated as often as during the winter so that the walls and the clothing would not become moldy.

Exhausted, almost unable to walk, Father Arseny still helped everyone he could. His help was always surprisingly warm and reached people deeply. He did not wait to be asked for help. He always seemed to know where his help was needed, and after giving it he would leave silently, never expected to be thanked. The Major did replace the supervisor Pupkov as promised. The new one was not talkative; he was stern, but fair. He was strict about his rules being observed — he especially required cleanliness — but he did not hit people and almost never swore. The brief summer finished its tortuous sweep with clouds of mosquitoes spreading discomfort and disease throughout the camp.

The barracks no longer had to be heated, but Father Arseny, in view of his age, was not sent out to dig. His work was cleaning the barracks and their surroundings and empting the latrine pits. Father Arseny was called into the special sector twice. The first time he was interrogated by Markov and not sent to the Major. The rules are even stricter; everybody watches everybody. I am an important figure, everyone is afraid of me, but I am unable to help. I am afraid, but neither you nor Alexander Pavlovich ever leave my mind.

MANASTIR LEPAVINA - SRPSKA PRAVOSLAVNA CRKVA

Give him this note, and do tell him that he is remembered in Moscow. Now sign the records of our interview. I wrote it up before you came. Aged 23, he was a student and had been sentenced to twenty years in the camp. He had no experience of camp life because he had been sent to this special camp directly from the strict Butirki Prison in Moscow. Still young, he did not fully understand what lay ahead for him.

As soon as he entered the death camp, he encountered the criminals. His clothing was still good for he had only been in prison a few months. They proposed a card game with clothing at stake. Everybody knew that this lad would soon be naked, but no one could do anything about it; even Sazikov dared not intervene. The camp rule was that whoever interfered would be killed.

Those who had been in camp for a while knew only too well that if the criminals decided to play for your rags, to resist would be the end of you. The young man, whose name was Alexei, thought that the game had been for fun and refused to hand over his clothing. Ivan the Brown decided to make an exhibition of it. The new clothes for the wedding were ordered from them, and they often came to try them on, and stayed a long while drinking tea. They were making Varvara a brown dress with black lace and bugles on it, and Aksinya a light green dress with a yellow front, with a train.

When the dressmakers had finished their work Tsybukin paid them not in money but in goods from the shop, and they went away depressed, carrying parcels of tallow candles and tins of sardines which they did not in the least need, and when they got out of the village into the open country they sat down on a hillock and cried. Anisim arrived three days before the wedding, rigged out in new clothes from top to toe.

He had dazzling india-rubber goloshes, and instead of a cravat wore a red cord with little balls on it, and over his shoulder he had hung an overcoat, also new, without putting his arms into the sleeves. After crossing himself sedately before the ikon, he greeted his father and gave him ten silver roubles and ten half-roubles; to Varvara he gave as much, and to Aksinya twenty quarter-roubles. The chief charm of the present lay in the fact that all the coins, as though carefully matched, were new and glittered in the sun. Trying to seem grave and sedate he pursed up his face and puffed out his cheeks, and he smelt of spirits.

Probably he had visited the refreshment bar at every station.

Prayer Against Witchcraft Control

And again there was a free-and-easiness about the man—something superfluous and out of place. Then Anisim had lunch and drank tea with the old man, and Varvara turned the new coins over in her hand and inquired about villagers who had gone to live in the town. They ordered the memorial dinner for the peace of her soul at the confectioner's at two and a half roubles a head. And there was real wine. Those who were peasants from our village—they paid two and a half roubles for them, too. They ate nothing, as though a peasant would understand sauce!

And when one is with Samorodov he likes to have coffee with brandy in it after everything, and brandy is sixty kopecks for a little glass. It is Samorodov who writes my letters to you. And if I were to tell you, mamma," Anisim went on gaily, addressing Varvara, "the sort of fellow that Samorodov is, you would not believe me. We call him Muhtar, because he is black like an Armenian. I can see through him, I know all his affairs like the five fingers of my hand, and he feels that, and he always follows me about, we are regular inseparables.

He seems not to like it in a way, but he can't get on without me. Where I go he goes. I have a correct, trustworthy eye, mamma.

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One sees a peasant selling a shirt in the market place. I know nothing about the shirt, only for some reason I seem drawn to it: Among us detectives it's come to their saying, 'Oh, Anisim has gone to shoot snipe! Anybody can steal, but it is another thing to keep! The earth is wide, but there is nowhere to hide stolen goods. The day of the wedding arrived. It was a cool but bright, cheerful April day. People were driving about Ukleevo from early morning with pairs or teams of three horses decked with many-coloured ribbons on their yokes and manes, with a jingle of bells.

The rooks, disturbed by this activity, were cawing noisily in the willows, and the starlings sang their loudest unceasingly as though rejoicing that there was a wedding at the Tsybukins'. Indoors the tables were already covered with long fish, smoked hams, stuffed fowls, boxes of sprats , pickled savouries of various sorts, and a number of bottles of vodka and wine; there was a smell of smoked sausage and of sour tinned lobster. Old Tsybukin walked about near the tables, tapping with his heels and sharpening the knives against each other.

They kept calling Varvara and asking for things, and she was constantly with a distracted face running breathlessly into the kitchen, where the man cook from Kostukov's and the woman cook from Hrymin Juniors' had been at work since early morning. Aksinya, with her hair curled, in her stays without her dress on, in new creaky boots, flew about the yard like a whirlwind showing glimpses of her bare knees and bosom. It was noisy, there was a sound of scolding and oaths; passers-by stopped at the wide-open gates, and in everything there was a feeling that something extraordinary was happening. The bells began jingling and died away far beyond the village Between two and three o'clock people ran up: The church was full, the candelabra were lighted, the choir were singing from music books as old Tsybukin had wished it.

The glare of the lights and the bright coloured dresses dazzled Lipa; she felt as though the singers with their loud voices were hitting her on the head with a hammer. Her boots and the stays, which she had put on for the first time in her life, pinched her, and her face looked as though she had only just come to herself after fainting; she gazed about without understanding. Anisim, in his black coat with a red cord instead of a tie, stared at the same spot lost in thought, and when the singers shouted loudly he hurriedly crossed himself.

He felt touched and disposed to weep. This church was familiar to him from earliest childhood; at one time his dead mother used to bring him here to take the sacrament; at one time he used to sing in the choir; every ikon he remembered so well, every corner. Here he was being married, he had to take a wife for the sake of doing the proper thing, but he was not thinking of that now, he had forgotten his wedding completely. Tears dimmed his eyes so that he could not see the ikons, he felt heavy at heart; he prayed and besought God that the misfortunes that threatened him, that were ready to burst upon him to-morrow, if not to-day, might somehow pass him by as storm-clouds in time of drought pass over the village without yielding one drop of rain.

And so many sins were heaped up in the past, so many sins, all getting away from them or setting them right was so beyond hope that it seemed incongruous even to ask forgiveness. But he did ask forgiveness, and even gave a loud sob, but no one took any notice of that, since they all supposed he had had a drop too much. When they returned from the church people ran after them; there were crowds, too, round the shop, round the gates, and in the yard under the windows. The peasant women came in to sing songs of congratulation to them.

The young couple had scarcely crossed the threshold when the singers, who were already standing in the outer room with their music books, broke into a loud chant at the top of their voices; a band ordered expressly from the town began playing. Foaming Don wine was brought in tall wine-glasses, and Elizarov, a carpenter who did jobs by contract, a tall, gaunt old man with eyebrows so bushy that his eyes could scarcely be seen, said, addressing the happy pair:.

This is a fine daughter-in-law for you too! Everything is in its place in her; all runs smoothly, no creaking, the mechanism works well, lots of screws in it. He was a native of the Yegoryevsky district, but had worked in the factories in Ukleevo and the neighborhood from his youth up, and had made it his home. He had been a familiar figure for years as old and gaunt and lanky as now, and for years he had been nicknamed "Crutch. And before sitting down to the table he tried several chairs to see whether they were solid, and he touched the smoked fish also.

After the Don wine, they all sat down to the table. The visitors talked, moving their chairs. The singers were singing in the outer room. The band was playing, and at the same time the peasant women in the yard were singing their songs all in chorus—and there was an awful, wild medley of sounds which made one giddy. Crutch turned round in his chair and prodded his neighbours with his elbows, prevented people from talking, and laughed and cried alternately. He drank little and was now only drunk from one glass of English bitters. The revolting bitters, made from nobody knows what, intoxicated everyone who drank it as though it had stunned them.

Their tongues began to falter. The local clergy, the clerks from the factories with their wives, the tradesmen and tavern-keepers from the other villages were present. The clerk and the elder of the rural district who had served together for fourteen years, and who had during all that time never signed a single document for anybody nor let a single person out of the local court without deceiving or insulting him, were sitting now side by side, both fat and well-fed, and it seemed as though they were so saturated in injustice and falsehood that even the skin of their faces was somehow peculiar, fraudulent.

The clerk's wife, a thin woman with a squint, had brought all her children with her, and like a bird of prey looked aslant at the plates and snatched anything she could get hold of to put in her own or her children's pockets. Lipa sat as though turned to stone, still with the same expression as in church. Anisim had not said a single word to her since he had made her acquaintance, so that he did not yet know the sound of her voice; and now, sitting beside her, he remained mute and went on drinking bitters, and when he got drunk he began talking to the aunt who was sitting opposite:.

He is by rank an honorary citizen, and he can talk. But I know him through and through, auntie, and he feels it. Pray join me in drinking to the health of Samorodov, auntie! Varvara, worn out and distracted, walked round the table pressing the guests to eat, and was evidently pleased that there were so many dishes and that everything was so lavish—no one could disparage them now. The sun set, but the dinner went on: In the evening they danced to the band.

The Hrymin Juniors came, bringing their wine, and one of them, when dancing a quadrille, held a bottle in each hand and a wineglass in his mouth, and that made everyone laugh. In the middle of the quadrille they suddenly crooked their knees and danced in a squatting position; Aksinya in green flew by like a flash, stirring up a wind with her train. Someone trod on her flounce and Crutch shouted:. Aksinya had naive grey eyes which rarely blinked, and a naive smile played continually on her face.

And in those unblinking eyes, and in that little head on the long neck, and in her slenderness there was something snake-like; all in green but for the yellow on her bosom, she looked with a smile on her face as a viper looks out of the young rye in the spring at the passers-by, stretching itself and lifting its head. The Hrymins were free in their behaviour to her, and it was very noticeable that she was on intimate terms with the elder of them.

But her deaf husband saw nothing, he did not look at her; he sat with his legs crossed and ate nuts, cracking them so loudly that it sounded like pistol shots. But, behold, old Tsybukin himself walked into the middle of the room and waved his handkerchief as a sign that he, too, wanted to dance the Russian dance, and all over the house and from the crowd in the yard rose a roar of approbation:. Varvara danced, but the old man only waved his handkerchief and kicked up his heels, but the people in the yard, propped against one another, peeping in at the windows, were in raptures, and for the moment forgave him everything—his wealth and the wrongs he had done them.

You can still play your part! It was kept up till late, till two o'clock in the morning. Anisim, staggering, went to take leave of the singers and bandsmen, and gave each of them a new half-rouble. His father, who was not staggering but still seemed to be standing on one leg, saw his guests off, and said to each of them:.

As the party was breaking up, someone took the Shikalovo innkeeper's good coat instead of his own old one, and Anisim suddenly flew into a rage and began shouting:. He ran out into the street and pursued someone. He was caught, brought back home and shoved, drunken, red with anger, and wet, into the room where the aunt was undressing Lipa, and was locked in. Five days had passed. Anisim, who was preparing to go, went upstairs to say good-bye to Varvara. All the lamps were burning before the ikons, there was a smell of incense, while she sat at the window knitting a stocking of red wool.

We live comfortably; we have plenty of everything. We celebrated your wedding properly, in good style; your father says it came to two thousand. In fact we live like merchants, only it's dreary. We treat the people very badly. My heart aches, my dear; how we treat them, my goodness! Whether we exchange a horse or buy something or hire a labourer—it's cheating in everything. The Lenten oil in the shop is bitter, rancid, the people have pitch that is better. But surely, tell me pray, couldn't we sell good oil? God's judgment is just. Varvara looked at him with surprise, burst out laughing, and clasped her hands.

Perhaps because she was so genuinely surprised at his words and looked at him as though he were a queer person, he was confused. When I was being married I was not myself. Just as you may take an egg from under a hen and there is a chicken chirping in it, so my conscience was beginning to chirp in me, and while I was being married I thought all the time there was a God!

But when I left the church it was nothing. And indeed, how can I tell whether there is a God or not? We are not taught right from childhood, and while the babe is still at his mother's breast he is only taught 'every man to his own job. You were saying that Guntorev had some sheep stolen I have found them; it was a peasant at Shikalovo stole them; he stole them, but father's got the fleeces And as for their going to church and keeping the fasts, that is simply to prevent people talking ill of them, and in case it really may be true that there will be a Day of Judgment.

Nowadays people say that the end of the world has come because people have grown weaker, do not honour their parents, and so on. All that is nonsense.

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My idea, mamma, is that all our trouble is because there is so little conscience in people. I see through things, mamma, and I understand. If a man has a stolen shirt I see it. A man sits in a tavern and you fancy he is drinking tea and no more, but to me the tea is neither here nor there; I see further, he has no conscience. You can go about the whole day and not meet one man with a conscience. And the whole reason is that they don't know whether there is a God or not Well, good-bye, mamma, keep alive and well, don't remember evil against me.

You are a very ladylike woman, and I am very pleased with you. I shall either make my fortune or come to grief. If anything happens, then you must comfort my father, mamma. And, Anisim, you should be affectionate to your wife, instead of giving each other sulky looks as you do; you might smile at least. She is very young, let her grow up. Old Tsybukin jumped in jauntily with a run and took the reins. Anisim kissed Varvara, Aksinya, and his brother. On the steps Lipa, too, was standing; she was standing motionless, looking away, and it seemed as though she had not come to see him off but just by chance for some unknown reason.

Anisim went up to her and just touched her cheek with his lips. And without looking at him she gave a strange smile; her face began to quiver, and everyone for some reason felt sorry for her. Anisim, too, leaped into the chaise with a bound and put his arms jauntily akimbo, for he considered himself a good-looking fellow. When they drove up out of the ravine Anisim kept looking back towards the village.

It was a warm, bright day. The cattle were being driven out for the first time, and the peasant girls and women were walking by the herd in their holiday dresses. The dun-coloured bull bellowed, glad to be free, and pawed the ground with his forefeet. On all sides, above and below, the larks were singing. Anisim looked round at the elegant white church—it had only lately been whitewashed—and he thought how he had been praying in it five days before; he looked round at the school with its green roof, at the little river in which he used once to bathe and catch fish, and there was a stir of joy in his heart, and he wished that walls might rise up from the ground and prevent him from going further, and that he might be left with nothing but the past.

At the station they went to the refreshment room and drank a glass of sherry each. His father felt in his pocket for his purse to pay. The old man, touched and delighted, slapped him on the shoulder, and winked to the waiter as much as to say, "See what a fine son I have got. I would shower gold on you from head to foot, my son. When old Tsybukin returned home from the station, for the first moment he did not recognize his younger daughter-in-law. As soon as her husband had driven out of the yard, Lipa was transformed and suddenly brightened up.

Wearing a threadbare old petticoat, with her feet bare and her sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, she was scrubbing the stairs in the entry and singing in a silvery little voice, and when she brought out a big tub of dirty water and looked up at the sun with her childlike smile it seemed as though she, too, were a lark. On Friday the 8th of July, Elizarov, nicknamed Crutch, and Lipa were returning from the village of Kazanskoe, where they had been to a service on the occasion of a church holiday in the honour of the Holy Mother of Kazan. A good distance after them walked Lipa's mother Praskovya, who always fell behind, as she was ill and short of breath.

It was drawing towards evening. Or I drink it with Varvara Nikolaevna, and she tells some story full of feeling. We have a lot of jam—four jars. We have white bread with our tea; and meat, too, as much as one wants. They live very well, only I am frightened with them, Ilya Makaritch. Oh, oh, how frightened I am! Anisim Grigoritch did nothing, he didn't ill-treat me, only when he comes near me a cold shiver runs all over me, through all my bones. And I did not sleep one night, I trembled all over and kept praying to God.

And now I am afraid of Aksinya, Ilya Makaritch. It's not that she does anything, she is always laughing, but sometimes she glances at the window, and her eyes are so fierce and there is a gleam of green in them—like the eyes of the sheep in the shed. The Hrymin Juniors are leading her astray: Yesterday at dinner Aksinya said to my father-in-law: And Grigory Petrovitch's face darkened, one could see he did not like it.

Fritters were served, she would not eat them. I am frightened with her, Ilya Makaritch. And the Hrymin Juniors did not go to bed after the wedding, but drove to the town to go to law with each other; and folks do say it is all on account of Aksinya. Two of the brothers have promised to build her a brickyard, but the third is offended, and the factory has been at a standstill for a month, and my uncle Prohor is without work and goes about from house to house getting crusts.

They stopped to rest and wait for Praskovya near a copse of young aspen-trees. Elizarov had long been a contractor in a small way, but he kept no horses, going on foot all over the district with nothing but a little bag in which there was bread and onions, and stalking along with big strides, swinging his arms. And it was difficult to walk with him. At the entrance to the copse stood a milestone. Elizarov touched it; read it. Praskovya reached them out of breath. Her wrinkled and always scared-looking face was beaming with happiness; she had been at church to-day like anyone else, then she had been to the fair and there had drunk pear cider.

For her this was unusual, and it even seemed to her now that she had lived for her own pleasure that day for the first time in her life. After resting they all three walked on side by side. The sun had already set, and its beams filtered through the copse, casting a light on the trunks of the trees.

There was a faint sound of voices ahead. The Ukleevo girls had long before pushed on ahead but had lingered in the copse, probably gathering mushrooms. And the echo laughed, too. And then the copse was left behind. The tops of the factory chimneys came into view. The cross on the belfry glittered: Lipa and Praskovya, who had been walking barefooted, sat down on the grass to put on their boots; Elizar sat down with them.

If they looked down from above Ukleevo looked beautiful and peaceful with its willow-trees, its white church, and its little river, and the only blot on the picture was the roof of the factories, painted for the sake of cheapness a gloomy ashen grey. On the slope on the further side they could see the rye—some in stacks and sheaves here and there as though strewn about by the storm, and some freshly cut lying in swathes; the oats, too, were ripe and glistened now in the sun like mother-of-pearl.

To-day was a holiday, to-morrow they would harvest the rye and carry the hay, and then Sunday a holiday again; every day there were mutterings of distant thunder. It was misty and looked like rain, and, gazing now at the fields, everyone thought, God grant we get the harvest in in time; and everyone felt gay and joyful and anxious at heart.

People kept coming and coming from the fair at Kazanskoe: Here a cart would drive by stirring up the dust and behind it would run an unsold horse, and it seemed glad it had not been sold; then a cow was led along by the horns, resisting stubbornly; then a cart again, and in it drunken peasants swinging their legs. An old woman led a little boy in a big cap and big boots; the boy was tired out with the heat and the heavy boots which prevented his bending his legs at the knees, but yet blew unceasingly with all his might at a tin trumpet.

They had gone down the slope and turned into the street, but the trumpet could still be heard. Kostukov is angry with me. As many have gone on it as were needed, Vassily Danilitch; I don't eat them with my porridge. It was I made you a contractor. The next day he was softer. I am a merchant of the first guild, your superior—you ought to hold your tongue. And Saint Joseph was a carpenter, too. Ours is a righteous calling and pleasing to God, and if you are pleased to be my superior you are very welcome to it, Vassily Danilitch.

A merchant of the first guild or a carpenter?