A girl like this simply grows like a flower on a heath, blossoms, fades, withers, and is lost. No more than that. I scarcely tell what I want to say. Oh, how strongly I would whisper it into the inmost heart! Life is not thoughts, is not calm, is not sights, is not reading or music, is not the refinement of the senses,--Life is--life.
This is the great secret. This is the original truth, and if we had never begun to think, we should never have lost our instinctive knowledge. In one place flowers rot and die; in another, bloom and live. The truth is that in this city they rot and die. This is not a suitable place for a strong life; men and women here are too close together, there is not enough room for them, they just spring up thinly and miserably, and can reach no maturity, and therefore wither away. All around are the ill-const.i.tuted, the decaying, the dying.
What chance had fresh life coming into the tainted air of this stricken city--this city where provision is made only for the unhealthy? For here, because something is the matter, every one has begun conscience-dissecting--thinking--and a rumour has got abroad that we live to get thoughts of G.o.d. And because thoughts of G.o.d are novel and comforting, they have been raised up as the great desideratum. And the state of society responsible for the production of these thoughts is considered blessed. The work of intensifying the characteristics of that society is thought blessed, and because in ease we think not, we prefer to live in disease. And the progress of disease we call Progress. So Progress and Thought are subst.i.tuted for Life.
There _is_ a purpose of G.o.d in this city, but there is as much purpose in the desert. There is no astonishingly great purpose. The disease will work itself out. And I know G.o.d"s whole truth to man was revealed long since, and any one of calm soul may know it. The hope of learning the purpose through the ages, the following of the gleam, is the preoccupation of the insane.
What do all these people and this black city want to make of _her_?
She, and ten thousand like her, need life. Life, not thought, or progress, just the same old human life that has always been going on.
The rain was pouring heavily and I took shelter. I felt calmer; I had unpacked myself of words. Rather mournfully I now looked out into the night, and, as it were, ceased to speak to it, and became a listener.
A song of sorrow came from the city, the wailing of mothers uncomforted, of children orphaned, uncared for, of forsaken ones. I heard again the old reproach of the children sitting in the market.
"Here surely," I said, "where so many are gathered together, there is more solitude and lonely grief than in all the wide places of the earth!" Voices came up to me from thousands in a city where thousands of hands were uplifted to take a cup of comfort that cannot be vouchsafed.
Is there a way out for _her_? Is there a way out for them? "For her perhaps, for them not," something whispered within me inexorably. "And Death?" The wind caught up the whisper "death" caressingly and took it away from me over the city, and wove it in and out through all the streets and all the dark lanes, and about the little chimneys, and the windows.
Is there a way out for her?--Perhaps. There are some beings so full of life that even the glutton Death must disgorge them.
III
THE LITTLE DEAD CHILD
In the little town of Gagri on the Caucasian sh.o.r.e of the Black Sea there is a beautiful and wonderful church surviving from the sixth century, a work of pristine Christianity. It is but the size of a cottage, and just the shape of a child"s Noah"s Ark, but made of great rough-hewn blocks of grey stone. One comes upon the building unexpectedly. After looking at Gagri"s ancient ruins, her fortresses, her wall built by Mithridates, one sees suddenly in a shadowy close six sorrowful little cypresses standing absolutely still--like heavily dressed guardsmen--and behind the cypresses and their dark green brooms, the grey wall of the church, solid, eternal. One"s eyes rest upon it as upon a perfect resting-place. If Gagri has an organic life, this church must be its beating heart.
I came to Gagri one Sat.u.r.day afternoon after the first two hundred and fifty miles tramping of my pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and at this little church I witnessed a strange sight. I had hardly admired the grey interior, the bare walls growing into the roof in unbroken curves, the ma.s.sive stone rood-screen, the sorrowful faces in the holy pictures, when a little procession filed into the church; four girls carrying a flower-bedecked coffin, half a dozen elders, and a pack of children carrying candles--a sight at once terrible and diurnal, a child"s funeral.
Russian churches, having no chairs, have the appearance of being almost empty. In the centre of this emptiness at Gagri church two trestles were put up, and the open coffin placed upon them; in the coffin, lying in a bed of fresh flowers and dressed in delicate white garments, was a little dead child. The coffin was perfectly and even marvellously arranged; it would be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful, and at the same time more terrible.
A girl of about four years, she lay in the coffin as in bed, with her head somewhat raised, and the face looking directly at the altar and at the sorrowful pictures; on her head was a cream silk embroidered bonnet, on her forehead, from ear to ear, a paper _riza_ with delicate line drawings of the story of the girl"s angel, St. Olga. A high lighted candle stood at her head, two little ones at each side, and two at her feet. The bonnet and the dress were tied with little bits of pink ribbon; the child"s hands, small, white, all lovely, lay one upon another, and in one of them was a little white cross. The face and arms were the colour of fine grey wax, the lips thin, dark red and set--the little dead girl looked steadfastly at the Ikons.
I stood and wondered. Round about the coffin were a score of people, mostly little children, who every now and then nicked away flies that were about to settle on the dead body. The grey church and its beauty melted away. There was only a little grey wax figure lying poised before the face of Christ, and little children flicking away flies.
Among the flowers in the coffin I noticed a heavy metal cross--it would be buried with her. Hanging over the trestles at each of the four corners were gorgeous hand-embroidered towels. "This is some rich person"s child," I thought as I waited--it was twenty minutes before the father, the mother, and the priest arrived. I was mistaken; this was the child of ordinary peasants.
I wonder the mother was allowed to come to church; she was frantic with grief. When she came into the church she fell down on her knees and hugged the dead body and kissed it and sobbed--sobbed so horribly that except for the children there was no one present who kept dry eyes. The husband stood with his hands dangling at his side, his lips all puckered, his hair awry, and the tears streaming down his red cheeks.
But when the priest came in he took the good woman aside and quieted her, and in his words surely was comfort. "Those who die as children are a.s.sured of that glorious life above, for of them Christ said, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, _for of such is the kingdom of heaven._" Least of all should we grieve when a child dies."
I held a candle with the others and joined in the little service, and when the service was over ate of the boiled rice and grapes that were handed round to save us from evil spirits.
The candles were put out, the priest retired, and then the sobbing broke forth once more, the people crowded round the coffin and one by one kissed the little dead one, kissed her again and again. Most of all the little children kissed her, and the father in distraction stood by, calling out in broken treble, "Say good-bye to her, children, say good-bye!"
Last of all, the wild mother said good-bye, and was only taken away by sheer force. Then the lid was put on the coffin, and the four girls--they were each about twelve years old--lifted it on the embroidered towels and carried it out of the church.
The mother fainted and was taken into the open air, where one woman helped to revive her by pouring water on her head out of an old kettle, and another by drinking water and spurting it out again in her face. Meanwhile the father took eight nails--he had them in his pocket--and with all the crowd looking on, he nailed down the lid of the coffin. The girls once more lifted their burden upon the beautiful towels, and they bore it away to the grave. The crowd followed them with hymns--
All we like dust go down into the grave,
the sound of their singing almost drowned by the beating of their uneven steps. The music modulated and died away to the silence of the evening. The little church remained grey and ancient, and the six cypresses stood unmoved, unmoving, like guards before some sacred portal....
And the pilgrim goes on his way.
IV
HOW THE OLD PILGRIM REACHED BETHLEHEM
At New Athos monastery in one of the common hostels there were some hundred peasant men and women, mostly pilgrims. It was after supper; some of the company were melting away to the dormitories, others remained talking.
There was one topic of conversation common to all. An old greybeard palmer had broken down that afternoon and died. He had been almost his whole life on the road to Jerusalem, and we all felt sad to think that he had been cut off when he was truly nearing the Holy Land.
"He wished to go since he was a little boy," said old Jeremy, an aged pilgrim in a faded crimson shirt. Every one paid respect to Jeremy and listened to him. He was a placid greybeard who had spent all his life upon the road, full of wisdom, gentle as a little child, and very frail.
"He wished to go when he was a little boy--that means he began to go when he was a little boy, for whenever you begin to wish you begin the pilgrimage. After that, no matter where you are, you are sure to be on the way. Up in the north the rivers flow under the earth, and no one sees them. But suddenly the river appears above the land, and the people cry out, "See, the river is flowing to the sea." But it began to go to the sea long ago. So it was with Mikhail. All his life he was a pilgrim. He lived in a distant land. He was born of poor parents, not here, but far away in the Petchora province--oh, far, far away."
Grandfather Jeremy waved his hand to signify how far.
"Four thousand versts at least, and he hasn"t come straight by a long way. Most of the way he walked, and sometimes he got a lift, sometimes a big lift that took him on a long way."
"Ah, ah!" said a youngster sympathetically, "and all in vain, all in vain--_naprasno, naprasno_--"
Jeremy paid no attention.
"Big lifts," his voice quavered. "And now he is there. Yes, now he is there."
"Where, grandfather?"
"There, where he wished to be, in the Holy City. He had got very tired, and G.o.d had mercy on him. G.o.d gave him his last lift. He is there now, long before us."
"I don"t see how you make that out," said a young man, a visitor, not a pilgrim. "G.o.d, I reckon, cheated him."
"G.o.d never cheats," said Jeremy calmly.
"G.o.d..." said the visitor, and was about to raise a discussion and try to convert these pilgrims from their superst.i.tion. But Jeremy interrupted him. For the old man, though a peasant, had a singular dignity.
"Hush! p.r.o.nounce not His name lightly. I will tell you a story."
"Silence now!" cried several. "Hear grandfather"s story!"
The old man then told the story of an aged pilgrim who had died on his way to Jerusalem. I thought he was repeating the story of the life of Mikhail, so like were his present words to those that had gone before.
But the issue was different. In this case the pilgrim died and was buried in a little village near Odessa.