Leskov, Nikolai - Sealed Angel and Other Stories (Tennessee, 1984)

T his book introduces to Nonh
American readers five excep

tional stories by a Russian who
merits comparison with Dosto
evsky, Turgenev, and Tolstoy.
Leskov is imponant as a stylist,
raconteur, and satirist. In addi
tion, he probably knew Russia
better than any other writer of
his age, and his exuberant, color
ful narratives afford insights into
life during the nineteenth cen
tury that remain relevant in the
twentieth.
In "The Sealed Angel," a group
of sectarians ingeniously re
trieves the icon stolen from
them which had provided them
with inspiration. T he tale is dis
tinguished not only by its pace
and suspense but also by its lore
regarding icon painting and the
sectarian way of life. "The Appa
rition in the Engineers' Castle,"
another masterful narrative, is a
ghost story with a subtly stated
moral.
"Robbery," a comedy of errors,
abounds with vivid and amusing
details of life in the provinces.
''The Mountain," the only tale
not set in Russia, derives from
an early Christian legend and en
ables Leskov to explore themes
of sensuality, asceticism, vio
lence, and miracle. In the final
story, ''The Cattle Pen," the
reader perceives the writer of
trenchant satires recounting inci
dents from his own life and
mocking the follies and preten
sions of society.
(Continued on back flap)

The Editor and',nanslator
·K�A. I...int£is auociate professor
of Slavic lailguages and litera
tures at the University of
1bronto.
jacket
Jacket �\
41 t AgrK.r
Ma!garet Groff Agner

THE SEALED ANGEL
and Other Stories
THE
SEALED ANGEL
and Other Stories
by Nikolay Leskov
K. A. LANTZ
Editor and Translator
THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE PRESS I KNOXVILLE

Copyright © 1984 by The University of Tennessee Press I Knoxville.
All Rights Reserved. Manufactured in the United States of America.
The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence

and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines
for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.
Binding materials have been chosen for durability.
Title page illustration: Robert Lyall, navels in Russia, The Caucasus, and
Georgia (London: T. Cadell, 1825), II, 285.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Leskov, N. S. (Nikolai Semenovich), 1 83 1 - 1 895.

"The sealed angel" and other stories.
Translated from the Russian.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Contents: The sealed angel -An apparition in the
engineers' castle -A robbery-The mountain -The
cattle pen.
I. Lantz, K. A. II. Title.
PG3337.L5A33 1984 891. 73'3 83-14547
ISBN 0-87049-411-2
CONTENTS
Introduction vii
The Sealed Angel 3
An Apparition in
the Engineers' Castle 73
A Robbery 88
The Mountain 131
The Cattle Pen 210
Bibliographical Note 247
Index 249
INTRODU CTION
Readers who insist on labelling

authors will be frustrated by Nikolay Leskov (1831-1895). He does
not fit easily into any literary school, and his writings seldom fol
low the prevailing literary conventions of his day. At a time when
the most respected literary form was the long psychological or ideo
logical novel, Leskov's successes as a novelist were few; his impres
sive talents as a storyteller, however, led him to create a dazzling
variety of shorter works. The nineteenth-century novel had focused
on the fate of the landowning gentry of central Russia; Leskov's
stories are often set in some remote backwater populated by sly mer
chants, wandering sectarians, saintly fools, country clergymen,
earthy peasants, righteous soldiers, and, to borrow the title of one
of his best-known works, "enchanted pilgrims." The language of the
mainstream literature of the nineteenth century was essentially that
of the educated upper class; one of Leskov's greatest gifts was his
amazing ability to reproduce in print the spoken language, a language
specifically identifiable as non-standard by its archaisms, malaprop
isms, comically mangled foreign words, jargon, and dialect forms.
Leskov's origins, unlike those of his writer-contemporaries who
were almost all landowning gentry, also make him difficult to label.
His paternal ancestors had for generations been clergy, but his fa
ther broke with tradition, entered the civil service, and eventually
earned minor gentry status. Leskov's mother's family was predomi
nantly of merchant stock.
He was raised in and around the south central Russian town of
Oryol and attended school there for five years, until cutting short
his formal education in 1847 to enter the civil service. His work
in the Oryol law courts and later in the recruiting bureau for the
tsarist army in Kiev proved not to his taste: in 1857 he left to join
a private firm, Scott and Wilkins.
viii "THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
Alexander Scott, a transplanted Briton and Leskov's uncle by mar

riage, left a deep impression on the future writer. He, or some fic
tionalized version of him, appears in several of Leskov's works as
an upright, energetic, practical man and an independent thinker who
represented something of an ideal for the young Leskov. Scott's firm
was involved in managing estates for wealthy landowners, as well
as in a whole range of agriculturally-based enterprises- Leskov men
tions the cultivation of sugar beets, distilling, lumbering, and the
manufacture of barrel staves and parquet flooring. But much of Les
kov's work involved resettling peasants from densely-populated Cen
tral Russia to newly-opened lands on the fringes of Russia proper.
For three years he travelled widely, visiting many of Russia's obscure
comers, meeting people of many nationalities and classes, and col
lecting impressions and anecdotes that provided him with the raw
material for the writings that were to become his life work. The firm
of Scott and Wilkins fell on hard times, however, and in 1860 he left
it to take some tentative steps toward a career in journalism. In 1861
he moved to St. Petersburg, the city that was to remain his home
for the rest of his life, and became a full-time journalist and writer.
St. Petersburg in the 1860s was the capital of a society in fer
ment. The semi-medieval system of Nicholas I, with its rigid struc
ture and Prussian discipline, had been thoroughly discredited by
Russia's surprising military defeat in the Crimea in 1855. A new and
more tolerant atmosphere under Nicholas's successor, Alexander II,
the obvious need for thorough-going social and economic reforms,
the influx of new political and social ideas from Europe, and the
easing of censorship restrictions combined to provoke a fervent and
often violent debate on the sins of the old regime and on the changes
required to regenerate Russian society. The debate was carried on
in the periodical press, and "the sixties" represented the heyday of
Russian journalism. Battle lines were soon drawn by radicals, liber
als, and conservatives - all of them rallying around their own jour
nals where they shrilly argued their cases and vigorously attacked
their opponents.
Into this highly-charged atmosphere, crackling with ideals, hopes,
and antagonisms came Leskov, a man whose own ideas were derived
more from practical experience than from the universities and dis
cussion circles where his colleagues' views had been formed. Al
though initially not unsympathetic to the radicals, his relations with
them quickly soured and remained so for the rest of his life. The
immediate cause of friction was a somewhat ambiguously-worded
newspaper editorial Leskov composed on a series of mysterious and
INTRODUCTION ix
devastating fires that broke out in St. Petersburg in May 1862. The
editorial was interpreted by those on the left as an accusation that
the fires had been set by radical students. Such was the temper of
the times that Leskov overnight became anathema to both radicals
and liberals, who accused him of setting the government against the
students. Rumors circulated that he was an agent of the Third Sec
tion, the tsarist secret police and, Leskov claims, threats were made
on his life. He was not one to shy away from a fight, however. After
a three-month trip to Europe he returned to settle accounts with
his former allies. His revenge took the form of a novel, No Way Out
(1864) in which he mercilessly satirized some of the leading figures
and cherished ideas of the radical movement. To exacerbate mat
ters, many characters ridiculed in the novel were so thinly disguised
that the reading public could easily identify their prototypes.
The storm over his editorial of May 1862 might otherwise have
subsided of itself, but with the publication of No Way Out it broke
over his head with renewed force. Leskov was reviled in print and
in person. A radical critic, Dmitry Pisarev, called upon right-thinking
journals to boycott the works of Leskov, and on right-thinking writ
ers to boycott journals in which Leskov's works appeared. The af
fair left a lasting scar. Years later in writings that have no direct con
nection with the radicals of the sixties Leskov managed to find space
to pillory the "nihilists." Andrey Leskov, the writer's son and biogra
pher, remarks that even in the 1880s his father would work himself
into a temper whenever he recalled the storm around No Way Out.
And although the literary boycott was not universally observed, for
many years thereafter Leskov had real difficulty in finding publish
ers for his writings. The most serious effect, however, was to destroy
Leskov's reputation as a serious and "respectable" writer in the eyes
of the critics. Although he was widely read during his lifetime, only
in the last years was he given any sort of serious critical appraisal,
and even then his significance was vastly underrated.
From 1869 to 1874 Leskov did find a somewhat uneasy ally in
Mikhail Katkov, influential conservative, sharp critic of the govern
ment of Alexander II, and a highly successful publisher. Katkov's
Russian Messenger had published much of the best of nineteenth
century Russian literature, and it was here that Leskov published
two of his best works, ''The Sealed Angel," and his novel Cathedral
Folk. Although Leskov's reputation as a nihilist-basher led the con
servatives to see him as a champion of their cause, he was not at
ease in their camp. His writings became increasingly concerned with
Russian society's drift to the right, and it was not long before he was
X "THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
stepping on the toes of the conservatives. He broke with Katkov in

1874, severing his link with the right but remaining a pariah in the
eyes of the left.
Once again Leskov was left in the cold and was forced to publish
in those second-rate journals and newspapers that would accept him.
At the same time he was undergoing something of a spiritual cri
sis, and was making a thorough examination of his life and beliefs.
He had always been intrigued with religious figures, and indeed, his
novel Cathedral Folk ( 1872) offers the first detailed and sympathetic
portrayal of Russian Orthodox clergy in literature. But the estab
lished church in Russia was then the close ally, and in fact the hand
maiden, of the tsarist government and the conservative establish
ment. The religious faith to which Leskov subscribed after 1875 had
more in common with Protestantism than with Orthodoxy, although
he certainly never lost his fascination with the traditions and the
lore of the Orthodox church.
His new views on religion were reflected in his fiction. In the late
seventies and eighties he produced a series of tales of "righteous
men," isolated figures based on historical prototypes whose conduct,
although scarcely orthodox, was deeply moral and was, Leskov im
plies, much closer to the true spirit of Christianity than were the
practices of the Orthodox church. At the same time he wrote a series
of cleverly disguised but scathing anti-clerical satires. His attacks
on the church led to new crises: in 1883 he was unceremoniously
dismissed from his post in the Ministry of Education, and in 1889
Volume 6 of his Collected Works was confiscated by the censor and
burnt. As part of his critique of established religion Leskov returned
to some of the sources of the Christian tradition and in the eighties
wrote a series of tales set in the early centuries of the Christian
world. T hese also managed to suggest the departure of organized re
ligion from the essence of Christianity.
The central figure in Leskov's last years was the dominant moral
ist of the age, Leo Tolstoy. The two writers' religious beliefs had much
in common, although Leskov had arrived at his even earlier than
Tolstoy. Leskov was gratified to find such a powerful ally, and his
attitude to Tolstoy borders on worship. Almost all his writings in
the last decade of his life show some traces of Tolstoy's influence.
Yet Leskov was by no means Tolstoyan by nature, as he himself
acknowledged. He was an irascible, proud, difficult man, fond of lux
ury and scarcely a pacifist, vegetarian, and ascetic Tolstoyan. In the
final years of his life he largely abandoned moralistic tales in the
spirit of Tolstoy and returned to one of the things he did best, satire.
INTRODUCTION xi
He produced a number of sly and often bitter satires of Russian so
ciety, paying particular attention to the various manifestations of
conservatism and nationalism that now prevailed. Once again he
was an outcast: ironically, relentlessly liberal editors now found
themselves reluctant to publish Leskov's writings not because of
their supposed conservatism but because of their excessive liberality.
Leskov's position as an outsider was a source of his strength and
originality as a writer. His uneasiness with the prevailing literary
conventions led him to create new genres ("legend," "chronicle," "sur
vey," "novel-chronicle," "pot-pourri," "paysage et genre,""revue") more
suited to his literary temperament. His independence from the ideo
logical groupings of his day gave him a better vantage point from
which to criticize his society. His years of travel and experience out
side purely literary circles enabled him to introduce new settings
into his works and to create some highly original characters.
Although Leskov has earned a sizable niche in the pantheon of
Russian literature, there is still some uncertainty about where to
'
locate it. Literary historians most commonly acknowledge him as
the foremost practitioner of orally-structured narrative (skaz) and<
place him within a tradition of stylists who were fascinated with'
the language itself, beginning with the "artistic philologists" (Boris
Eikhenbaum's term) such as Vladimir Dal and Alexander Weltmann:
and continuing into the "ornamental prose" of Alexey Remizov, An
drey Bely, and Evgeny Zamyatin in the twentieth century.
But his significance is not limited to style alone: Leskov is one
of Russia's great satirists. His " Laughter and Grief " (still untrans
lated), ''A Will of Iron," "Little Things in Bishops' Lives," "Night Owls,"
"The Cattle Pen," and "A Winter's Day" cover the whole spectrum
of satire from good-natured ribbing to bitter invective, and expertly
puncture some of his countrymen's most cherished illusions about
themselves. To sneak his satires past a vigilant censor he developed
what he called his "sly manner'': an apparently innocuous work aim
ed at some obvious target heartily condemned by every right
thinking citizen suddenly "ricochets'' (another favorite Leskov term)
to explode in the faces of those applauding most vigorously.
Leskov is also a great storyteller, an art in which he has few ri
vals in Russian literature. His well-made plots are full of exciting
incident, and his sheer delight in narrative itself has enriched Rus
sian literature and broadened its scope. As Jean-Claude Marcade has
noted, Leskov's innovations in the art of narration (as well as his fas
cination with linguistic play) anticipate major "modem " trends in
twentieth-century literature (Translator's Preface in N.S. Leskov,
xii "THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
Lady Macbeth au village, L.:Ange scelle et autres nouvelles [Paris:

Gallimard, 1982], 17).
Leskov expanded the range of Russian literature in yet another
way. He probably knew Russia better than any major writer of his
day; not merely the Russia of the westernized urban-dweller and the
genteel landowner, but the backwoods Russia of the sectarian, the
merchant, the soldier, the priest, and the wanderer. This, Leskov
would argue, is the real Russia, and he advised young writers to dis
cover it for themselves by leaving St. Petersburg's Nevsky Prospect
to work along the Ussuri in Siberia, or on the steppes of the south.
His quest for the best and the worst in the Russian character led
him to gather both his band of "righteous men" and create his gal
lery of engaging scoundrels. Perhaps Leskov's greatest achievement
is that he captured Russia in the raw by fixing so vividly those per
sisting traits that define his countrymen for better or for worse.
Variety is another characteristic of Leskov's writings, and it is all
but impossible to find a typical work. The five translations here pro
vide a good sampling of the types of stories he wrote and reveal some
of his major concerns. "The Sealed Angel" testifies to Leskov's skill
as a storyteller and is also a tribute to the art and the traditions of
icon painting; ''A Robbery" is essentially an anecdote skillfully spun
out to create an absorbing story and to evoke a vanished way of life.
Both demonstrate one of Leskov's favorite techniques, that of tell
ing a story in the words of a narrator who is a vivid character in his
own right and whose very individual and sometimes peculiar point
of view is reflected in his distinctive language. "An Apparition in
the Engineers' Castle" is a Christmas story and a model of its kind;
''The Mountain" is one of the best of his legends set in the ancient
world; and finally ''The Cattle Pen," presented, as is often the case
with Leskov, as fragments from his autobiography, is typical of the
stinging satires of his last years.
Every translator of Leskov should begin with an apology, an apol
ogy both to the reader and to the memory of the writer himself, who
would not be amused by attempts to tamper with his prose. Put
ting Leskov into an English which reflects the richness of his style
is more than a formidable task, it is probably impossible. Consider
''The Sealed Angel," the story in this collection that is most resis
tant to translation. English has rough parallels for the various ele
ments that make up the narrator's language-the majestically ar
chaic expressions, the pithy colloquialisms, the odd regionalisms
that Leskov delighted in rescuing from obscurity. When Leskov puts
these diverse strata together the result is a Russian that lives and
INTRODUCTION xiii
breathes and soars; when a translator tries to do the same, his English
is likely to sound contrived or grotesque. The vivid language of Les
kov's narrator brings to life a character whose point of view simply
has no equivalent in English. One might make a very distant and
far-fetched approximation by imagining, say, a Quaker who has some
how miraculously escaped the influence of twentieth-century media,
literature, and education while working as a New York longshore
man. He tells a story in a language derived from the King James Bible,
the seventeenth-century English of George Fox, dockworkers' jargon,
and a half-dozen other sources. Such an exotic specimen, if one could
imagine him at all, would sound impossibly bizarre; but Leskov's
Mark Alexandrov is not bizarre in the least: he is a full-blooded and
attractive character who speaks with the authentic voice of a cul
ture that was rapidly disappearing in his own day. Through his story
he recreates the way of life that existed before Peter the Great's at
tempts to westernize Russia in the eighteenth century. Mark Alex
androv's story thus evokes a certain nostalgia in the Russian ear, a
nostalgia that English speakers, products of a very different tradi
tion, cannot fully share. Such barriers are less formidable in the other
stories. Still the greatest difficulty in translating Leskov lies in the
fact that he is the most Russian of Russian writers; when we listen
to his narrators we come close to hearing the voice of old Russia.
The translations have been made from the text of Leskov's So
branie socinenij, 11 vols., (Moscow: Xudozestvennaja literatura,
1956-58). References to this edition are cited using only volume and
page number.
Specialists have cause to object that the transliteration of Rus
sian names is inconsistent. Here the aim has been to facilitate mat
ters for the non-specialist rather than to maintain strict consistency.
Material in the Notes and Bibliographical Note is transliterated ac
cording to J. Thomas Shaw, The Transliteration of Modern Russian
for English-Language Publications (Madison, Wise.: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1967), System III.
I am indebted to the University of Toronto for a grant-in-aid of
research for the Notes. Most of this research was done at the Uni
versity of Illinois Summer Research Laboratory, and I am grateful
for having the opportunity to use their excellent library. Hugh Mc
Lean read the translations and made many valuable suggestions to
improve them; he should, of course, be absolved from any sins that
remain. Thanks are also due to Erindale College, University of To
ronto, for the use of word-processing facilities, and to Pat Hynek who
coped admirably with preparing the manuscript.
THE SEALED ANGEL
and Other Stories
Preface to THE S EALED ANGEL
"The Sealed Angel" was written in 1872 and published

in January of 1873 as a Christmas story. Leskov wrote a n um ber
of Christmas stories, staying loosely within the conventions of a
genre he once described as follows: ':A Christmas story must with
out fail be set on an evening of the Christmas season - between
Christmas Day and Epiphany; there must be an element of the su
pernatural; it m ust have some sort of moral, even if it only con
sists in dispelling some harmful prejudice; and finally, it absolutely
must have a happy ending" (7:433).
Leskov had also written both fiction and non-fiction about the
Old Believers, those dissenters who had refused to accept innova
tions and reforms in the Orthodox church in the mid-seventeenth
century and who obstinately kept to their old ways, periodically
undergoing persecution for doing so. Leskov's attitude toward the
Old Believers was mixed: he admired their stubborn persistence
in preserving their faith and with it m uch of the old Russian cul
ture; yet he was aware that the very virtue of tenacity that enabled
them to survive often became exaggerated into a vice, leading to
petty dogmatism and fanaticism that turned in on itself and bit
terly resisted change in any form.
Icon painting was another subject that had long interested Les
kov, and he was both a connoisseur of the art and an avid collec
tor. He was in a minority here, as in so many other things, for he
lived in an age that was only beginning to appreciate the esthetics
of the icon. He was particularly taken with the Old Believers' icons,
since they had remained untouched by the Western influences that
had crept into the art of the official church in the later seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries. Leskov claims to have composed "The
Sealed Angel" in the studio of an old icon painter, Nikita Rachey
skov, and he shows an impressive knowledge of the technique. A
4 "THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
brief description of that technique should clarify several sections

of the story.
The artist chose a well-seasoned board (or several boards for a
larger icon), the central portion of which had been hollowed out,
leaving a border of wood around the edges. Canvas was usually
laid in this central part, and then a gesso ground made of chalk
or powdered alabaster and glue was applied in thin layers, leaving
a smooth, hard surface. The painter, as Leskov's Sebastian explains,
worked from a pattern book which specified the color scheme, gen
eral composition, and basic physical traits of the main figures on
the icon. Once the preliminary sketch was made the colors were
applied. These were traditionally egg tempera diluted with kvas,
a form of mild beer. A coat of drying oil or varnish made of flax
seed or olive oil was applied to the finished icon. Finally, a metal
moun ting of silver or gold sometimes studded with precious stones
was provided, at least for especially treasured icons. This mount
ing covered the background, exposing only the hands and faces of
the figures but reproducing the icon's background in low relief.
Like so many of Leskov's stories, "The Sealed Angel" is told by
a specific narrator in his own particular language. The character
of this narrator, Mark Alexandrovich, is an important factor in the
story. Mark has been brought up in the "old faith" and still preserves
some of the characteristic narrow-mindedness of the dissenters. He
modestly disclaims any pretence to education, yet it is obvious that
he is a man steeped in his own culture and widely read in Scrip
ture and in the traditional literature of old Russia. A superb story
teller, he has the gift of expressing himself with color and preci
sion. His language is an incredibly rich mixture of majestic Biblical
phrases, pithy popular expressions, archaisms, a few mangled for
eign terms, and technical vocabulary from icon painting and stone
masonry. It is a spoken rather than a written language, with its
breathlessly extended sentences, interjections, qualifications, and
changes in tone; its appeal is to the ear rather than to the eye. One
has no difficulty in accepting the fiction that he could hold an au
dience enthralled by his tale until sunrise.
Leskov makes a plea to cherish the art and traditions of old Rus
sia, even while urging his readers away from narrow-minded chau
vinism. He also makes a case for the inspirational qualities of art,
and for the capacity of the best art to lead men to discover and tran
scend the self.
"The Sealed Angel" first appeared in Katkov's Russian Messen
ger, No. 1, (1873) and in separate editions in 1874 and 188Z
THE SEALED
ANGEL
Chapter I
It happened at Christmas-tide, on St. Vasily's Eve.1
The weather suddenly let loose its full fury. A blizzard with a cruel
ground wind, one of those storms for which the winters on the trans
Volga steppes are notorious, had forced a crowd of people into a lonely
coaching inn that stood solitary on the flat and boundless steppe.
Landowners, merchants and peasants, Russian, Mordvin and Chu
vash found themselves pressed together in a single throng. Observ
ing the proprieties of class and rank in such lodgings was out of the
question. It was cramped whichever way one turned: some people
were drying out their clothes, others were trying to warm themselves,
while others were seeking some tiny spot to settle for the night. Sti
fling heat and dense vapor from the wet clothing hung in the air
of the dark, low-ceilinged, overcrowded hut. There was not an un
occupied spot to be seen anywhere: people were lying on all the sleep
ing platforms, on the stove, on the benches and even on the filthy
earthen floor. The landlord, a stern peasant, displayed little joy at
either his guests or his profits. After angrily slamming the gate be
hind the latest sleigh to reach the inn, a sleigh containing two mer
chants, he locked the yard entrance. When he had hung the key un
der the icon case, he announced firmly:
"Well, I don't care who comes along now; he can beat his head
against the gates, but I won't open up. "
But barely had he uttered these words, removed his capacious
sheepskin coat, crossed himself in the ancient two-fingered man
ner and prepared to crawl up on the warm stove, when a timid hand
tapped at the window.
'' Whds there?" called the landlord in a loud and exasperated voice.
''We, " came the muffled reply from outside.
''Well? What d'you want now?"
6 11THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
"Let us in, for the sake of Christ. We've lost our way . . . we're
frozen through. "
"Are there many of you?"
''Not many. Eighteen in all, just eighteen," said the man outside
the window, stammering, teeth chattering and evidently chilled to
the bone.
"I've got nowhere to put you. The place is already stuffed with
people. "
" Just let us warm ourselves a bit!"
'' Who are you?"
" Carters. "
''Empty or loaded?"
''Loaded, friend. We're hauling hides."
" Hides! Hides, you say!And you're begging me to let you spend
the night inside. The kind of people you run across in Holy Russia!
Clear off!"
''But what are they to do?" asked a traveller lying beneath a bear
skin coat on one of the upper benches.
''They can pile up the hides and sleep under 'em, that's what, " an
swered the landlord as he lay down immobile on the stove,roundly
cursing the carters once more.
The traveller under the bearskin coat reproached the landlord
most energetically for his heartlessness, but the latter did not favor
his remarks with the least reply. Instead, however, a slight, reddish
haired man with a sharp, wedge-shaped beard spoke up from the far
comer.
"Do not blame the landlord, good sir, " he said, ''he speaks from
experience and what he says is true: they11 come to no harm if
they've got the hides. "
" Really?" came the questioning response from the traveller under
the bearskin.
''It's quite safe, sir, and even better for them not to be let in. "
'' Why is that?"
''Because they have got a useful experience out of it; and now if
some other helpless soul finds his way here there will be a spot for
him. "
" W ho else would the Devil bring here?" said the man with the
bearskin.
''Listen here now, " spoke up the landlord, "don't talk nonsense.
Do you think the Evil One would send anyone here when we have
a holy object like this? Don't you see the icon of the Savior,and the
image of the Mother of God?"
Leskov: THE SEALED ANGEL 7
"True enough, " agreed the reddish-haired man. "It's not the wicked
Ethiop that leads a man whds been saved, but one of God's angels
that guides him."
"Well I must say I've never seen that happen. When I think of the
miserable state I'm in here I can't believe it was my angel that brought
me to it, " answered the garrulous man with the bearskin.
The landlord only spat angrily, while the little redhead affably
remarked that not everyone could see the angel's path, and that only
a genuine man of experience could truly comprehend it.
"You speak as if you had such an experience yourself, " said the
man with the bearskin.
" Indeed I did, sir. "
"Well tell me, now, did you see the angel, and did he lead you?"
"Yes sir, I saw him, and he guided me. "
"Come now, you're not serious. "
"May God preserve me from joking about a thing like that!"
"Well what exactly did you see?How did the angel appear to you?"
"That, sir, is a goodly story in itself. "
"Well, since there's absolutely no way we11 get any sleep here, you
might do us the kindness of telling that story. "
"If you wish."
"Go ahead and tell us, please; we're listening. But you needn't get
down on your knees. Come over here. Maybe we can squeeze over
a bit and you can sit down with us. "
''No thank you, good sirs. Why should I crowd you? And besides,
the tale I am about to tell you is one which is more seemly to relate
while on my knees, since it concerns a matter most sacred and even
awesome. "
"As you wish, but please get on with your story. How was it that
you saw an angel, and what did he do for you?"
"All right, sirs, I shall begin."
Chapter II
I am, as you no doubt can see, a man of not much
account-no more than a peasant, really, and I got a most coun
trified sort of education such as you'd expect for a man of my
position. I'm not of these parts, but come from far away, a
stonemason by trade, and I was born in the old Russian faith. I
was an orphan and so even as a child I started going off on sea
sonal work with the lads of our village. I worked in many differ
ent places but always in the same work-group headed by our
own peasant Luka Kirilov. This Luka Kirilov is alive even to this
day, and he is our very best contractor. His farmstead is an an
cient one begun by his forefathers. Luka never wasted his sub
stance but increased it manyfold, and laid up rich and abundant
stores of grain. But he was, and is now, a fine man who never
wronged another. And the places we wandered with him! We
must have tramped the whole of Russia, and nowhere did I see
a better or steadier boss than he. And we lived with him as
with a good and gentle father, for he gave us both employment
in our trade and instruction in our faith. We travelled about
from job to job with him just as the Hebrews of old wandered
in the wilderness with Moses, and we even had our own taber
nacle with us and we were never paned from it. I mean to say
that we took our own " b lessing from God " along with us. Luka
Kirilov had a powerful love for the holy icon and he had, my
dear sirs, icons of all the most marvellous sort: ones of the
most exquisite and ancient craft, either genuine Greek ones or
those of the earliest Novgorod or Stroganov painters.2 One icon
outshone another not so much by the richness of its metal
mounting as by the clarity and fluency of its wondrous an.
Never since have I seen such sublime things!
And there were icons of every son and subject: the Deeisis,
the Savior ''Not-Made-By-Hands'' with washed hair, the holy fa
thers, martyrs and apostles; and most wondrous of all were the
icons with many figures showing scenes from the Bible such as
the Indiction, the Holy Festivals, the Last Judgement, Calendar
icons, the Congregations, the Triune God, the Hexameron, the
Healers, the Septarium, the Old Testament Trinity with Abra
ham bowing before the angels by the oak of Mamre-in shon,
there was grandeur such that one finds not the words to tell of
it; and icons the like of which no one can paint anywhere now
adays, neither in Moscow nor Petersburg nor Palekh; and
Greece, of course, one scarcely needs to mention since the an
has long been lost there.3 We all loved these holy things of ours
with a passionate love, and together we burned the holy oil be
fore them. And at the expense of our whole group we kept a
horse and a special vehicle in which we took this blessing from
God along with us in two large trunks wherever we went. But
there were two icons that we kept separately. One of them was
the work of the royal Moscow masters and was painted from a
Greek original: the Holy Virgin is praying in a garden and all
the trees, the cypresses and the olivers, I think they're called,
are bowing down to the ground before her. And the other one
was a guardian angel, Stroganov work. I can't find the words to
tell you what art there was in both these holy things! You look
at the Holy Virgin and see how those soulless trees are bowing
down before her purity, and your heart melts and trembles
within you; and what a joy it was to gaze upon the angel! This
angel verily was something indescribable. His countenance, as I
see it now, is most radiantly divine and swift to succor, as we
say; his gaze is tender; his ears are with ribands as a sign of his
ability to hear in all places and directions; his raiment burns
with light, his robes glitter with golden ornaments, his armor is
of mail, his shoulders begirt; on his bosom is an image of the
child Emmanuel; in his right hand he bears a cross and in his
left a flaming sword. A marvel it was to see, good sirs, a marvel
indeed! The hair on his wee head is a light brown and each sin
gle hair has been traced out with a needle. His wings are spread
and are white as snow, and the undersides are bright azure and
each feather painted separately so you can make out every sin
gle barb in each tuft of feather. When you look at those wings
every bit of your fear just vanishes away: you pray " Guard me in
Thy bosom'' and at once calm falls over you and peace comes
into your soul. That was an icon indeed!
And these icons were for us just the same as their Holy of
Holies, adorned by the wondrous art of Bezaleel, was for the
Jews.4 All of those icons I told you about earlier on were taken
by horse in a special trunk, but we wouldn't put these two on
the cart; we carried them ourselves. The Holy Virgin was always
with Luka Kirilov's helpmeet Mikhailitsa, while Luka himself
kept the image of the angel on his breast. He had a special wal
let made for the icon out of brocade sewn on dark, heavy cotton
with a button, and on the front of it was a crimson cross made
of genuine damask, and a stout green silken cord was sewn to
the top so as to pass round his neck. And so the icon was kept
in this manner and went ahead of us everywhere on Luka's
breast, just as if the angel himself were leading the way. We
used to go from place to place to new jobs on the steppes with
Luka Kirilov leading the way, waving the measuring rod he car
ried in place of a staff, and after him Mikhailitsa on the cart
with the icon of the Mother of God, and then the rest of us
stepping along behind them. And with the grasses agrowing in
the fields and flowers in the meadows, sheep grazing here and
there, and a shepherd playing on his pipe, it was simply delight
for the mind and for the heart! Everything went wonderfully
well for us and amazing fortune we had in all we did: we always
found good work; we lived in harmony with one another; news
from our families at home was always reassuring. And for all
this we gave thank s to the angel that went before us. And it
seemed to us that we'd part with our lives with les s pain than
with this wonderful icon.
Now could you conceive of any way we might lose this most
precious holy thing of ours? But all the while there was just
such a misery awaiting us, and one that had been prepared, as
we later realized, not by human guile but by the providence of
our very own guide and protector himself. It was he who
brought abuse upon himself so that holy sorrow might befall us,
thus to show us the true path before which all of the paths we
had travelled unto that hour were but a thicket dark and track
less. But tell me, good sirs, do you find my tale diverting and I
am not perhaps burdening your attention in vain?
"Of course not! Not at all! Please be so kind as to continue, "
we exclaimed, our interest aroused by the story.
"Well then, I'll do so and begin to relate as best I'm able the
wondrous wonders the angel worked over us. "
Chapter III
We arrived to do a big job near a big city on some
big flowing waters, the River Dnieper, it was, for to build there
the big and now quite famous stone bridge.5 The city stands on
the steep right bank, and we found our stopping place on the
lower, flat, left bank. And that whole wondrous panearama was
spread out in front of us: ancient temples, holy monasteries
with many holy relics; lush orchards and trees such as are
painted in the illuminated letters in the ancient books-those
sharp-pointed poplars, I mean. You look at all of this and feel
just as if someone is pinching at your heart, such is the beauty
of it. You know, of course, that we're simple people, yet we still
are sensible of the beauty of God's own creation.
And so we took such a terrible love for this spot that on the
very first day we began to build us a temporary dwelling place
right there. First we drove in some long piles because the
ground was low, being right alongside of the water, and then
started to make ready a chamber atop those piles with a store
room adjoining to it. In the chamber we placed all of our holy
objects as was required by the laws of our fathers: along one
wall we set out a folding iconostasis with three levels-the first
reverence row for the big icons and the upper two rows for the
smaller ones, arranged like stairs leading to the crucifix on the
very top. And the angel we placed on the lectern from which
Luka Kirilov read us the Scripture. Luka Kirilov and Mikhailitsa
settled in the storeroom, while we set up a little barrack for our
selves nearby. Other folk who had come here to work for a long
time saw what we were doing and lo! around us grew up our own
little temporary town on piles right across from the mighty city
itself. We set to our work, and everything went as it should: the
money for the crew was always on time in the Englishmen's of
fice; the Lord sent us such good health that not one of us was
sick for the whole of the summer; and Luka's Mikhailitsa even
started complaining: " I'� she says, "am not much pleased at the
way the stoutness is a creepin' into all of my members." What we
Old Believers especially liked about the place was that at a time
when we were everywhere being oppressed for our faith, here we
found freedom. Here were no city officials, nor any district ones,
nor any priests; we saw no one and no concerned himself with
our religion nor hindered it. We worshipped in full freedom: we
would work our assigned hours and then we gather in the
chamber where all of our holy objects are shining so from the
light of many icon lamps that our hearts are just set aflame.
Luka Kirilov reads the prayers of thanksgiving, and we all join
and raise such a hosanna that at times of still weather we can
be heard far beyond our settlement. And our faith gave offense
to no one, and it even seemed to suit the way of worship of
many folk and found favor not only among simple people who
were inclined to honor God in the old Russian manner, but
among other faiths as well. A good many of those of the church
faith, being of pious nature but not having the time to cross the
river to go to church, would stand beneath our windows listen
ing and would begin offering up prayers themselves. We made
no move to prohibit those outside: we could not drive them all
away because even the foreigners, who took an interest in the
old Russian manner of worship, came more than once to listen
to our singing and esteemed it. The chief builder among the
Englishmen, Yakov Yakovlevich, he would even come and stand
beneath our window with a piece of paper, trying as best he could
to write down our singing by notes; and then he'd be walking
round the work site humming away to himself in our manner
"For the Lord hath appeared to us/' but of course it all came out
different when he did it because the kind of singing that we
mark by "hooks" is impossible to catch absolutely perfectly by
those new western-style notes they have.6 The English, to do
them credit, are a trustworthy and pious people, and they liked
us very much and held that we were good folk and praised us.
And so it put it short, you can see that the angel of the Lord
had led us to a good place and opened unto us all the hearts of
the people and all the glorious panearama of creation.
And in just this same peaceable spirit as I described to you
did we live for near unto three years. We had good fortune in
everything, and successes poured out upon us as from the Horn
o' Plenty; then suddenly we beheld that in our midst were two
vessels chosen by God for our punishment. One of them was the
blacksmith Maroy and the other the tally-man, Pimen Ivanov.
Maroy was a simple soul who couldn't even read or write, a rare
thing to find among the Old Believers. But he was an uncom
mon fellow: clumsy in appearance, like unto the drumbledary
camel he was, and bebosomed like the wild boar-his chest
alone was the compass of man's arms and half again-and his
forehead all overgrown with thick, shaggy locks just like the
mermecolion of old, while on his very crown was shaved a tonsure. 7
His speech was dull and scarcely to be made out, as if he were
chewing on his words; and his mind was dim, and he was so in
competent at everything that he was not even able to learn his
prayers by memory but would just go on repeating one same word
of his own again and again. But he had premonitions about the
future and had the gift of prophesy and would give us inklings
of things that later came to pass. Pimen, on the other hand, was
a fancy sort of a fellow: he loved showing off and talked with such
a cunning twisting of words that you could only marvel at his
speech. And so he was a man of so me charm with free and easy
ways. Maroy was a man of years, beyond seventy he was, while
Pimen was in his prime and an elegant man too: he had curly hair
parted in the middle, fluffy brows, and rosy cheeks. A son of Be
lial, in short. 8 And so it was in these two vessels that the vinegary
sour brew we were fated to swallow suddenly began to ferment.
Chapter IV
The bridge we were building on eight granite piers
had already grown up high above the water, and in the summer
of the fourth year we began fixing iron chains to these pillars.
But we met with a little hold-up here: we had begun sorting out
the links and measuring the steel rivets to fit each clevis when
it turned out that many of the bolts were too long and would
have to be cut. But each bolt was made of that Iglish steel rod,
and all of them cast in England from the strongest steel and
thick as the arm of a grown man. We couldn't heat the bolts, for
then they would lose their temper, and there was no sort of a
saw as could make a mark on them. But our blacksmith Maroy
thought up a way to do the job right quickly: over the place
where the bolt was to be cut he plasters a mixture of heavy axle
grease and gravelly sand, shoves the whole affair into some
snow, even sprinkles salt round it, twists and turns it, then on
to a hot anvil, bangs it with a sledgehammer and the whole
things snaps like a wax candle, clean as if you'd cut it with a
scissors. All those Englishmen and Germans came round to
look at the marvel our cunning old Maroy had wrought. They
look on, all goggle-eyed, then suddenly burst out laughing and
start to talking amongst themselves, first in their own language
and then at last they say in our language:
" So, Russky! You good fellow; you much good understand
fizik!"
And what sort of "fizik" could Maroy understand: he didn't
have even a smattering of an idea about science and all; he just
did the thing inasmuch as the Lord had granted him wisdom.
But still our Pimen Ivanov went off to brag on it. And so it
went badly both ways: some people owned it all up to science,
about which our Maroy knew not a whit, while others said
'twas clear enough that God's grace was working miracles
amongst us the like of such they had never seen. And this last
thing was more bitter for us than the first.
I was telling you how Pimen Ivanov was a man of weak
nesses and a voluptuary, and now I want to explain why it was
that we still kept him in our work group. He was the one who
used to make trips into the city to buy food and whatever else
we needed; we would send him to the post office to send our
old passports and money back home and to collect the new
passports again. On the whole, he used to do such things that,
to tell you the truth, made him quite important in his own way,
even very useful. Your real steady Old Believer, of course, always
shuns vain doings and flees from contact with any officials, for
all we've had from them has been trouble, but Pimen was quite
happy at that sort of vanity and he had gotten up a sizeable

number of acquaintances across the river in the city. The shop
keepers and the various gentlemen he had dealings with on the
business of our group all knew him and considered him our
head man. We laughed at that, of course, but he was terrible
fond of sitting 'round with the gentlemen drinking tea and wag
gling his tongue. They'd be calling him our foreman, and he'd
just smile and spread his beard across his chest. To put it briefly
sirs, an empty vessel! And this Pimen of ours came to know a
certain personage of some importance who had a wife who
hailed from our parts and who was also a great lover of talk and
who had read up on us in some sort of new books that wrote
things about us we had never heard of. And suddenly, I couldn't
say why, she gets the idea that she's got a great affection for the
Old Believers. And this was the wonder of it all: she was chosen
as the vessel for such a thing! Well, she goes on about her love
for us, and every time our Pimen comes to see her husband she
always sits him down right away to have tea; and he, of course,
is right pleased and spins out all sorts of yams for her.
And she goes on a flapping her old woman's tongue: ''You Old
Believers," she says, "are this and are that; you are holy, righ
teous, eternally blessed people" she says, and our son of Belial
just looks all a-squinty, tilts his head to one side, strokes his
beard and croons away:
''That's true of course, ma'am. We keep the law of our fathers;
we observe this sort of rule and that sort of rule," he says, "and
watch one another to make sure that our ritual remains pure."
In short, he tells her all sorts of things unseemly in conversa
tion with a worldly woman. And you can imagine that she's get
ting more and more interested.
''I have heard," she says, "that God's blessing appears to you in
visible form."
And he picks up the refrain right away:
"Of course it does, missus," he answers, "one can see it quite
plain."
''In visible form?"
''In visible form, ma'am," he says, "in visible form. Why just
the other day one of our men snipped off a piece of mighty
steel just like it was a spider's web."
The lady just threw up her tiny little hands.
"Oh, how fascinating!" she says. '' I'm terribly fond of miracles
and I believe in them. You know," she says, "why don't you order
your Old Believers to pray to God to give me a daughter? I have
two sons but I absolutely want to have one daughter. Can you
do that?"
"That can be done," answers Pimen. ''And why not? Of course
we can do it! Only in such cases," he says, "we always have to
get a l ittle something to buy oil for the icon lamps."
She is only too pleased to give him ten rubles for oil, and he
slips the money into his pocket and says:
"Very well, ma'am, be of good faith; I shall order the prayers."
Of course Pimen says nothing to us about this, but the lady
does give birth to a daughter.
Well! She raised up such a fuss that she hadn't yet gotten
over her delivery when she calls in that empty crock of ours
and heaps praises on him just as if he'd been a miracle worker
himself; and he, of course, just takes it all in. You can see how
a man gives way to vanity and his mind grows cloudy and his
feelings go dead. A year later the lady made another request of
our God- she wanted her husband to rent her a dacha for the
summer- and once more it all happened as she wished, and
Pimen got some goodly offerings for candles and oil. And he
makes sure these offerings go where he wants them to, and
none of them come our way. And there really were some incred
ible wonders worked: that lady's eldest son was in a school
where he was the leading profligate and a lazy layabout, learn
ing nothing, but when it came time for the examination she
sends for Pimen and gives him an order to pray that her son
would be passed on to the next class. Pimen says:
'Now that's difficult. I11 have to get all my folks out praying
all night and wailing with candles right till morning."
But she doesn't balk at anything: thirty rubles she gives him
just so's he11 pray well! And what do you think happened? That
plodigral son of hers has such a stroke of luck that he gets pro
moted to the next class. The lady near went off her head from
joy at the favors our God is showing her! She started giving one
order after another to Pimen, and he fixed it up with God so
that she should have good health and an inheritance and a big
rank for her husband and so many medals that he didn't have
room for them all on his chest and had to carry one of 'em in
his pocket, so we heard. Well it was a wonder and nothing less,
and we still don't know a thing about it. But the hour came for
it all to be made manifest and for one kind of miracle to be re
placed by another.
Chapter V
There was a bit of stir amongst some of the Jewish
merchants in one Jewish town in that same province. I can't
rightly say if it was some counterfeit money they had or if they
were doing a bit of business that worried the customs officers,
but the authorities had to investigate the thing and they could
see a goodly reward in it for themselves. And so the lady sends
for our Pimen and says to him:
"Pimen Ivanovich, take these twenty rubles for candles and
oil . Ask your people to pray as earnestly as they can so my hus
band will be sent on this assignment."
Well, what bother was that to him? He had already got quite
fond of collecting those oil-fees, and he answers:
"Very well, ma'am, I shall order it."
"Now be sure they make a good job of their praying," she
says, "because this is very important to me!"
"They wouldn't dare pray badly when I order them, ma'am,"
Pimen assures her. '1'11 set them a-fasting until the prayers are
answered." He took the money and off he went, and that same
night the lady's husband got the assignment he wanted.
But by now all these wondrous blessings had gone to her
head; she wasn't satisfied with our praying and got the idea that
she absolutely had to say a few words of her own before our sa
cred shrine.
She tells Pimen about this, but he gets cold feet because he
knew that we wouldn't allow her near our holy things. But the
lady wouldn't let up.
'1 don't care what you think," she says. '1'11 hire a boat this
very afternoon, and my son and I will come to see you."
Pimen tried to persuade her that it would be better if we did
the praying on our own. "We have this guardian angel," he says,
"and if you give money for oil for him, we will ensure that he
looks after your husband."
"Oh that is excellent," she answers, "excellent. I am very
happy that you have such an angel; here is something for oil for
him. Make absolutely sure that you light three lamps before
him, and I shall come to have a look."
This didn't sit too well with Pimen. He came back and
started in hemming and hawing, telling us how, he says, '1
didn't dare contradict her, the wretched heathen, when she took
it into her head to come, because her husband is a man who
could help us." And he went on spinning us a terrific yarn but
Lesk.ov: THE SEALED ANGEL 17
still didn't spill everything that he had done. Well, as little as
we liked it, there was nothing else we could do. We quickly
took down all our icons from the walls, hid them in boxes, took
some cheap replacements out of the boxe s - the ones we kept
for fear of a sudden invasion of officials - set them out in the
cross-pieces of the iconostasis and waited for our visitor. And
she arrived, so splendiferous she was fearsome to behold. She
comes in sweeping her long, wide skirts around, looks at all
those spare icons of ours through her lorgnette, and asks: "Tell
me, please, which of these is the wonder-working angel?" And
we don't know just how to switch her off that topic:
"We have no such angel," we say.
And no matter how much she tried and how much she re
proached Pimen, we didn't show her the angel but ordered up
some tea for her right off and served her what refreshments we
had.
We took a fearful dislike to her and, God knows, there was
reason enough: she had a sort of repulsive look about her,
though apparently she was considered beautiful. Tall, you know,
and with such skinny legs, thin as a steppe-goat's, and great
dark eyebrows.
"You people don't care for that sort of beauty the n ?" interrupted
the man in the bearskin coat.
"Come now, what's there to care for in such serpentine appear
ance ?" he answered.
"I suppose you people think a woman has to have nothing but
bulges and lumps to be beautiful."
"Bulges and lumps!" smiled our storyteller, not taking offense.
"Why do you think that ? The genuine Russian idea of the female
form is much closer to the type that we have than are today's frivo
lous notions, but it's certainly not bulges and lumps. We don't care
much for your skinny-legged nanny goats; we like a woman to stand
up on strong legs, not long legs, so's she won't get tangled up but
can roll around everywhere like a ball and get her work done. But
your nanny goat runs and she stumbles. We folk don't care much
for women as thin as serpents either. We want a woman to be good
and round across the middle and to have a bit more to her on the
bosomy side, because even though it may not look so fancy, you can
see she's cut out to be a mother. Our genuine purely Russian breed
may be a bit hefty and on the fleshy side around her middle, but
still there's more joy and welcome in a pair of soft hips. It's the same
with the nose. We like a button nose, more like a little wen and not
all humped. Say what you will, that little wen is a lot friendlier for
family living than your weazened, proud nose. And the brows espe
cially- the brows reveal the whole look of the face, and so a woman's
eyebrows mustn't frown but be more open, like an arch, for a man
finds it much easier to talk to such a woman, and she makes quite
a different impression on a person, one that inclines him to the
home. But today's taste, of course, has gone away from this good type
and favors airy ephemerality in the female sex, but that's not much
use for anything. But I'm sorry, sirs, I see that I've gotten to talking
about something quite different. I'd best go on with the story."
When we had shown our guest out our Pimen, as a man of

vanity, notices that we began speaking criticism of her and he
says:
'What do you mean? She is a good woman."
And we answer: "How can she be good when there is not a
trace of goodness in her countenance ? But let her bei she is
what she is and so shall she remain." We were pleased we'd
managed to send her packing and set about getting some in
cense abuming to rid us even of her scent.
After that we swept all the traces of our guest from our
chamber, packed our spare icons back in their trunks behind
the partition and took out the real icons and arranged them in
the iconostasis as they were before. We sprinkled them with
holy water, had our prayers, and then each went where he
should to take his night's rest. God only knows why, but for
some reason none of us slept well that nighti we were all rest
less and frightened somehow.
Chapter VI
In the morning we all set off to work and were do
ing our assigned tasks when we see that Luka Kirilov is miss
ing. This was astonishing, since he was a man of most regular
habitsi but it seemed even more surprising to me when he ar
rived about eight o'clock all pale and upset.
I took note of that since I knew he was a very steady man
who didn't like giving in to petty sorrows and I ask him: 'What
is troubling you, Luka Kirilov ?" And he says: '1'11 tell you later
on."
But in those days, on account of my youth, I was dreadful
curious and besides, I had a sudden feeling that all was not
right with the faith. And I honored the faith and never was an
unbeliever.
And so I couldn't bear this for very long and, making some
excuse or other, I left the work site and ran off home, thinking
that while everyone was away I might learn something from
Mikhailitsa. Even though Luka Kirilov might not have told her
anything, still she, with all her simple ways, would somehow
fathom what was wrong. And she wouldn't keep it from me, be
cause I was an orphan from my childhood and I grew up with
them as a son, and she was just like a second mother to me.
And so I come rushing to her and see her sitting on the
porch with an old blouse thrown over her shoulders; and she
looks ill, sorrowful, and a bit greenish.
"Mother-a-mine," I say, "why is it that you are sitting out here ?"
''And where is there shelter for me, Marochka ?" she answers.
My name is Mark Alexandrov, but she, with her motherly
feelings towards me, always called me Marochka.
''Now what kind of nonsense is she telling me," I think to
myself, "that she has nowhere to find shelter."
''Why don't you lie down in the storeroom?" I say.
"I can't, Marochka," she says. "Grandad Maroy is praying in
the large chamber."
'�, so that's it," I think. "It really is something concerning
the faith." And Auntie Mikhailitsa begins explaining:
''Didn't you hear anything of what went on here in the night,
child ?"
''No, auntie, nothing."
''Dreadful things!"
''Well tell me then, auntie."
"Oh, but I don't know how to explain it, or even if I should."
''Why not tell me," I say, "I'm not a stranger; I'm like a son to
you."
"I know, my dear, you are like a son," she says. "Only I don't
know that I'll be able to tell it the way I should because I'm a
foolish woman without many gifts. But you wait a bit and Un
cle will come home from work and likely he can tell it all."
But it was beyond my powers to wait and I kept pestering
her: ''Tell me, tell me right away what's happened."
And I can see she keeps blinking and blinking her eyes and
still they well up with tears. Suddenly she wipes them with a
handkerchief and quietly whispers to me:
"Last night, my child, our guardian angel came down to us."

This revelation set me all a-tremble.
"Tell me now," I ask, "how did this miracle happen, and who
was there to witness it ?"
And she answers: "The miracles, my child, were beyond un
derstanding, and apart from me there wasn't a single soul to
witness them because they all happened at the very darkest
time of the midnight hour, and only I was not asleep."
And she told me, my good sirs, the following story:
"I had said my prayers and fallen asleep," she says. "I don't re
member how long I slept, only suddenly I had a dream of a fire,
a big fire: it seemed that everything we had had burnt up, and
ashes were floating down the river and swirling round in the
whirlpools by the piers and being sucked down and swallowed."
And Mikhailitsa sees herself in the dream, running out in her
worn old nightshirt, all full of holes, and standing right down by
the water, while on the other shore opposite her there arose a
tall pillar of fire, and on that pillar sat a small white rooster a
flapping his wings. Mikhailitsa heard herself saying: ''Who are
you, then?" because she sensed that this bird was a portent of
something. And the little rooster suddenly sang out in a human
voice: "Amen," and - blink- he's gone. And everything round
Mikhailitsa went all quiet and there was such an emptiness in
the air that Mikhailitsa took a terror and couldn't seem to catch
her breath at all. And she woke up and she's lying in bed and
can hear a lamb bleating right outside the door. And she can
tell by its voice that it's a very young lamb that's never even had
his first coat of wool shorn. His pure silvery little voice rang
out "ba-a-a-a-a/' and suddenly Mikhailitsa hears him walking
round in the prayer chamber, his little hoofs tripping across the
floorboards chok-chok-chok just as if he's looking for someone.
And Mikhailitsa thinks to herself: "Lord Jesus Christ! How can
this be ? There's not a single sheep to be found in our settlement
and no way for a lamb to be born, so how can this little lamby
kin get here ?" And then it struck her: "How could he get into
the house anyway ? Must be that we forgot to lock the outside
door, what with all the fuss yesterday. Glory be to God," she
thinks, "it's only a lamb come in and not some dog from the
yard got in among our holy images." Well with that she tries to
wake up Luka: "Kirilych," she cries, "Kirilych! Stir yourself now,
my dear, our door's open and some little lambykin has got into
the house." But Kirilov, as bad luck would have it, was sleeping
like a log. N o matter how Mikhailitsa tries she just can't man·
age to wake him up: he just moos in his sleep but says nothing
else. And the harder Mikhailitsa shakes him and tousles him,
the louder he moos. Mikhailitsa started begging him: "Remem
ber the name of Jesus," and no sooner had she uttered that
name when something in the chamber started a squeaking; and
that very same moment Luka leapt from the bed and tried to
rush out, but suddenly something in the middle of the chamber
knocked him back as if he had struck a wall of bronze . "Get a
light, woman! A light!" he shouts to Mikhailitsa, but he doesn't
stir from the spot. She lights up a stub of candle and runs out
and sees him there, his face pale as a man condemned to death
and trembling sds the drawstring round his neck is jumping
about and even the trousers are shaking on his legs. She asks
him again: "My provider," she says, "tell me what's wrong!" And
he points to where the angel used to be and where is now but
an empty place, because the angel himself is lying on the floor
at Luka's very feet.
Luka Kirilov went straight to Grandad Maroy and tells him
what the woman had seen and what had happened to them and
asks him to come and have a look. Maroy came and knelt be
fore the angel that was lying on the floor and stayed there mo
tionless for a long time, still as a marble sepulchre. And then
he raised his hand, scratched the bald spot on his head and said
quietly:
''Bring twelve clean, new-fired bricks in here."
Luka Kirilov brought them in right away, and Maroy looked
over the bricks and saw that they were all clean, straight from
the fiery furnace; and he told Luka to lay them one atop the
other and in such fashion he built up a pillar, covered it with a
clean napkin and set the icon atop of it. And then Maroy bowed
down to the floor and sang out:
"Angel of the Lord, let thy steps led thee whither thou wilt."
And no sooner had he pronounced those words when sud
denly there was a tap-tap-tap at the door and a stranger's voice
called out:
''Hey there, dissenters, which one of you's the boss?"
Luka Kirilov opens the door and sees a soldier with a medal
standing there.
Luka asks him which boss he wants. And the soldier answers:
''The same one what used the visit the lady," he says. ''That
fellow Pimen."
Well now, Luka sent his woman right off to get Pimen and he
asks what the trouble is and why they have sent for Pimen in
the middle of the night.
The soldier says:
"Tell you the truth, I don't know. But I heard that those there
Jews pulled some sort of a nasty trick on the master."
But he can't say exactly what it was.
"I heard somethin' 'bout how the master put a seal on them
and then they left their mark on him."
But just how it was that they had sealed one another he can't
plainly say.
Meanwhile Pimen came up and he's rolling his eyes about
this way and that, just like a Jew. It was plain to see he doesn't
know what to say himself. And Luka says:
"Don't stand there, you joker, get on with you and finish your
silly games!"
He got into the boat with the soldier and the two of them
rowed off.
An hour later our Pimen comes back swaggering about and
putting up a real front, but we can tell that he's not himself at
all.
Luka starts in to question him:
"Let's hear it now, you featherbrain," he says. "Tell me the
whole truth. What sort of mess have you cooked up over there ?"
And Pimen says:
"Nothing much."
And so the matter rested. But in actual fact it was a good
deal more than nothing much.
Chapter VII
A most amazing thing had happened to the gen·
tleman for whom our Pimen had been saying prayers. As I was
telling you, he set off for this Jewish town and arrived there late
at night when no one expected him. Straight off he set his seal
on every last one of the shops and let the police know that the
next morning he would start his inspection. The Jews, of course,
found out about it right away and came to see him that same
night to try and make a deal with him. They had heaps and
heaps of contraband, you see. And so they came and right off
they shoved ten thousand rubles at this gentleman. He says: '1
can't take that; I'm a senior official invested with the trust of
the tsar and I don't take bribes." Well, the Jews started gur-gur
gurring amongst themselves and then tried him with fifteen
thousand. He says once more: "I cannot take it." They tried him
with twenty. He says, "Don't you understand, I cannot take it. I
have already informed the police to come along with me on my
inspection tomorrow." And they had another gur-gur-gur and say
to him:
"Oy, oy, Your Ex1ency, 'bout telling police don' vorry. Ve giff
you tvenny fife tousan� just giff us your seal till tomorrow
morning, go slip vell and don' vorry. Nosing more ve don' need."
The gentleman thought about this for quite a time. Even
though he considered himself an important pe rson, it was clear
enough that even important persons haven't got hearts made of
stone, so he took the twenty-five thousand and gave them his
seal that he used to seal things up with and went to bed. The
Jews, of course, spent the whole night hauling whatever they
had to out of their shops and then sealed them up again with
that very same seal. The gentleman isn't even awake when
they're already in his anteroom chattering away. So he let them
in, and they thank him and say:
"And now, Your Ex1ency, sir, pliss make inspection."
Well, he makes out he doesn't hear them and says:
"Give me back my seal at once."
And the Jews say:
'�d you, sir, giff us back our money."
The gentleman says: "What are you talking about ?!" But they
kept on:
"Dot money ve left you as security," they say.
"What do you mean, security?"
"You know," they say, "security."
"Rubbish," he says, "you gave me that money outright, you
scoundrels, you Christkillers."
And they nudge one another and laugh.
''Lissen to dot," they say, "he thinks ve giff it to him outright.
Oy oy, you tink ve are so dumb like peasants mit no sense to
try to giff soch a important man khabar?" ("Khabar'' means
bribe in their language) .
Well now, can you imagine anything finer than a story like
that ? The gentleman, of course, should have just given it back
to them and left it at that, but he decided to dig in his heels be
cause he didn't want to lose the money. Morning carne; all the
trading in the town was closed; the people walk around wonder-
ing what is happening. The police demand the seal, and the
Jews stan yelling:
"Oy, oy! Vat kind of gov'ment is diss? Dese officials vant to
ruin us." There was a terrible uproar! The gentleman locked
himself in his room and racked his brains until dinner trying to
decide what to do; and toward evening he calls in those crafty
Jews and says: ''Take your money then, you cursed devils. Just
give me back my seal!" But they're not about to now and they
say: "Oh, sir, how can ve do dot? All day long ve issn't making
no trade anyvere in town. Now your Honor must giff us fifty
tousan�" You see how it went! And the Jews begin to threaten
him: '1f you don' giff us fifty tousan' now, tomorrow vill cost
tvenny-fife tousan' more!" The gentleman didn't sleep the whole
night, and toward morning he sent for the Jews again and gave
them back all the money he had taken from them and wrote
them a guarantee for twenty-five thousand more; and then he
carried on his inspection as best he could. Of course he found
nothing, and so he hurries back to his wife and begins ranting
and raving to her: "Where can we find the twenty-five thousand
to buy back the note from the Jews ? You'll have to sell the vil
lage that was your dowry," he says. But she says: "Not for any
thing on eanh; I am quite attached to it." He says : '1t's all your
fault for setting those Old Believers to pray up this assignment
for me and for assuring me that their angel would help. Just
look at the job he's done on me." And she answers: "What do
you mean?" she says. '1t's your fault. Why were you so stupid?
Why didn't you arrest those Jews and say that they had stolen
your seal ? But in any case," she says, "it doesn't matter: just do
as I say and I'll set it all right and someone else will pay for
your lack of sense." And suddenly she barks out at the top
of her voice to one of her servants: "Go across the Dnieper,"
she says, "and bring me the Old Believers' foreman, and get a
move on."
Well of course this envoy went off and brought our Pimen,
and the lady tells him straight out with no beating round the
bush: "Listen," she says, '1 know you are a clever man and you
will understand what I need. Something a trifle unpleasant has
happened to my husband; cenain villainish men have robbed
him . . . the Jews . . . you understand. And now we absolutely
must have twenty-five thousand in the next few days, and I sim
ply have nowhere to get the money that quickly. But I have sent
for you and I am confident, because you Old Believers are clever
people and I have seen for myself how God helps you in every
thing; so please give me twenty-five thousand and I, in tum,
will tell all the ladies about your wonder-working icons and you
shall see how much money you shall get for wax and for oil."
Well, my dear sirs, it's not hard for you to imagine what a feel
ing that joker of ours felt when things took such a tum. I don't
know exactly what he said, only I believe him when he says
that he began making solemn affirmations and taking oaths for
all he was worth, assuring her that we had not the capital to
raise such a sum of money, but she, this Herodias reborn,
wouldn't have that for a minute.9 "Come now," she says, "I know
very well that all you sectarians are wealthy and that twenty
five thousand is only a trifle for you. When my father served in
Moscow the Old Believers did him greater favours than that and
more than just once. Twenty-five thousand is nothing at all."
Pimen, of course, tried to explain to her at this point that those
were the Moscow Old Believers, people with capital, but we are
simple, common laborers who can't hope to rival the Musco
vites. But she, it seems, could only think of her past experience
in Moscow and she quickly put him in his place: "What are you
trying to tell me!" she says. "Don't you think I know how many
wonder-working icons you have ? Why you told me yourself how
much people all over Russia send you for wax and for oil. No, I
shan't hear another word. I want the money immediately, or my
husband will go to the Governor this very day and tell him how
you are praying and leading people astray, and you will have a
nasty time of it." Poor Pimen all but collapsed off her porch. He
came back home, as I was telling you, saying only the same
thing over and over: "It's nothing much." But he was all red in
the face, just as if he'd come out of the bath house, and kept
pacing from comer to comer blowing his nose.
Well, Luka Kirilov finally squeezed a little bit out of him
only, of course, Pimen didn't let on about the whole thing and
only came out with the tiniest wee bit of the truth, saying
something like, "That lady is asking me to get her a five
thousand loan from you." Luka, of course, flew off the handle at
him even at this: "You joker, you so-and-so," he says. "You had to
make friends with those people and even bring them over here!
You think we are rich, do you, to have such a sum of money in
our assemb lage ? And what security would we get for it? And
where do we find the money anyway? You've cooked this stew;
you can eat it yourself. We can't raise five thousand anywhere."
With this Luka Kirilov went his way to work and arrived, as I
told you, all pale and looking like a man condemned to death,
because after his experience during the night he could forsee
things going badly for us. And Pimen went his way: we all saw
him row the boat out of the rushes and cross over to the city on
the other side. And now, when Mikhailitsa told me everything
from beginn ing to end and how Pimen was begging for the five
thousand, I figured that he had probably rushed off to that same
lady to try and soften her up. And so thinking all this I'm stand
ing next to Mikhailitsa and wondering if something harmful to
us might arise from it and whether we ought to take some sort
of measures against the powerful evil that might set upon us
when suddenly I see that it is already too late to undertake any
thing, because a large craft had come up to our shore and I
caught the sound of many voices right behind me. And when I
turned around I saw several officials all dressed up in various
fancy uniforms and a goodly number of policemen and soldiers
with them. And neither Mikhailitsa nor I, my good sirs, man
aged to wink an eye before they had all poured past us straight
into Luka's chamber and set two sentries at the door with bared
sabres. Mikhailitsa started flinging herself at these sentries, not
so much so they would let her pass as to give vent to her grief.
They pushed her aside, of course, but she would throw herself
at them even more furiously, and the battle between them fi
nally reached the stage where one policeman gave her such a
painful knock that she tumbled head over heels off the porch.
And I was about to rush off to get Luka at the bridge but I see
that Luka himself is already running toward me with our whole
group after him, all of them raising riot and each carrying the
tools he was working with - one a crow-bar, another a pick axe
- all of them running to defend their holy objects. Some of
them hadn't managed to get into the boat and had no way of
getting to shore. So they were plunging straight off the bridge
into the water fully dressed in their working clothes and swim
ming through the cold waves, one after the other. You couldn't
believe how terrible it was, thinking of how this might end.
Some twenty men had arrived in the guard and although they
were all in bold array, there were more than two score and ten
of us, and all inspired by the highest, burning faith, and all a
swimming along in the water like a herd of seals; and even if
someone were to beat them over the head, they would still
reach the shore to go to their holy things. And suddenly, wet as
they were, they were all marching toward us as living and inde
structible as the Rock of Ages.
Chapter VIII
Now if you remember that when Mikhailitsa and
I were talking out on the porch, Grandad Maroy was inside the
chamber praying, and the officials and their cohorts found him
there. He told us afterwards that they burst in, slammed the
door shut and rushed straight over to the icons. Some of them
put out the icon lamps while the others tear the icons off the
walls and pile them on the floor. And they shout at him: "Are
you the priest, old man?" "No, I am not the priest," he says.
"Which one of you is the priest ?" they ask. And he answers, "We
don't have a priest." 'What do you mean, you don't have a
priest?" they say. "How dare you say you don't have a priest ?"
Then Maroy tried to explain that we never have priests, but
since he spoke so poorly and lisped, they weren't able to make
anything out and said, "Tie him up, he's under arrest!" Maroy let
himself be bound: even though it was no small matter for him
having a heavy-handed soldier bind his hands with a scrap of
rope, he still stands and accepts it all for the sake of the faith,
watching to see what would happen next. And meanwhile the
officials had lit candles and started in sealing the icons: one of
them puts on the seals, others make up a list, and still others
drill holes in the icons with augers and string them on iron
rods like bread rings. Maroy looks at all this scandalous sacri
lege and doesn't twitch a muscle because he figures it is God's
will to allow such an outrage . But at the same time Uncle
Maroy hears one of the policemen cry out, and then another
one; the door flies open and our people, like wet seals just
crawled out of the water, burst into the chamber. It was good
luck that Luka Kirilov was in the lead. Right off he shouts:
"Stand where you are, people of Christ! Don't dare touch any
one!" And he, pointing to those icons strung on iron rods, says
to the officials: "Why then, sirs, do you do such harm to our
holy objects? If you have the right to take them from us then
take them, for we do not resist the law. But why do you harm
these beautiful works of our fathers ?"
And the husband of this lady Pimen knew, he was there at
the head of them all, and he just shouts at Uncle Luka:
"Shut up, you scoundrel! How dare you argue with me!"
And even though Luka was a proud man, he restrained him

self and answered quietly:
''If you please, Your Excellency, we know the procedurei we
have a hundred and fifty icons here in our chamber. Please ac
cept three rubles for each icon and take them awayi but do not
harm the precious works of our ancestors."
The gentleman's eye glittered and he shouted loudly:
"Be off with you!" and then quietly in a whisper: "Give me a
hundred rubles for each or 111 bum the whole lot."
Luka could not even conceive of such a powerful sum of
money and he says:
"So be it, if that is how it is: destroy what you will, but we
do not have such money."
And the gentleman just cries out harshly:
"You bearded billy-goat! How dare you talk of money in our
presence!" And then he suddenly began rushing about bundling
up everything he could see with holy images on it. And they
screwed nuts on the ends of the rods and put a seal on them so
it was impossible either to take off the icons or change them.
And when everything was gathered up and made ready, they pre
pared to take their leave: the soldiers lifted the piles of icons
strung on rods onto their shoulders and carried them to the
boats. But Mikhailitsa, who had also made her way into the
chamber behind the others, meanwhile quietly slipped the icon
of the angel off the lectern and was taking it away to the store
room under her kerchief, but her hands were shaking so that
she went and dropped it. Gracious, how the gentleman flew up
at her and called us thieves and scoundrels.
"Aha, you scoundrels!" he says. "You wanted to steal it so it
wouldn't get put on the rod. Well, I won't put it there. Just look
at what I1l do!" And he lit up a stick of sealing wax and shoves
this burning, bubbling tar right on the very countenance of the
angel!
My dear sirs, you mustn't complain when I don't attempt to
describe to you all that happened when the gentleman poured
out the bubbling stream of tar on the angel's countenance and
when the cruel man even raised up the icon so as to boast of
the means he had found of grieving us. I remember only that
the angel's radiantly divine countenance was red and sealed, and
that the varnish, which had melted just a wee bit under the hot
tar, trickled down from under the seal in two streams like blood
mixed with tears.
We all groaned, covered our eyes with our hands and fell to
ground moaning as if under torture. And so we continued to
wail until the dark of night found us still howling and lament·
ing over our sealed angel. It was here, in that darkness and still
ness, on the ruins of the holy objects of our fathers, that the
idea came to us to follow up what had been done to our angel.
And we swore to steal it back, even at the risk of our lives, and
to lift the seal that marred its face. And I was chosen for carry
ing out this resolution along with a young lad, Levontius. This
Levontius was an absolute boy in years, not more than seven
teen he was, but strong in body, good in heart, pious from his
childhood, obedient and well-behaved as your spirited and silver
bridled horse .
There was no wishing for a finer helpmate and companion in
such a dangerous venture as the seeking out and purloining of
the sealed angel whose blinded countenance we could not bear
to think on.
Chapter IX
I won't burden you with the details of how I and
my helpmate and companion dug and delved and searched, but
will tell you plainly of the sorrows that overcame us when we
learned that those icons of ours that the officials had pierced
and strung on rods had been dumped in the cellar on the Con
sistory. They were already a lost cause, as good as buried in a
coffin, and there was no point in even thinking of them any
more. We were pleased, however, when we heard that the bishop
himself apparently didn't approve of such vandalous practices
and objected, saying: "What is the point of all this ?" and had
even stood up for the art of old, saying ''These are ancient
works; we must take care of them!" But things took a bad tum:
we hadn't yet recovered from the sacrilege to our icons when
the bishop, with his admiration for ancient art, caused a new
and even greater calamity. Full of good intentions, I suppose,
this same bishop picked up our sealed angel and examined it for
a long time; and he looked away and said: "A troubled counte
nance! How horribly they have raddled him! Do not put this
icon in the cellar," he says. "Set it on the window in my altar
behind the credence table." And so the bishop's servants carried
out his instructions; and I must say that such kind attention
from a church hierarch was very pleasing to us on the one
hand, yet on the other hand we could see that all of our plans
to steal away the angel had now become impossible. There re
mained one other means: to bribe the bishop's servants and
with their help to exchange the icon with another cunningly
painted to look just like the first. Our Old Believers had man
aged to do that son of thing more than once, but first we need
ed the experienced hand of a skilled icon painter who could
make an exact copy of the icon for replacement, and we had lit
tle expectation of finding such a painter in those pans. And
deep anguish fell upon us all from that time, and it crept over
us like water under the skin of a man with dropsy. In the cham
ber where once only praises to God had been heard, there now
resounded only lamentations; and in a short time we had all la
mented ourselves even unto sickness and could not see the
eanh beneath our feet because our eyes were so filled with
tears. And whether it was because of that or not because of it,
we got a sickness of the eyes, and all of our people started being
afflicted with it. What had simply never happened before had
now come to pass: there were sick among us beyond count! A
rumor went round among all the working folk that this had
happened not simply of itself but on account of the Old Believ
ers' angel: "He was blinded with the seal," folks said, "and now
we1l all go blind." And such an interpretation was put upon it
not only by us: there was a murmuring even among the church
people. And no matter how many doctors the English bosses
brought, no one went to them nor took medicine but would
only wail: ''Bring us our sealed angel. We want to say our
prayers to him, and he alone can help us."
The Englishman Yakov Yakovlevich had followed up the
whole affair, and himself went to the Bishop and says:
"Well now, Your Grace, faith is a powerful force, and each of
us believes inasmuch as faith is granted unto him: let the angel
come back to us across the river."
But the bishop would not hear of it and said:
"Nothing must be done to second this faith."
At that time his words seemed harsh and we spent much
time in vainful censure of the bishop; but later it was revealed
to us that it was not a matter of harshness but of divine Provi
dence.
In the meantime the signs and portents went on without
ceasing, and on the other side of the river the punishing finger
called to account the main culprit in this whole affair, Pimen
himself, who after the disaster had ru n away from u s and got
himself officially churched. One day I meet him in the city and
he bows to me and so I bow in return. And he says:
'1've committed a sin, I have, brother Mark, getting away
from the old faith."
And I answer:
"Which of us is to be in which faith is God's affair, but of
course selling your poor brethren for a pair of boots is not a
good thing, and forgive me when I rebuke you in a brotherly
way as the prophet Amos tells us."
At the name of the prophet he just started in to trembling.
"Don't speak to me of the prophets," he says. '1 can remember
Scripture myself and I understand that 'the prophets torment
them that dwell on the earth,' and I even have a visible token of
it."10 And he complains to me that a few days earlier he had
taken a swim in the river, and after it his body had gone all
skewbald; and he unbuttons his shirt and shows me his chest
and indeed, there were spots creeping up from his chest onto
his neck just like on a skewbald horse.
And I, sinner that I was, I wanted to tell him that "God
marks the scoundrel," only I checked the words on my lips and
said:
"What can you do then," I say, ''but pray and rejoice that such
a mark has been set on you in this life; perhaps you will be
cleansed when you stand before your Maker."
He began complaining to me about how unfortunate he was
and how much he would lose if his face should tum skewbald
as well, because the governor himself had seen Pimen when he
joined the church and apparently was much taken with his
good looks and told the mayor that when important personages
were to pass in procession through the town Pimen must abso
lutely be placed out in front of everyone carrying a silver tray.
But who wants to put a skewbald on display ? But I had had
enough listening to the idle chatter of this son of Belial and I
turned away and left.
He and I had no more dealings after that. The markings
came out all the more clearly on him, while other signs and
portents continued to appear to us, and the last of them hap
pened in the fall. Just after the ice had set in there was a sud
den thaw; all the ice broke up and laid waste to our construc
tion. And one calamity followed another so that suddenly one
granite pier was washed out and the whole structure e rected
over many years and costing many thousands was swallowed up

by the deep.
This struck even our English employers, and someone told
their boss, Yakov Yakovlevich, that he must drive us Old Believ
ers away in order to be delivered from it all. But he, being a
good-hearted man, paid no mind to such talk and instead he
called in Luka Kirilov and me and says:
"Give me some advice now, ladsi can I not help you in some
way and ease your misery!"
But we answered that so long as the sacred countenance of
our angel, who led us everywhere, remained under that fiery
tarry seal, nothing could console us, and we were languishing
from sorrow.
''What do you plan to do then?" he says.
'1n good time we plan to exchange the icon and unseal the
pure countenance that has been disgraced by the godless hand
of the official."
"But why is it that you treasure him so ?" he says. "Couldn't
you really get another one like him ?"
"We treasure him," we answer, "because he has preserved us,
and we cannot get another because he was painted by a pious
hand in the steadfast days of old and sanctified by one of the an
cient bishops according to the complete service book of Peter
Mohyla, and nowadays we have neither bishops nor that same
service book." 1 1
"And how will you unseal him," he says, "when his whole
face has been burnt by the sealing wax?"
"Oh, don't be concerned on that account, Your Honor," we an
swer. "We need only get him back into our hands and then he,
our guardian, will stand up for himself. He's not made by one of
your artists who trades in his talenti he's of genuine Stroganov
workmanship, and the Stroganov and Kostroma varnishes are
prepared so they don't fear the fiery stamp and won't let the tar
get to the tender colors beneath."
"Are you certain of that?"
"We are certain: that varnish is as strong as the old Russian
faith itself."
He then cursed those who do not know how to look after
such works of art, offered us his hands, and said once more:
"Don't grieve, now: I will help you, and we shall get your an
gel. Will you need him for long?"
''No," we say, "only for a short time."
"Well then, I shall say that I want to make a rich gold

mounting for your sealed angel, and when they give him to me
we shall make the exchange. I'll start on it tomorrow."
We thank him, but say:
"There is no need to start on it tomorrow, sir, nor on the day
after."
'�nd why is that?" he says.
"Because, sir," we answer, "we must first have an icon ready to
exchange that would be as like to the original as one drop of
water to another, and there's not a painter hereabouts who could
do that, and nowhere nearby where we could find one."
"Nonsense," he says, "I'll bring an artist from the city myself.
He not only does copies, he paints splendid portraits as well."
"No sir," we answer, "please don't do that. In the first place
this worldly artist might spread some rumors about it, and in
the second place your ordinary painter won't be able to do such
a job."
The Englishman doesn't believe us, but I spoke up and ex
plained the difference to him. Nowadays, I tell him, those
worldly artists don't have the same kind of art. They use oil
paints, while the icon painter mixes his delicate colors with
egg. Your regular painter daubs on his colors just so that they
look natural only from afar off, but the true icon painter builds
his up slowly in layers and they are clear and real from as close
up as you care to get. And your worldly artist, I tell him, won't
even manage to make a job of copying the outline, because he
has been taught to portray what is contained in the earthly
body of a man who loves this earthly life . But sacred Russian
icon painting shows the heaven-dwelling type of face of which
even a devout material man cannot have the least inkling.
He gets interested in this and asks:
"Where are there such masters, then, who still understand
this special type ?"
"Rare indeed these days," I tell him (and in fact at that time
they lived strictly in hiding). "There is," I tell him, "in the settle
ment of Mstyora a certain master painter named Khokhlov, but
he's a man so well up in years that we couldn't take him away
on a long journey. And there are two men in Palekh, but they
would hardly go either, and anyway," I tell him, "neither the
Mstyora nor the Palekh masters would be of any use to us."
"Why is that, tell me ?" he asks.
"Because," I answer, "they don't have the right style: the
Mstyora painting is clumsy and drab, while the Palekh painters

put in a turquoise tone and everything they do looks bluish."
"So what will you do then?" he asks.
"I don't know myself," I answer. "I've heard tell of a fine mas
ter named Silachev still living in Moscow. Our folks all over
Russia know him, but he leans more to the Novgorod and royal
Moscow styles, while our icon is of the Stroganov school with
the brightest and most abundant colors; and so the only one
who can handle it is Master Sebastian from the lower reaches of
the river. But he's a great one for travelling: he wanders all over
Russia repairing icons for the Old Believers, and where to find
him no one knows."
The Englishman listened with pleasure to all I had to tell
him. He smiled and he answers:
''Rather marvellous people you are," he says, "and it makes
me feel good even listening to you, hearing how well you know
everything that concerns your way of life. You even have some
comprehension of art."
"Why should we not comprehend art, sir?" I say. "It's a Godly
thing, it is, and there are even some of the very simplest peas
ants among us who can tell, for instance, not only how one
school differs from another in style -your Ustyug or Novgorod,
Moscow or Vologda, Siberian or Stroganov- but who even can
tell the handiwork of one well-known master from another one
of the same school with never a mistake."
"Can they really do that ?" he says.
"Just as you could tell one man from another by the written
letters of his pen," I answer. "They take a quick look and see
who painted it: Kuzma, Andrew or Procopius."
"But what do they look for?"
''There is a difference in the way of making the drawing, in
the plav: or building up of the colors, in the highlights of the
draperies, in the bright patches of color on the faces, and in the
ozhivka, the tiny bright lines on the figures."
He listened to it all, and I told him what I knew about the
Ushakov style and about Rublev's, and about the earliest Rus
sian artist Paramshin, the works of whose hands our pious tsars
and princes left as a blessing unto their children; and in their
testaments they bade their children preserve these icons as ap
ples of their eyes. 1 2
The Englishman immediately seized his notebook and asked
me to repeat the name of the artist and where he could see his
works. And I answer:
"You11 search for them in vain, sir: there's not even the mem
ory of them left anywhere."
'Where did they get to?"
''I don't know," I say. "Maybe turned into pipestems or traded
to the Germans for tobacco."
''That can't be," he says.
''Not at all," I answer. ''It's quite possible, and there are exam
ples of that sort of thing. The Popes in the Vatican in Rome
have a folding icon that our Russian painters Andrew, Sergey
and Nikita painted in the thirteenth century. It's a miniature
with many figures, so they say, and so astonishing that I've
heard even the greatest foreign artists go into raptures over the
marvellous workmanship when they look at it."
"How did it get to Rome ?"
"Peter I presented it to some foreign monk, and he sold it."
The Englishman fell to thinking and then said quietly that
in England every sort of painting is passed from one generation
to the next, and that is how they can tell who comes from
what ancestry.
'Well," I say, "we surely have been educated to do things dif
ferently, and our ties with the traditions of our ancestors are all
broken so that everything seems fresh-made, like as if the
whole Russian nation had just been hatched out yesterday by
some broody-hen in a patch of nettles."
'Well if your educated people are that ignorant," he says,
"then why is it that those who still do love their native tradi
tions don't try to support their own home-grown art?"
''There's no one for us to support, dear sir," I answer, "because
the new schools of art only corrupt the artist's feelings and tum
his mind to vanity. The original idea of lofty inspiration has
been lost; now they look to earthly things, and their art breathes
with earthly passion. Our modern artists began by taking Prince
Poternkin of Tauris as a model for the Archangel Michael, and
now they've gone so far as painting Christ the Savior as a
Hebrew. What more can we expect from such people? Who
knows what these wanton hearts might yet paint and command
us to worship? In Egypt the bull and the onion were revered as
gods; but we do not bow down to false gods and will not accept
a Jew's face for our Savior's, and no matter how artful these
paintings might be we consider them as obscene barbarity and

tum our backs on them inasmuch as there is a tradition from
our fathers saying that 'diversion of the eyes layeth waste to the
purity of reason as a damaged fountain spoileth the water."'
At this I finished and fell silent, and the Englishman says:
"Continue, please. I like to hear you express your views."
I answer:
'1 have said all I have to say." And he says:
"No, tell me some more about your notion of an inspired
work of art."
Now, my dear sirs, that is a rather perplexing question for a
simple man, but what was I to do? So I started in telling him
how the starry sky was painted in a Novgorod cathedral, and
then began explaining about the paintings in the St. Sophia Ca
thedral in Kiev where at the sides of Jehovah Sabaoth stand
seven winged archangels, not a bit like Poternkin of course, and
on the thresholds of the vestibule the prophets and patriarchs; a
step lower is Moses with his tablets, still lower is Aaron in a
mitre and with a flowering rod; on other steps are King David
in a crown, the prophet Isaiah with a scroll, Ezekiel with locked
gates and Daniel with a stone.13 And around these intercessors
pointing out the way of Heaven are displayed God's gifts
through which man might somehow attain this glorious path: a
book with seven seals- the gift of wisdom; a seven-branched
candlestick - the gift of reason; seven eyes - the gift of counsel;
seven trumpets- the gift of fortitude; a right hand amid seven
stars - the gift of sight; seven censers - the gift of piety; seven
bolts of lightning - the gift of fear of God. "That/' I say, "is paint
ing to elevate the spirit!"
The Englishman answers:
"Excuse me, my dear fellow, but I don't understand why you
say it elevates the spirit."
"Because such painting speaks clearly to the soul and tells a
Christian that he must pray and thirst in order to ascend from
the earth toward the inexpressible glory of God."
"But any one at all can comprehend that from Scripture and
from prayers/' he says.
"Not at all/' I answer. "Not everyone is given to comprehend
Scripture, and the minds of the uncomprehending are darkened
even in prayer: one man hears proclaimed 'mercies rich and
abundant' and bows down all athirst, thinking at once that they
are talking of money. But when he sees before him the whole
picture of heavenly glory, then he contemplates life's higher

prospect and understands how he can achieve this goal, because
it's all clear and comprehensible here. Let a man pray first for
the gift of the fear of God in his soul, and it will come at once,
easing his burden as he moves up step by step, and with each
step he acquires for himself the abundance of these gifts from
above. And then when he prays, money and all worldly glory
seem naught but an abomination before the Lord."
At this point the Englishman stands up and says merrily:
"And what about you, my queer fellows, what do you pray
for?"
"We pray," I say, "for a Christian end to our lives and for a
good answer at God's terrible judgement."
He smiled and suddenly pulled at a gilt cord on a green cur
tain, and behind the curtain the Englishwoman, his wife, is sit
ting by a candle in an armchair doing her knitting on long
needles. She was a beautiful lady, graciously kind, and although
she didn't speak much of our language she understood every
thing, and I suppose she wanted to hear our conversation on re
ligion with her husband.
And what do you think happened ? When the curtain hiding
her was drawn back she gets right up, nearly trembling; and the
dear lady comes up to me and Luka and stretches out both her
wee hands and says:
"Good people, good Rush'n people!"
Luka and I we kissed both her hands for those kind words,
and she pressed her lips to our peasant heads.
The storyteller stopped, covered his eyes with his sleeve and,
quietly wiping them, said in a whisper: "She touched your heart,
that woman did!" And when he had recovered he started anew:
After doing that kindly thing, this Englishwoman starts in

talking to her husband in their own language which we couldn't
understand, only we could tell by her voice that she was evi
dently asking something on our behalf. And the Englishman, it
seems, was pleased by this kindness on his wife's part and he
looks at her all glowing with pride and he keeps stroking her
head and cooing away like a dove in their own language "gud,
gud," or however it is they say it, only you could see he was
praising her and approving of something. And then he went up
the bureau, took out two hundred-ruble notes and he says:
"Here's some money for you, Luka: off you go now, and
search wherever you think you might find the expert icon
painter you need to do your job. He can do what you need and
he can also paint an icon in your style for my wife: she wants
to give it to her son. My wife wants you to take this money for
all of your trouble and expenses."
And she is smiling through her tears and saying rapidly:
''No, no! That money is from him. But I have my own." And
with these words she darts behind the door and comes out with
a third hundred-ruble note in her hand.
"My husband gave me this for a dress," she says, "but I want
you to have it. I don't need a dress."
Of course we tried refusing, but she wouldn't hear of it and
ran out, while he says:
''No," he says, "don't you dare refusei you take what she gives
you," and he turned, saying: ''Now be off with you, you queer
fellows!"
We weren't the least offended by being sent away in this manner,
because even though he turned his back on us, this English
man, we could see that he did it so as to hide that he was
touched to the heart himself.
And so it was, good sirs, that our very own native country
men found us guilty without a trial, while the Iglish nationality
gave us solace and put new fervor in our souls, just as if we'd
been cleansed and restored in a bath!
And from here on, good sirs, begins the real fullness of my
tale and I11 tell it to you in fewer words: how I with my silver
bridled Levontius set off to find the icon painter, of the places
we travelled through, of the people we saw, of what new won
ders were revealed to us and what, at last, we found and what
we lost and what we returned with.
Chapter X
First and foremost a man on a long journey needs a
companion. Both cold and hunger are easier to bear with a good
and clever comrade, and I had such a godsend in that marvel
lous lad Levontius. He and I set off on foot with our knapsacks
and a sufficient sum of money, and to protect it and our own
lives we carried a sturdy old short sabre which our people al
ways kept in case of some dangerous occasion. We travelled in
the guise of traders, thinking up reasons to explain our various
destinations as we went, but all the while, of course, keeping a
sharp eye out for our own business. The very first thing we did
was visit Klintsy and Zlynka; then we called on a few of our
own folk in Oryol but got no worthwhile results: we didn't find
any good icon painters anywhere. 1 4 And so we reached Moscow.
But what can I say? Alas for thee, 0 Moscow! 0 glorious queen
of the ancient Russian state! We of the old faith found little
solace in thee.
It pains me to tell you this, and yet I can't pass over it: the
spirit we found in Moscow was not the one we sought. We
learned that the old ways there were not maintained out of pi
ety and love of goodness but from stubbornness alone. And we
grew more and more convinced of this each day, so that Levon
tius and I began to feel shame before one another, for we both
saw things that would offend the eye of any peaceable follower
of our faith. But though each was ashamed himself, we kept si
lent about it before one another.
Of course we sought out some icon painters in Moscow, and
highly skilled they were too, but what was the good of it when
none of them had the spirit that the tradition of our fathers
tells about? In the old days pious artists would pray and fast be
fore undertaking some sacred work of art and would produce
just the same thing whether it were for big money or small, as
the honor of their elevated calling demands. But now you find
one artist painting with ink and another in oil and only for the
short span, not for the ages. They lay down a frail ground of
chalk, not al'baster, and they're lazy at building up their colors,
doing it all at one go and not like in the old days when they
laid on four and even five undercoats in paints as thin as water
to give them that marvellous delicacy they can't get nowadays.
Apart from the sloppiness of their art, the artists themselves are
all debased, always preening themselves before each other and
thinking nothing of running down their fellows. Or, even worse,
they collect in bands and carry out the craftiest deceptions to
gether, gathering in the taverns, drinking wine and praising
their own art with conceited arrogance while blaspheming the
handiwork of others by calling it "hellmarked." And always flut
tering around them, like sparrows after owls, are the dealers in
antiquities passing various ancient icons from hand to hand,
trading and substituting. They craftily age the boards by smok
ing them in chimneys and putting in worm holes to make them
look decrepit. They cast folding icons out of bronze from old
embossings and lay on enamel in the Old Testament style. They

make baptismal fonts from washbasins, putting on those old
plucked eagles such as were in the time of Ivan the Terrible,
displaying them and selling them to inexperienced believers as
genuine bronze fonts from that time, even though there's no
counting how many of these fonts are going round Russia. And
all of this is deceit and shameless lying. To put it briefly, all
these people are like black-skinned gypsies cheating one an
other at horsetrading, only with them its holy things; and it's
all done in such a way as you become ashamed for them and
see in all of it nothing but sin and temptation and abuse of the
faith. But those who have taken up these shameless habits care
nothing about that, and indeed there are many in Moscow who
are fond of it and even take an interest in this dishonorable bar
ter and boast about it: I swindled so-and-so in such-and-such a
way on a Deeisis, they say; and another one skinned someone
else on a St. Nicholas or even slipped someone a counterfeit
Madonna in some low way. And they do it all with much pas
sion, each one wanting to outscheme the others in using God's
blessings to chouse inexperienced believers. But Levontius and I,
being simple country folk devoted to God, found it all so un
bearable that we both fell to pining, and fear descended upon us.
"Has this ill-fated old faith of ours really come to such a pass
in these days ?" we think . But though I think it and he, I can
see, is keeping the same thing in his sorrowful heart, we don't
disclose it to one another; but I notice that my young lad keeps
seeking out a place where he can be alone.
And so I look at him once and think to myself: "Maybe in
his perplexity he has thought to do something improper/' and I
say:
''W"hy is it, Levontius, you seem to be a grieving so?"
"It's nothing, uncle/' he answers, "nothing much at all."
"Then let's go off to Bozheninova Street to the Erivan Tavern
to see if we can come to terms with some icon painters. Two of
them promised to come there today and bring some ancient
icons. I've already exchanged for one, and I want to get the other
today."1 5
But Levontius answers:
"You go by yourself uncle; I don't want to."
''W"hy don't you want to go ?"
"I just don't feel like it/' he answers. "I don't quite feel myself
today."
Well, I let him b e for a time, and then I try him again:
''Let's go, Levontyushka; come on, lad."
He bows sweetly and pleads:
"No, uncle, my white dove; let me stay home."
"Then why did you come as my helpmate, Leva, if you never
want to leave the house ? You're not much help to me this way,
dear lad."
"Dear father and master, Mark Alexandrovich," he says, "do
not bid me to go where people eat and drink and speak un
seemly words about holy things, for temptation may overcome
me."
This was his first open remark about his feelings, and it
struck at my very heart; but I did not try to argue with him but
went off alone and had a long conversation with two icon paint
ers and received a terrible affliction from them. It is fearsome to
tell you what they did to me! One of them changed an icon for
me for forty rubles and left. And then the other one says:
"Look well at that icon, sir, and do not bow down before it."
'Why is that?" I say.
And he answers: "Because it is hellmarked." And with this he
picked at it with his fingernail, and a layer of paint came off
the comer; and on the ground underneath was drawn a little
devil with a tail! He scratched off the paint in another place
and under it was another little devil.
''Lord!" I cried. 'Whatever is this?"
'1t means you should buy from me, not from him," he says.
And now I could clearly see that they were part of the same
gang and aimed to do me wrong in some dishonorable fashion
and so, leaving the icon, I departed from them with my eyes
full of tears, praising God that my Levontius, who was strug
gling for his faith, had not seen this. But as I drew near the
house I saw that there was no light in the window of the little
room we had rented, but delicate singing was wafting from it. I
could tell at once that it was Levontius' sweet voice, and singing
with such feeling that every word seemed washed in tears. I en
tered quietly so he should not hear me and stood in the door
way listening to him slowly intone Joseph's lament:
To whom shall I tell my grief,
Whom shall I summon for lamentations ?
If you happen to know this song you know that even by it
self it is so mournful that one cannot listen to it unmoved. But
Levontius is singing it and he himself is weeping and sobbing

that
My brethern have sold me into slavery!
And he weeps and weeps and sings of how he sees his moth
e r's coffin, and calls upon the earth to wail for the sin of his
brothers.
These words can always stir a person up, but at a time when
I had just fled from those brethren of mine who had tried to
skin me, they moved me particularly, and I broke out in sobs
myself. And Levontius, when heard me, stopped singing and
called out:
"Uncle, uncle!"
"What is it, my fine lad?" I say.
''Do you know who our mother is here in the song?" he says.
"Rachel," I answer.
"No," he says. '1n the days of old it was Rachel, but now we
must understand it as a mystery."
''How do you mean, as a mystery?" I ask.
'1 mean that the word mother is spoken as a symbol."
''Have a care, child," I say, "lest you commit your mind to
dangerous philosophy."
"No," he answers. '1 feel in my heart that our Savior still suf
fers on our account because we do not all seek him with one
mouth and one heart."
I got even more frightened at what he was leading to and say:
'111 tell you what, Levontyushka. You and I will leave Mos
cow as quickly as we can tomorrow for lands near Nizhny
Novgorod to seek out Sebastian the icon painter. He's there now,
I've heard."
"Let us go, then," he answers. "Some plaguey sort of spirit has
been troubling me here in Moscow, but there we11 have forests
and sweeter air. And," he says, '1 have heard there is a holy elder
Pamva in those regions, an anchorite wholly without envy or
wrath, and I would like to gaze upon him."
''The elder Pamva," I answer sternly, "serves the ruling church.
What need have we to look at him ?"
"But what harm is in it ?" he says. '1 should like to see him in
order to learn what manner of grace there is in the ruling
church."
I rebuked him, saying ''What manner of grace can be there at
all ?" But myself I feel that he is more right than I, since he
thirsts for experience, while I cast aside what I do not know.

But I keep up my stubbornness in opposing him and speak
much nonsense to him.
''Those church folk," I say, "do not gaze at the heavens with
faith; they look into Oristitle's Gates and determine their
course at sea by the star of the pagan god Remfan. 1 6 And now
you want to do the same ?"
"You're telling me tales now, uncle," Levontius answers.
''There never ever was a god Remfan, and everything has been
created by the same single Wisdom."
This made me even more stupid, and I say:
"Church folk drink coffee!"
"And what harm is in it?" answers Levontius. "Coffee is a
bean and was brought as a gift to King David."
'�d how do you know all this ?" I ask.
'1 read it in books," he says.
"Well know, then, that not everything is written in books."
"And what has not yet been written there ?" he says.
'What? What hasn't yet been written?" And I myself have no
idea of what to say and I snap at him:
"Church folk eat hares, and the hare is an unclean animal."
"Do not call what has been created by God unclean," he says.
''That's a sin."
''How can you not call the hare unclean when it is unclean,"
I say, "and when it is formed like unto an ass and has a femas
culine nature and gives rise to thick and melancholy blood in
a man ?"
But Levontius laughed and says:
"Sleep, Uncle. You speak with the voice of ignorance."
I must confess that I still had not divined what was going on
in the soul of this blessed youth, and I was happy that he did
not want to speak any more, for even I understood that in my
anger I was talking nonsense; and I fell silent and just lay there
thinking:
''Truly, these doubts have come to him because of his an
guish. But tomorrow we'll get up and be off, and then they all
will be dispelled." But in any case I made up my mind to walk
along with him in silence for a time so as to make it seem that
I am very angry with him.
Only with my unsteady will I had nowhere near the strength
to feign anger and soon began talking to Levontius again, only
not of religion, because he had read a powerful lot to argue with
me over that, but about the countryside we were passing

through which continually offered us views of the immense
dark forests through which our path led. I tried my best to for
get all my Moscow conversation with Levontius and decided to
observe but one caution, and that was to take care lest we
somehow run across this elder Pamva the Anchorite who held
so much attraction for Levontius and of whose lofty life church
people had told me unfathomable wonders.
''But," I think to myself, "what good is .there in such grieving?
Surely if I keep clear of him he will not find us!"
And again we go along peacefully and safely and finally,
when we had reached the regions we sought for, we got word
that Sebastian the painter was indeed in those parts and we set
off to seek him, going from town to town and village to village;
and we seem to be fresh on his trail and always just about to
catch him but somehow never catch ing him. We go racing along
just like a couple of hunting dogs, covering fifteen or twenty
miles at a stretch without resting, but when we arrive we're
told:
"He was here, indeed he was, but he left not more than an
hour ago!"
We rush off after him but can't catch him!
As so it was on one of those marches that Levontius and I
suddenly started in quarreling. I say: "We have to go right," and
he disagrees: ''To the left." And finally he had almost convinced
me, but I still insisted on my way. And we went on and on, and
at last I see I don't know where we've got to, and there is
neither path nor trail any more.
I say to the lad:
"Let us go back, Levontius."
And he answers:
"No, uncle, I can't go further - ! haven't any strength left at
all."
I got quite worried and say:
"What is the matter, child ?"
And he answers: "Can't you see the ague-fever ashaking me ?"
I look, and indeed he is trembling all over and his eyes are
wandering. And how suddenly it all happened, good sirs! He was
going cheerfully along, not complaining of anything, and sud
denly he sat down on the grass in a little grove, rested his head
on a rotted stump and says:
"Oh, my head, my head! My head is burning with fire and
flame! I can't walk; I can't go another step!" And he, the poor
lad, slumps and falls to ground.
It all happened just before evening.
I got terribly afraid, and while we were waiting there to see if
his ailment might not be relieved, night fell. It was the autumn
of the year; a dark, unknown spot, all round us mighty pine and
spruce like unto the Cedars of Lebanon, and the lad is simply
dying. What was I to do! I speak to him in tears.
"Levushka, my dear, try your hardest and maybe we can get
somewhere to spend the night."
And his little head droops like a wilting flower and he raves
just as if in a dream:
"Do not touch me, Uncle Mark; do not touch me and do not
be afraid."
I say:
"Leva, please, how can I help but be afraid in such an in-
human and inhospitable place ?"
And he says:
"The One who does not sleep but watches will preserve us."
I think: "Lord! What is happening to him? " Yet in my fear I
began listening and I hear something crackling afar off in the
forest . . . "Merciful Lord!" I think. "It must be some wild beast,
and he11 tear us to pieces at once!" And I don't call out to Le
vontius any more since I can see that his spirit has quite flown
out of him and is hovering about; and I only pray: "Angel of
Christ, watch over us in this terrible hour!" And I can hear that
snapping and crackling getting closer and closer, and now it's
quite near . . . And here, gentlemen, I must confess that I did a
very shabby thing: I grew so afeared that I abandoned the ailing
Levontius on the spot where he lay; more nimbly than a squir
rel I leapt up into a tree, drew out the sabre, and sat there on a
branch watching to see what would happen. And my teeth are
just aclicking together like a frightened wolf's. And as my eyes
become accustomed to the darkness I suddenly notice some
thing coming out of the forest, at first barely visible at all.
There's no telling whether it's a beast or a robber, but I stare
away at it and can make out that it is neither beast nor robber
but a very tiny old man with a pointed hat, and I can even see
that he has an axe thrust in his belt and a large bundle of wood
on his back. He came into the clearing and took a few big
breaths of air, as if he were taking in the smells all around him.
Suddenly he threw down the bundle and made straight for my
comrade, just as if he had caught the scent of someone there.

He came up to him, bent down, looked into his face, took his
hand, and says:
"Rise up, brother."
And what do you think happened ? I see him lift Levontius,
lead him straight to his bundle of wood, load it on his shoul
ders, and say:
"Carry this, and follow me."
And Levontius went and carried it.
Chapter XI
Good sirs, you can imagine how frightened I was at
such a miracle! This quiet, powerful old man had come out of
nowhere and raised up my Leva; and now Leva, who had only
just been at Death's very portals and couldn't even lift his head,
is carrying a bundle of wood!
I quickly jumped down from the tree; I slung the sabre across
my back on a cord, but broke off a healthy young sapling just in
case. Off I went after them and soon caught up. I see the old
man stepping along in front just as he appeared when I first
caught sight of him: small and bent, with little wisps of beard
as white as soap foam on his cheeks. And my Levontius is walk
ing cheerfully after him, step by step in his footprints, and look
ing at me. And no matter how much I tried to talk to him and
touch him, he paid no attention to me and went along as if in a
dream.
Then I ran up beside the old man and said:
"Good man!"
'What is it ?" he replies.
'Where are you leading us?"
'1 lead no one/' he says. "The Lord leadeth us all."
And with these words he suddenly stopped: and I see before
us a low wall and a gate with a little door cut through it. The
old man begins knocking at this door and calls out:
''Brother Miron! Hey, Brother Miron!"
An insolent voice replies rudely from inside:
"Once again you drag yourself back late at night. You can
stay in the forest! I won't let you in!"
But the old man just pleads and begs gently:
"Let me in, brother."
That insolent fellow suddenly opened up the door. I see he
wears the same kind of pointed hat as the old man, only he is a
churlish brute; no sooner does the old man step over the thresh
old than he gives him a push that near knocks him off his feet.
And the old man says:
"God save you, brother mine, for your good service."
"Lord!" I think. "Where have we come to ?" And then it struck
me like lightning, and I understood.
"Most Merciful Savior!" I thought. "This is that very same
man without wrath, Pamva himself! Better I had perished in the
wilds of the forest or been eaten by a wild beast," I think, "or
come upon a robber's den than here beneath his roof."
And as soon as he had led us into a kind of small shanty and
had lit a yellow waxen candle, I immediately realized that we
were indeed in the forest hermitage. Unable to bear it any
longer, I say:
"Forgive me for asking this of you, a pious man, but is it
seemly for my comrade and I to stay in this place where you
have brought us?"
And he answers:
"The earth and its fullness are the Lord's, and blessed are all
that live upon it. Lie down and sleep."
"But I must inform you," I say, "that we are of the Old Faith."
"We are all members of the single body of Christ," he says.
"He gathers in all of us."
And with this he showed us to a comer where he had made
a meager bed of bast matting on the floor; and at its head was a
round block of wood covered over with straw. And again he says
to us both:
"Sleep."
And what do you think? This l..evontius of mine just fell
right down like an obedient novice. But I, thinking to my own
security, say:
"0 man of God, allow me one more inquiry . . ."
He answers:
"What is there to inquire ? God knows it all."
"No, tell me," I say, "what is your name ?"
And he, just as if this concerned him not at all, says in an
old woman's sing-song:
"Some calls me duck, some calls me drake ." And having said
these empty words he was about to crawl with his candle into a
sort of tiny closet, as narrow as a wooden coffin, but from be
hind the wall that same insolent voice again cried out:
"Don't you dare light that candle: you11 set fire to our cell!
You read enough prayers by day; now pray in the dark!"
"I shan't light the candle, Brother Miron," he answers. "God
save you!"
And he blew out the candle.
I whisper:
''Father! Who is it that speaks so roughly to you ?"
And he answers:
"That is my servant Miron . . . a good man. He watches over me."
"Well enough of this!" I think. "It's Pamva the Anchorite and
none other, the man without envy or wrath. What a calamity!
He's found us now, and his word will eat us as doth a cankerP I
can only steal Levontius away tomorrow morning early at dawn
and flee to where he won't find us." And keeping this plan in
mind I resolved not to sleep but to watch for the first sign of
light to awaken the lad and flee.
And so as not to fall asleep and miss the first light I lie there
repeating the Credo the way it should be said in the old style;
and when I've said it once I add: ''This apostolic faith, this cath
olic faith, may this faith support the universe," and begin once
again. I don't know how many times I went through this Credo
to keep from falling asleep, but there were many. And the old
man just keeps on apraying in his coffin. There seems to be a
light coming from the cracks between the planks, and I can see
him bowing; and then suddenly I seem to hear a conversation,
and the most inexplicable kind of a conversation. It appeared as
if Levontius had gone in to see the old man, and that they are
talking about religion, only without words, just looking at one
another and understanding. And it seemed to me that this went
on for a long time, and I had already forgotten about repeating
the Credo and am listening to the old man tell the lad: "Go and
cleanse thyself," and he answers: "I shall be cleansed." And even
now I cannot tell you whether it was all a dream or not, only I
slept for a long time after that; and finally I woke up and saw it
was morning, completely light, and this old man, our host the
anchorite, was sitting with a bast shoe on his knees, picking
away at it with a spike. I began watching him closely.
Oh, but how fine he was, and how inspired! Just as if an an
gel were sitting before me plaiting bast shoes so as to look like
a simple, mortal man in this world.
I look at him and see that he is watching me and smiling,
and he says:
"Enough of sleep, Mark; it is time to do your task."

I reply:
''And what a task do I have, 0 man of God? Or do you know
everything?"
"I know," he says, "I know. When does a man undertake a
long journey without some task? Everyone, brother, everyone
seeks the Lord's path. May the Lord support your meekness.
May He support you!"
"What sort of meekness do I have, holy man ?" I say. "You are
meek; what sort of meekness can I have living in the vanity of
the world?"
And he answers:
''Ah no, brother, no, I am not meek: I am a man of great pre
sumption; I want a place for myself in the Heavenly Kingdom."
And suddenly, realizing this transgression, he folded his
hands and burst into tears like a little babe.
"0 Lord!" he prayed. "Be not angry at me for this inconstancy:
send me to the deepest pit of Hell and order demons to torment
me, for only of that am I worthy!"
"No," I think. "Glory be to God, this is not Pamva the saga
cious anchorite, but only some poor, weak-minded elder." I
thought that, because who in his right mind would reject the
Kingdom of Heaven and pray the Lord to send him to be tor
mented by demons? I had never heard anyone wish that in my
whole life, and thinking it folly I turned away from the elder's
tears, believing them an idolatrous affliction. But finally I
think: ''Why am I lying here ? It is time to get up." Only sud
denly I see the door open and my Levontius, whom I had quite
forgotten, comes in. And as soon as he entered he fell right at
the elder's feet and says:
"I have done it all, Father; bless me now."
And the elder looked at him and answers:
''Peace be unto thee: rest."
And that lad of mine, I see, bowed down before Pamva once
more and went out; the anchorite again took up his bast shoe.
I jumped right up, thinking:
"No, I'll go right off and fetch Leva and we'll fly from here
and not look back!" And with this I go out into the little entry
way and see my young lad lying flat on his back on a rough
plank bench without a pillow, his hands folded across his chest.
So as not to show my alarm I ask him out loud:
"Do you know where I might get a bit of water to wash my
face ?" And I whisper to him quietly: "By the living God I adjure
you, let us leave here at once!"
But I look closely at him and see that Leva is not breathing
. . . He has departed! He is dead!
And I wailed in a voice not my own:
"Pamva! Father Pamva, you have killed my young lad!"
Pamva came quietly out onto the threshold and says joyfully:
"Our Leva has flown away!"
I was even roused to anger.
"Yes," I answer through my tears, "he has flown away. You
have let his soul escape like a dove from a cage!" And throwing
myself down at the feet of the lad I moaned and wept over him
even unto evening, when the monks came from the little mon
astery, washed his holy remains, placed them in a coffin and
bore them away, because that same morning while I, the slug
gard, slept, he had joined the Church.
I said not a word more to Father Pamva and indeed, what
could I say to him: offend him and he will bless you; beat him
and he will bow at your feet. This man, with his meekness, is
invincible! What more could he fear when he even begs to be
sent to Hell ? No, it was not in vain that I was in fear and trem
bling lest his word eat us as a canker. He1l drive the very de
mons out of Hell with his meekness, or tum them to God!
They1l begin tormenting him and he will implore them: "Tor
ture me yet more cruelly, for only of that am I worthy." No, no!
Satan himself cannot withstand such meekness. He will thrash
him from all sides, tear at him with his claws, and will admit
his helplessness be fore Him who has created such love, and will
be put to shame.
And so I decided that this elder with the bast shoe was cre
ated for the ruination of Hell itself! And I spent the whole
night wandering in the forest not knowing why I did not depart
and always thinking:
"How, then, does he pray; in what manner and by what
books ?"
And I recall that I had not seen not a single holy image in
his hut, apart from a cross made of sticks and bound with a
wisp of bast, and had not seen any thick books either . . .
"0 Lord!" I make so bold to think. "If there are but two such
men in the Church then we are lost, for he is wholly inspired
by love."
And so I kept thinking of him, and suddenly, just before
morning, I had a powerful longing to see him even for a mo

ment before I departed.
And no sooner had I thought this when suddenly I hear once
more that same snapping of branches, and once again Father
Pamva comes forth with his axe and his bundle of wood. He
says:
"Why do you tarry? Do you not hasten to build Babel ?"
These words seemed most bitter to me and I said:
"Why do you reproach me so, holy elder? I am building no
Babel and I shun such abominations."
And he answers:
'What is Babel ? A pillar of vanity. Do not pride theyself in
the truth lest the angel hide his face from thee."
I say:
"Father, do you know why I am travelling?"
And I told him of all our grief. And he listened to it all and
answers:
"The angel is quiet, the angel is meek, and he clothes
himself as the Lord bids him. And he is charged, so he doeth.
Such is the angel! He lives in the hearts of men, besealed by the
vanity of the world, but love will smash the seal . . . "
And with this, I see, he draws away from me. But I cannot
take my eyes from him and, unable to help myself, I fell and
bowed to the earth after him; and I raise my face and see that
he is no longer there: either he has disappeared behind a tree or
flown the Lord knows where.
And then I began turning his words over in my mind, trying
to understand what he meant: "The angel lives in the heart but
has been sealed, and love will free him," and suddenly I think:
"And what if he is an angel himself and God ordered him to ap
pear before me in another form ? I shall die like Levontius!"18
And having made this surmise, I scarcely remember how I man
aged to cross the river on some sort of tree-trunk and set off
running: I covered forty miles without a stop, all the while
thinking fearfully that I might have seen an angel; and suddenly
I enter a village and find there Sebastian the icon painter. He
and I quickly reached an agreement and decided to set off the
very next day, but our accord was a cold one and we travelled
even more coldly. Why was that? Well, first because the painter
Sebastian was a man much given to reverie, but even more so
because I was not the same man myself: Pamva the Anchorite
dwelt in my soul, and my lips were whispering the words of the
prophet Isaiah: "The spirit of God is in the nostrils of this

man."19
Chapter XII
Sebastian the painter and I made our return jour
ney quickly, and when we arrived at the construction site one
night we found all was well there. When we had greeted our
own people we at once went to the Englishman Yakov Yakovle
vich. He, be ing so curious, wanted to see the painter at once
and kept looking at his hands and squeezing his shoulders, be
cause Sebastian had a pair of hands as huge as oars, and black
they were inasmuch as he himself was as black as a gypsy in
appearance. Yakov Yakovlevich says:
'1 am amazed, brother, that you can paint with a pair of
hams like that."
'Why not? How are my hands unsuitable ?"
"You'll never turn out any very delicate work with them."
"Why is that?" asks the painter.
"Because the joints aren't flexible enough to let your fingers
work."
"Nonsense!" says Sebastian. "Are my fingers to allow or not
allow me anything? I am their lord and they my servants and
they obey me."
The Englishman smiles.
"So you'll be able to make a copy of the sealed angel for us ?"
he says.
"Why not ?" he replies. '1'm not one to botch the job; I know
my trade . I'll make a copy that you'll not tell from the real one."
"Fine," said Yakov Yakovlevich. "We'll set about trying to get
the real icon at once; and in the meantime, just to reassure me,
you shall prove your art to me: paint an icon for my wife in the
old Russian style, one that she will like."
"On what subject ?"
"Well now, that I don't know," he says. "Paint whatever you
please; it is all the same to her as long as she likes it."
Sebastian thought for a while and asks:
'�d what does your wife most pray to God about?"
'1 don't know, my friend," he says, '1 don't know what she
prays about, but I think most probably about the children - that
our children should grow up to be honest people."
Sebastian again thought for a while and answers:
'1\[ery well, sir, I'll manage something that will please her."
'What will you paint ?"
"Something that will move your wife to contemplation, and
will deepen her spirit of devotion."
The Englishman gave orders for comfortable quarters to be
prepared for the artist in his own house, but Sebastian did not
set to work there : he chose a place by the window in the attic
over Luka Kirilov's upper chamber and there he set about his
business.
And what he did, my good sirs, we couldn't even imagine.
Since the subject was children, we thought that he would paint
Roman the wonder-worker, whom women pray to if they are
barren, or the Slaughter of the Innocents in Jerusalem, which
always pleases mothers who have lost infants, for there Rachael
weeps with them for the children and refuses to be comforted.20
But when this wise icon painter realized that the English
woman already had children and that her prayers poured forth
not for their material rewards but for the perfection of their
moral qualities, he went and painted something quite different
that fitted right in with what she had in mind. He chose an
old, very small board a pyadnitsa in size, that is to say, the span
of a man's hand, and began displaying his talents on it. First of
all, of course, he laid a good ground in strong Kazan alabaster so
that he had a base as smooth and strong as ivory, and then he
divided it into four equal parts and marked out each part for a
separate icon. He put gold borders on the varnished surfaces be
tween these four sections, which left him even less room to
work in. And then he began to paint. In the first quarter he
painted the birth of John the Baptist with eight figures and the
newborn babe and buildings as well; in the second, the birth of
Our Blessed Lady, the Mother of God, six figures and the new
born babe and buildings; in the third, the immaculate birth of
our Savior with the stable and the manger, Our Lady and Jo
seph, the pious wise men bowing low, the old woman Salomey,
and beasts of every semblance - cattle, sheep, goats, and asses,
and the s ukh olapl bird, forbidden to the Jews, painted as a sign
-
that this comes not from Jewry but from the Diety who has cre
ated all.21 And in the fourth section was the birth of Blessed
Saint Nicholas; and again here was the blessed saint as an in
fant, and buildings, and many figures standing before him. The
idea of it was in seeing before you people who had raised such
fine children; and what art there was, all the figures the size of
a pin, but all their life and movement quite plain and visible. In
the birth of the Virgin, for instance, there was Saint Anna,
painted as the Greek pattern book instructs: lying on her bed,
and standing before her are damsels playing with timbrels and
some holding gifts and others sunflowers and others candles. 22
One woman supports Saint Anna's shoulders; Joachim gazes
into the upper chambers; a woman washes the Holy Mother of
God in a font up to her waist; on one side is a maid pouring
water from a vessel into the font. The buildings are all laid out
by a compass, the upper parts green, the lower crimson, and in
this lower chamber sit Joachim and Anna on a throne; Anna is
holding the Most Holy Mother of God, and round them be
tween the buildings are stone pillars, scarlet draperies and a bal
uster in white and yellow . . . It was wondrous, t ruly wondrous
how Sebastian did it all, and every tiny-tiniest face expressed
pious contemplation. And he titled the icon "Good Children"
and brought it to the English people. They looked at it, studied
it, and just threw up their hands: never had they expected such
an invention, they said, and never had they heard of such fine
ness of tinyscopic detail, so that even if you looked in a tiny
scope you wouldn't find a single mistake. So they gave Sebastian
two hundred rubles for the icon and say:
"Could you do something even smaller than that?"
"I could," answers Sebastian.
''Then make me a copy of my wife's portrait the size of my
signet ring," he says.
"No, that I cannot do," says Sebastian.
"Why not ?"
''Because," he says, "in the first place I have never tried such
painting, and for another thing I cannot lower my art lest I fall
under the censure of my forefathers."
'What nonsense!"
"Not nonsense at all," he answers. 'We have a rule that comes
from our forefathers in the blessed times of old, and it is af
firmed in a document of the Patriarchate: 'For if one is consid
ered worthy of such sacred work as is the limning of icons, then
he of such surpassing virtue must paint naught but holy
icons."'23
Yakov Yakovlevich says:
"And if I give you five hundred rubles for it ?"
"You can promise five hundred thousand rubles, yet all the
same the money will rest with you."
The Englishman's face beamed and he said jokingly to his

wife:
"How do you like that? He thinks he is lowering himself to
paint your portrait?"
And he adds to her in Iglish: "Okh," he says, "gut karakter."
But finally he said:
"Look now, brothers, we'll set to and finish the job. But I see
that you have your own rules for all this, so mind you don't
miss or forget anything that might spoil the whole business."
We answer that there is nothing such as we can foresee.
"Well then, take care," he says. "I shall begin." And he went to
the bishop with a request, saying that he wants to show his
zeal and have the sealed angel's mounting gilded and his halo
embellished. The bishop says neither one thing nor the other to
this, neither refusing nor allowing. But Yakov Yakovlevich
doesn't let up and keeps trying to get his way. And we are wait
ing like powder for the flame.
Chapter XIII
At the same time, gentlemen, I ask you to re
member that not a little time had passed since this affair began,
and now it was the Christmas season. But don't think that
Christmas there was anything like it is here: that season there
is as willful as a spoiled child, and one year the holiday is cele
brated in snow and cold, while the next year goodness knows
what the weather is like. The rain soaks you one day, then the
frost nips at you, and then it thaws again; one day the waters
are coated with ice like a thin layer of lard, then the river
swells and carries off the chunks of ice just like high water in
spring. To put it briefly, it's a most changeable season, and the
people there don't speak of "weather'' at that time of year, they
call it slosh, that misery of wet snow and cold rain; and slosh
was a good name for it.
In the year in which all this happened, this inconstancy was
more of a trouble than ever. While I was coming back with the
icon painter I can't begin to count the times our folk got them
selves set up for winter and then had to go back to summer rig
again. But it was the hottest time of the year as far as the work
was concerned, because we had already finished all seven piers
and were stretching chains across from one bank to the other.
The bosses, of course, wanted to link up these chains as quickly
as they could so that they could hang at least some sort of tem
porary bridge on them for delivering material during the high
water. But they didn't manage it: no sooner had the chains been
stretched across than such a hard frost hit that it was impossi
ble to do any bridging at all. And that was how it remained: the
chains hung there by themselves with no bridge. But God cre
ated another bridge: the river froze over, and our Englishman
drove across the ice of the Dnieper to try to get our icon. When
he comes back he says to Luka and me:
"Wait for me tomorrow, lads," he says. '1'm bringing you your
treasure."
Lord, what didn't we feel then! At first we wanted to keep it
all in secret and only tell the painter, but do you think a man's
heart can hold itself back? Instead of keeping it in secret we ran
round to all our folk, knocking on everyone's windows, and all
of us are whispering to one another and running from house to
house all aquiver, seeing that it was a glorious, bright night
with the frost sprinkling glittering jewels over the snow and the
Hesper-Star a shining in the pure sky.24
After spending the night in such a joyous commotion, we
met the day in the same rapt expectation. From morning we
never leave the side of our icon painter, and we can't think of
enough things to do for him, because the hour has come when
everything depends on his skill. He only needs to tell us to pass
him this or to bring him that and ten of us go flying after it,
and we show so much zeal that we're knocking one another off
our feet. Even old Grandad Maroy was running about until he
caught the heel of his boot and tore it off. Only the painter
himself was calm, because this wasn't the first time he had
done this sort of thing. He had been making all his preparations
very deliberately: he had diluted some egg with kvas, checked
his varnish, prepared the canvas for the ground, and cut some well
aged boards to fit the size of the icon. Then he fixed a sharp
saw as thin as a string onto a bow made from a curved section
of sturdy barrel hoop. At last he sat by the window grinding the
colors he thinks he'll need with his fingers in the palm of his
hand. We all had a hot bath, put on clean shirts, and are stand
ing on the river bank looking at the city of sanctuary from
whence our radiant guest is to visit us. And sometimes our
hearts are fluttering and sometimes they're sinking . . .
Ah, but what moments those were, and they lasted from
early sunrise right unto evening; and suddenly we see that the
Englishman's sleigh is rushing across the ice from the city

straight toward us . . . A tremble passed over all of us: we cast
down our caps at our feet and we pray:
"0 God, Father to spirits and angels, have mercy on your
servants!"
And with this prayer we fell down on the snow, stretching our
arms out before us avidly; and suddenly we hear the English
man's voice over us:
"Hey, you Old Believers! Look what I've brought you!" And he
hands us a bundle in a white kerchief.
Luka took the bundle and his heart sank: he could feel it was
something small and lightweight! He raised a comer of the ker
chief and he sees that it is only the metal mounting that was
over the icon, and not the icon itself.
We rushed to the Englishman and, weeping, we say:
"Your Honor has been deceived. This isn't the icon - it's only
the silver mounting they've sent."
But now the Englishman didn't treat us the same as he had
earlier: probably this long drawn-out affair had got him annoyed.
'Why do you have to get it all confused!" he shouted. "You
told me yourselves that I was to get the mounting and I got it.
It seems that you don't even know what you need yourselves!"
Well, when we saw him boil over like that we tried to ex
plain very carefully that we needed the icon to make the copy,
but he wouldn't listen to us any more. He sent us off, and the
only kindness he showed was to ask the icon painter to be sent
to him. Sebastian went, and the Englishman boiled up in the
very same way:
"Those peasants of yours don't know what they want them
selves," he says. ''First they ask for the mounting because they
said you only needed to get the dimensions and make an out
line, and now they're howling that it isn't any use at all. But I
can't do anything more for you, because the bishop won't give
me the icon. Make a copy as quick as you can; we11 put the
mounting on it and give it back, and the bishop's secretary will
steal the old one for me."
But Sebastian the painter, being a sensible man, charmed
him with soft words:
''No, Your Honor," he says. "Our lads know their business,
and we really do need the genuine icon. People have only
thought up something to insult us when they say that we use
the pattern books just like stencils. The pattern book sets out
the rules, but the artist is given full freedom in carrying them
out. For instance, the pattern book instructs us to paint St. Zo
sima and St. Hieronymous with a lion, but how the lion is
painted depends on the painter's imagination. The pattern book
says that St. Neophyte is painted with a dove, St. Conan the
Gardener with a flower, St. Timothy with a coffer, St. George
and St. Savva the warrior with lances, St. Photius with an alms
purse, and St. Condratus with clouds, since he formed clouds.25
But each painter is free to portray these things as his own artis
tic imagination permits him, and therefore I have no way of
knowing how this angel I must copy has been done."
The Englishman listened to it all and sent Sebastian away as
he had sent us, and we don't hear any more from him. And so,
good sirs, we sit by the river like a flock of ravens on a ruined
tower not knowing whether to fall into complete despair or to
hope for something else, but we no longer dare go to the
Englishman. And to make matters worse even the weather took
on the same mood as we had: a dreadful thaw set in, the rain
started sprinkling down, the sky at midday was like sooty
smoke and the nights so black that even the Hesper-Star, that
never leaves the firmament of heaven in December, was hidden
and didn't peep out even once . . . A prison for the soul, that was
what it was! And thus the Birthday of our Savior arrived, and
on the Holy Eve itself the thunder clapped, the rain poured
down without ceasing for two days and then three. The snow
was all washed away and carried into the river, and on the river
the ice began to tum blue and swell. Suddenly, on the last day
of the year but one, it all pressed together and began to move. It
rushes downstream and hurls chunk after chunk through the
murky wave, and the whole river is jammed against our con
structions. Blocks of ice pile up on one another like mountains
and they leap and clang together, Lord forgive me, just like de
mons . . . It was even a marvel how our constructions could bear
up to such relentless pressure. A terrible lot of millions could
be destroyed, but we weren't thinking about that because Sebas
tian the painter, seeing that there was no work for him to do
among us, ran out of patience: he packs his belongings and
wants to go off to other parts, and there is no way we can stop
him.
And the Englishman had other things on his mind as well,
because this spell of bad weather near drove him out of his
mind: we heard that he just kept pacing back and forth asking
everyone, "What can we do? What can we do ?" Then suddenly he
somehow took himself in hand and he calls in Luka and says:
"Tell you what, my man, shall we go and steal your angel?"
Luka answers:
"I agree to that."
Luka figured that the Englishman just had the itch to experi
ence some dangerous operations for himself. The Englishman
decided that he and the painter would go to the bishop in the
monastery tomorrow, telling the bishop that Sebastian was a
gilder and asking to show him the icon of the angel so that he
could make a detailed tracing of it supposedly for the mount
ing. But all the while he11 get as close a look at it as he can
and then paint a copy of it at home. We11 get the mounting
from the real gilders, and Yakov Yakovlevich will go to the mon
astery again and say that he wants to watch the bishop's holiday
service. He11 stand in his overcoat in a dark comer of the altar
near the credence table where they keep our icon on the win
dow and he11 slip it under the skirt of his coat. Then he11 give
his coat to his servant as if from the heat, and order him to
take it out. In the yard behind the church one of our people
will take the icon from the overcoat and fly with it here, to our
side of the river: and here, while the midnight service is going
on, the painter will remove the icon from the old wood, put in
the copy, put on the mounting, and send it back in the same
way. Yakov Yakovlevich will put it on the window again as if
nothing had happened.
"Well then, what do you think?"
"We11 agree to anything," we say.
"But mind now," he says, "remember that I'm playing the role
of a thief and I want to believe that you11 not betray me."
Luka Kirilov answers:
"We are not people of such spirit, Yakov Yakovlevich, that we
would betray our benefactors. I will take the angel and bring
both back to you, the original and the copy."
"And what if something should keep you from getting back
in time ?"
'Whatever could keep me ?"
"Well, suppose you suddenly die or drown?"
Luka wonders how anything could hinder him, and yet he re
alizes that sometimes it really does happen that a well-digger
will uncover a treasure and a man going to market will come

upon a pair of mad dogs, and so he answers:
"In that event, sir, I will leave you one of my men who will
take all the blame on himself and will suffer death but will not
betray you."
'�d who is this man you put such reliance on?"
"Maroy the blacksmith," answers Luka.
"That's the old man ?"
"Yes, he's not young."
"But he's stupid, isn't he ?"
'1t is not his mind we need now; the fact is, this man has a
worthy spirit."
'What kind of spirit can a stupid man have ?" he says.
"A man's spirit, sir," answers Luka, "does not always tally with
his reason: it draws breath wheresoever it will, and grows like
the hairs on a man's head: long and abundant on one, meager
on another."
The Englishman thought about this and says :
"Very well, very well: this is quite interesting as pure specula
tion. But how will he help me out if I get into trouble ?"
'1'11 tell you," answers Luka. "You will be standing by the win
dow inside the church and Maroy will stand under the window
outside; and if I don't return with the icons by the e nd of the
service, then he will break the glass and crawl through the win
dow and take all of the blame on himself."
This appealed to the Englishman very much.
"Curious," he says. "Most curious! And why should I believe
that this stupid man of spirit of yours will not run off himself?"
'Well now, that is a matter of mutual trust."
"Mutual trust, you say, humph, mutual trust! I could go to
prison for a stupid peasant, or he could go under the lash for
me. Hmm, yes. If he keeps his word . . . under the lash . . .
That's interesting."
They sent for Maroy and explained what was to happen; and
he just says:
'Well, and so?"
"You won't run off?" says the Englishman.
'Why should I ?" Maroy answers.
"So as not to be whipped and sent to Siberia."
"Just listen to that now!" says Maroy, and would say no more.
The Englishman cheered right up and became quite lively.
"Charming," he says. "How interesting."
Chapter XIV
Right after the arrangements had been made the
main operation began. In the morning we manned the bosses'
large longboat and rowed the Englishman across to the city side.
He and Sebastian got into a carriage there and drove off to the
monastery. An hour or more later we see our painter come run
ning toward us; he has a sheet of paper with a tracing of the
icon.
"Have you had a good look at it, dear friend, and can you
manage to make a copy now?"
'1 have," he answers, "and I can manage. The copy may be a
wee touch livelier, but that's not a calamity: when they bring
the real icon I can quiet down the brightness of the color in a
minute."
"Then do your best," we implore him.
'1t will be all right," he answers. '1'11 manage it for you."
And as soon as we brought him back, he sat right down to
work and by twilight he had got an angel on his canvas that was
as like our sealed one as one drop of water to another, only the
colors seemed a little bit fresher.
Toward evening the gilder also brought the new mounting,
because it had already been ordered from the pattern of the old
one we had borrowed earlier on.
The most dangerous hour of our thieving expedition had
arrived.
Of course we had made all our preparations and before eve
ning we said our prayers and are awaiting the proper moment;
and as soon as the first bell rang for the midnight service in the
monastery on the other bank, the three of us, Grandad Maroy,
Uncle Luka and I, got into a small boat. Grandad Maroy took
along an axe, a chisel, a crowbar and a rope so as to look more
like a thief, and we rowed straight to the monastery wall.
Twilight, of course, comes early at that time of the year, and
the night, in spite of the full moon, was pitch black, a regular
thieves' night.
When we had crossed over, Maroy and Luka left me to keep
watch in the boat while they stole into the monastery. I shipped
the oars and tied up the rope and wait impatiently to row right
off as soon as Luka sets his foot in the boat. The time seemed
terribly long to me because of the anguish of waiting. How
would it all turn out? Could we manage to conceal our thievery
and return before Yespers and midnight services were over? And
it seems to me that hours and hours have gone by already. The

darkness is terrible, the wind tears at me, and instead of rain, a
wet snow carne sweeping down and the wind began heaving the
boat; and I, the crafty slave I am, began to drift off to sleep as
little by little I began to get warm in my coat. But suddenly
something jolted the boat and it began rocking. I started and I
see that Uncle Luka is standing in it. He says in a choked voice
not his own:
"Row!"
I take the oars, but in my fear can't manage to fit them into
the oarlocks. When I finally get them set right and push off
from shore I ask:
"Did you get the angel, Uncle?"
"He's with me; now row with all your might!"
"Tell me how you got him/' I ask.
"We got him surely and certainly as we said we would."
'�d do you think we11 have time to bring back the copy?"
"We ought to: they've only just begun shouting out the great
Prokimenon.26 Now row! Where are you heading?"
I look around and, 0 lord! I'm not rowing in the right direc
tion. I seem to be holding it straight across the current as I
should, but there's no sign of our settlement. And that is be
cause the snow and the wind are fearsome: the snow sticks to
your eyes, and the wind howls all around us. The boat is tossed
about, and an icy breath is blowing down the river.
Still, with God's help we reached the shore; we hopped out of
the boat and ran off at the double. The painter is ready: he
moves coolly but confidently. First he took the icon in his
hands, and after we had fallen on our knees and bowed before it, he
let us all come near to cross ourselves before the sealed coun
tenance. He looks at the angel and then at his copy and says:
"A fine copy! Only I11 have to quiet it down a wee bit with
some mud and saffron." Then he took the icon and clamped it
edgeways in a vise; he tried the little saw he had fixed to the
bow, then set that saw afluttering. We all just stand looking to
see how much damage he will do! If you can imagine, with
those clumsy big hams of his he was sawing off a piece of wood
as thin as a sheet of the finest writing paper . . . A dreadful ca
lamity could happen any second: I mean, if the saw went wrong
by even a hair's breadth it would jump through and tear the
countenance of the angel. But Sebastian the painter did this
whole operation with such coolness and art that looking at him
your soul grew more and more calm. And so he did it: he man·
aged to lift off the painting on a thin, thin sheet of wood. In a
moment he had cut the borders off this sheet and glued them
back on their own wood. Then he took his copy, crumpled it up
in his fist and set to scutching it on the edge of the table and
rolling it about in his palms as if he wanted to tear it and ruin
it completely; finally he held the canvas up to the light, and we
see that the new copy is all covered in cracks like a sieve . . .
Then Sebastian took and glued it to the old wood, right be
tween the borders. He took some sort of dark-colored mud in
his palm, kneaded it with some old varnish and saffron into a
paste and set to rubbing it firmly into the cracked copy with
the palm of his hand . . . It took but a minute, and when he was
done this newly-painted icon looked old and exactly like the
genuine one. He gave the copy a quick coat of varnish, and
while some of our folks put on the mounting, Sebastian took
the genuine painting he had sawn out and glued it onto the
wood he had prepared for it. Then he asked us to get him a
scrap from an old felt hat right away.
And here began the most difficult operation of unsealing.
We gave the painter a hat, and he quickly tore it in half over
his knee, covered the sealed icon with it and cried:
''Pass me the hot iron!"
On his instructions we had been heating a heavy tailor's iron
in the stove.
Mikhailitsa hooked it out and passed it to him with some
tongs; Sebastian wrapped a rag around the handle, spat on the
iron, and just smashed it down on the scrap from the hat!
Straight away an evil stench rose up from the felt, but the
painter rubbed it again and again, then pulled it smartly back.
His hand strikes out as quick as lightning; the smoke from the
felt still billows up in a pillar, but Sebastian just goes on baking
it. He turns the felt a bit with one hand and works the iron
with the other, and each time he does it more slowly but leans
on it harder. Suddenly he casts aside both the felt and the iron
and raises the icon to the light, and it is just as if it had never
been sealed: the strong Stroganov varnish has held up, and the
sealing wax has all come off, only it seems as if just a bit of
fiery red dew remained on the angel's countenance; but yet that
divinely radiant countenance is completely visible.
At this point some of us were praying, some weeping, some
pressing up to kiss the painter's hands; but Luka Kirilov wasn't
forgetting his job and, treasuring the minutes, hands the painter
his copied icon saying:
"Quick now, and finish the job!"
"My work is finished," Sebastian answers. "I have done every-
thing I undertook to do."
''But put on the seal."
'Where ?"
"Right here on the countenance of this new angel, just like
the other one had."
But Sebastian shook his head and answers:
"No, I am not an official to dare do a thing like that."
"Then what are we to do now?"
'Well, that I don't know," he says. "You would have to keep an
official or a German around for that sort of work, but since you
haven't any of them on hand, you shall have to seal him your
selves."
'What are you saying!" says Luka. 'We would never dare to do
a thing like that!"
"I don't dare either," says the painter.
And a great confusion arose amongst us in those short min
utes; suddenly Yakov Yakovlevich's wife comes flying into the
house pale as death, saying:
"Are you not prepared yet ?"
We say that we're ready and we're not ready: we've done the
most important things but we can't do the least.
And she chatters on in her own language:
'What on earth are you waiting for? Can't you hear what's
happening outside?"
We listened and grew even more pale than she: what with all
our worries we had paid no attention to the weather and now
we hear a rumble. The ice is moving!
I flew out the door and see chunks of ice are already pressed
together all across the river like a herd of maddened beasts, one
piece leaping atop another and falling aside, rumbling and
breaking up.
Like a madman I rushed to the boats, but not one of them is
left: they have all been swept away . . . My tongue lay in my
mouth like an old rag so that I could not move it, and my ribs
sank into one another just as if I were slipping into the ground
. . . I stood there, not able to move and not able to call out.
While we are rushing about in the dark the Englishwoman,
left alone in the house with Mikhailitsa, had found out what
Leskov: THE SEALED ANCEL 65
the delay was. She seized the icon and a minute later she comes
rushing out on the porch with it and a lantern.
"There you are, it's ready!" she cries.
We looked: on the countenance of the new angel was a seal!
Luka at once tucked both icons in his bosom and cries:
"A boat!"
I break the news that the boats have been swept away.
And the ice, let me tell you, was pressing together like a
herd of horses, breaking against the ice-cutters and shaking the
bridge so that at times you could hear how those chains, as
broad as a good-sized floorboard, were still letting out low rum
bles. When the Englishwoman realized what was happening she
clasped her hands and screamed in an inhuman voice: "James!"
and fell down lifeless.
And we stand there, all thinking the same thing:
"And what of our word? What will happen to the Englishman
now? What will happen to Grandad Maroy?"
And just at that moment we heard the third peal of bells ring
out from the monastery.
Uncle Luka suddenly started and cried out to the Englishwoman:
"Wake up, ma'am, your husband will be spared; and if the
hangman lashes our old Grandad Maroy's decrepit skin and dis
figures that honest face with his brand, it will be only after my
death!" And with these words he crossed himself, stepped for
ward and was gone.
I cried out:
''Uncle Luka, where are you going ? Levontius has perished
and you will perish too!" And I rushed to stop him, but he
picked up one of the oars I had thrown down when he arrived,
waved it at me and shouted:
"Get away, or I11 smash you dead!"
Gentlemen, in my tale I have been open enough about admit
ting my faintheartedness to you, such as the time when I left
the late lad Levontius on the ground while I j umped up in a
tree; but verily, I tell you that I would not have been frightened
of that oar and would not have drawn back from Uncle Luka
you can believe me or not as you like - but at the very moment
I recalled Levontius' name, in the darkness between Luka and
me appeared the shape of that same lad shaking his fist at me.
That was a terror I could not withstand and I darted back. Luka
is already standing on the end of the chain and suddenly, after
testing it with his foot, he calls to us through the storm:
"Begin the Katabasis!"27

Our head singer Arefa was standing there and obeyed right
off and struck up "I shall open my lips"i and the others took it
up and we shout out the Katabasis, fighting against the howl
ing of the storm. But Luka has no mortal dread and walks along
the chain of the bridge. In one minute he has crossed over the
first span and is descending on the next . . . And after that?
After that darkness embraced him and he was not to be seen:
we know not if he is still going on or if he has already fallen
and the accursed ice chunks are grinding him up in the abyss,
and whether we ought to give thanks for his salvation or sob for
the peace of his steadfast and honorable soul.
Chapter XV
And now what was happening on the other side of
the river? The Most Reverend Lord Bishop was celebrating the
mass in the main church as usual, little knowing that a robbery
was going on in his side altar at the same time. Our English
man Yakov Yakovlevich, with the bishop's kind assent, was
standing in the neighbouring side-chapel in the altar. After
stealing our angel, he had sent it out of the church in his over
coat as he had intended, and Luka had rushed off with it. And
Grandad Maroy, faithful to his word, remained in the yard under
the same window waiting for the last minute when, if Luka
should not return and the Englishman should step away, he
would break the window and crawl into the church with his
crowbar and chisel like a real felon. The Englishman doesn't
take his eyes off him and sees that Grandad Maroy is standing
in good order precisely where he was told to. Whenever Grandad
Maroy notices the Englishman pressing his face to the window
to check on him, he nods as if to say: "Here I am, the thief
who11 answer for it!"
And so in such a manner they display their noble intentions
to one another, neither allowing the other to surpass him in
trust and faith. And a third, yet stronger faith draws near to
them, but they know not what that third faith is working. So when
the last bells were rung at the midnight service the Englishman
quietly opened the little hinged pane in the window so Maroy
could crawl in. And he is all ready to withdraw, but suddenly
he sees that Grandad Maroy has turned away and isn't looking
at him but is staring fixedly across the river repeating:
"God, bear him across! God, bear him across!" And then he
suddenly jumps up and starts dancing around just like a drunk
ard shouting: "God bore him across! God bore him across!"
Yakov Yakovlevich fell into great despair, thinking:
''Well, that's the end: the stupid old man has gone off his
head and I'm finished." But then he looks, and Maroy and Luka
are already embracing.
Grandad Maroy lisps:
"I beheld you walking along the chain with the lanterns."
"I didn't have any lanterns," says Uncle Luka.
''Where did the illumination come from?"
''I don't know," answers Luka. ''I didn't see any illumination. I
just ran along at the double and don't know how I made it
across without falling . . . Truly it seemed that someone was
bearing me under the arms."
''Those were angels," Maroy says. ''I saw them and so now I
shall not live till noontime but will die this very day."
Luka had little time for talking and didn't answer Grandad but
quickly passed both icons through the window to the English
man. He took them, but hands them back.
''Why isn't there any seal ?" he says.
''What do you mean?" asks Luka.
''There isn't a seal."
Well, Luka just crossed himself and says:
"Now, it's finished! There's no time to fix it. This is a miracle
wrought by the angel of the church, and I know what it signifies."
Luka rushed right into the church, pushed his way to the
altar where the bishop was being disrobed and, falling at his
feet, says:
''I have committed a sacrilege." And he explained what he
had done. "Order me to be put in chains and sent to prison."
But the bishop, to do him credit, heard him out and gave his
answer:
''This should be an inspiring demonstration to you of where
the faith is more efficacious: you," he says, "have removed the
seal from your angel through a knavish trick, while ours re
moved his own seal and led you here."
Uncle says:
''I see, my Lord, and I tremble. Order me to be taken and
punished."
But the bishop answers in words of absolution:
''By the power granted me from God, I forgive and absolve
you, my son. Prepare to accept the holy body of Christ on the

morrow."
Well, gentlemen, I think there's nothing much more to tell
you: Luka Kirilov and Grandad Maroy return in the morning
and say:
"Fathers and brothers, we have seen the glory of the angel of
the ruling church and have seen his divine providence made
manifest in the church's hierarch; and we ourselves have been
anointed into it with holy oil and this day after the mass have
taken the body and blood of the Savior."
And for some time, ever since our stay with the elder Pamva,
I had had the urge to become one in soul with the rest of Holy
Rus, and I cried out on behalf of all of us:
"And we are with you, Uncle Luka!" And so all of us were
gathered together in one flock like lambs under one shepherd
and only now did we begin to understand whence and to what
our sealed angel was leading us, as first he departed from us and
then became unsealed through the love of one person to another
as was made manifest on that terrible night.
Chapter XVI
The teller finished his tale. The listeners kept silent
for a moment, but finally one of them cleared his throat and re
marked that everything did have an explanation in this story: Mik
hailitsa's dreams, the vision that appeared to her when she was only
half awake, the fall of the icon that a stray cat or dog had knocked
to the floor, the death of Levontius, who had been ill even before
he met Pamva; the accidental coincidences in Pamva's words, who
spoke in some sort of riddles, could also be explained.
''I can even understand," the listener added, ''how Luka crossed
over on the chain with his oar: stonemasons are famous for their
ability to walk and craw 1 wherever they like, and the oar helped him
keep his balance. It's plain enough that Maroy might see a light shin
ing round Luka that he took for angels. What wouldn't dazzle the
eyes of a man who is straining to see through the darkness and whds
freezing cold as wel l ? I could even understand if Maroy died before
the day was out as he had foretold . . ."
"Yes, he did die," replied Mark.
"Splendid! Here again there is nothing astonishing if an eighty
year-old man dies after a night of such agitation and cold. But what
I really cannot explain is the disappearance of the seal the English

woman put on the new angel."
'Well now, that's the simplest thing of all," Mark replied happily,
and told of how they found this seal shortly thereafter between the
icon and the mounting.
"How could that happen?"
"Just like this: the Englishwoman also didn't dare mar the angel's
countenance, so she put the seal on a piece of paper and slipped it
under the edge of the mounting . . . She did it very cleverly and skill
fully, but the icons were shaken about when Luka was carrying them
in his bosom, and so the seal slipped off."
"So now it seems that the whole thing was simple and natural."
"Yes, many do suppose that it all happened in the most ordinary
way, and not just educated gentlemen who have heard about it, but
also our own brethren who remain in dissension and who mock us,
saying that an Englishwoman slipped us into the church on a scrap
of paper. But we don't dispute with such reasoning: as each believes,
so he judges. It is all the same for us what manner the Lord seeks
out men, and which vessel he fills them from so long as he keeps
seeking them out and quenching their thirst for spiritual unity with
their fatherland. But look now, those lazy louts of peasants are al
ready crawling out from under the snow. Looks like the dear lads
have had their rest and will soon be setting off. Maybe they11 take
me along as well. St. Vasily's Eve has passed. I've t ired you out and
tried your patience a good deal with my ramblings. And so I have
the honor to wish you a Happy New Year and ask you to forgive me
and my simple manners for the sake of Christ."
Notes to "The Sealed Angel"

1. December 3 1 .
2 . The Novgorod School flourished i n the 14th and 15th Centuries and was
noted for its simplicity and use of vivid color. The Stroganov School attempted
to maintain and develop the Novgorod tradition in the late 16th and early 17th
centuries and was noted for its miniature icons. D.A. Rovinsky, an early student
of icon painting and a contemporary of Leskov notes: "The Stroganov icon paint
ers . . . were the first to regard icon painting as an art and to concern themselves
not only with preserving symbolism and tradition but also with beauty of exe
cution and variety of form. They created new drawings and very seldom copied
the same icon without making alterations and additions. With them the techni
cal side of icon painting reached its height, especially in miniature paintings,
the like of which is not found in other schools" (D. A. Rovinskij, Obozrenie ikono
pisaniia v Rossii do konca XVII veka [St. Petersburg: A. Suvorin, 1903[, p. 57j.
3. Deeisis jdeisus) - a triptych showing Christ enthroned and flanked by the

Virgin Mary on his right and John the Baptist on his left. The flanking figures
are beseeching Christ to forgive the sins of humanity.
Savior Not-Made-By-Hands - an icon based on a legendary portrait of Christ
supposed to have been given to Abgar IV; King of Edessa. The "washed hair" re
fers to the way in which Christ's hair was painted.
Indiction - an icon devoted to September 1, the beginning of the liturgical
year. This was the first icon in the pattern book.
The Holy Festivals- the twelve principal feasts of the church year.
The Calendar- a series of icons, usually twelve, portraying various saints but
not linked by theme. Individual icons were used on appropriate saints' days.
The Congregations -an icon portraying the Archangels Michael or Gabriel
holding an icon of Christ as a youth and surrounded by a host of angels.
Triune God- God the Father seated on a throne holding Christ Emmanuel
on his knee.
The Hexameron - an icon representing the six days of Creation.
The Healers - an icon with various saints who were reputed to heal specific
illnesses.
The Septarium - an icon with pictures representing the special significance
of each day of the week, i.e., Sunday, the Resurrection; Friday, the Crucifixion, etc.
The Old Testament Trinity- the three angels who visited Abraham to an
nounce the forthcoming birth of Isaac (Genesis 18).
Palekh - a village in Vladimir Province, northwest of Moscow; a noted cen
ter of icon painting.
The attitude of Leskov's Old Believers toward their icons is borne out by the
evidence of Mel'nikov-Pechersky, one of nineteenth-century Russia's greatest au
thorities on sectarians: "With a fervor that goes beyond reason, they revere as
holy only their own icon, in the knowledge that it is old or was painted by a
pious man. Not revering others' icons, they carry their own when they travel,
and whether in their own houses or someone else's, pray only to this icon, not
allowing others, even those closest to them, to pray to it. In sectarian villages
of 'priestless' sects one can often find two or three icons in every comer of their
crowded huts, each one covered with a cloth. The man of the house prays to one,
the wife to another; and in the most prominent 'honored' comer yet another icon
is set aside for the younger members of the family who still live in sin and the
vanity of the world, and for visitors" jP.I. Mel'nikov [Andrej Pe�erskij] "Pis'ma o
raskole," Sobranie so�inenij v �esti tomax [Moscow: Pravda, 1963], 6:222).
4. Bezaleel -the craftsman who built the Tabernacle for Moses (Exodus 35-
39).
5. The Nicholas Suspension Bridge spanning the Dneiper. "This bridge, which
is 112 M. long and supported by seven piers, five of which are in the water, was
constructed by the English engineer Charles de Vigneroles in 1 848-53 at a cost
of 2 112 million rubles" jKarl Baedeker, Russia: A Handbook for Ttavelers, [Leip
zig: Baedeker, 1914], p. 382).
6. Hooks - the ancient system of notation for Orthodox church music. The
system has never been fully deciphered.
Z mermecolion jmra110lev) -an imaginary animal, half ant and half lion, that
originated from a mistranslation. jSee Jorge Luis Borges with Margarita Guer
rero, The Book of Imaginary Beings, rev., enlarged, and tr. Norman Thomas di
Giovanni [New York: E.P. Dutton, 1967], p. 157.)
8. Belial -epithet of Satan je.g., I Samuel 25:25).
9. Herodias-wife of Herod the Tetrarch who urged the execution of john the
Baptist.
10. "'. . . because these two prophets tormented them that dwelt on the eanh"
(Revelation 1 1 : 10).
1 1 . Peter Mohyla ( 1 596-1647). Metropolitan of Kiev. His service book was
published in 1646, before the great schism in the Church.
12. Simon Ushakov ( 1626-86). One of the earliest Russians to introduce ele-
ments of naturalism into icon painting.
Andrey Rublev (ca. 1360- 1430). The greatest Russian icon painter.
Paramshin. Russian icon painter and goldsmith active in the 14th century.
13. The pattern book describes an icon of the Virgin enthroned, honored by
prophets and patriarchs, among whom are: "Ezekiel (xliv.2), holding a gate, says
upon a scroll: 1 have beheld you, closed gate of God! by which the sole God of
the universe hath gone fonh!'" and "Daniel (ii.34), holding a mountain, says upon
a scroll: 1 have forenamed thee as a spiritual mountain, whence a stone was cut
out, 0 spotless Virgin Mother!"' (Adolphe Napoleon Didron, Christian Iconog
raphy: The History of Christian Art in the Middle Ages, 2 vols., tr. E.j. Millington
[New York: Frederick Ungar, 1965], pp. 350-51.)
14. Klintsy, Zlynka, Oryol - Old Believer centers in Chemigov and Oryol
Provinces.
1 5. To speak of "buying" an icon was considered desecration. Icons were "ex
changed" for money.
16. Oris title's Gates actually Aristotle's Gates, an anthology of Greek ori
-
gin declared heretical in the 16th century.

Remfan- actually Rephan: "And you took up the tent of Moloch and the star
of the god Rephan . . ." (Acts 7:43).
1 7. canker-"Their word will eat as doth a canker." (II Timothy 2: 1 7).
18. The belief that one would weaken or die after seeing an angel probably
comes from Daniel 8: 1 7- 1 8 and 10:5- 1 7.
1 9. Actually job 27:3 ". . . and the spirit of God is my nostrils."
20. Romanus the Wonder Worker. Romanus' Feast Day is November 27.
". . . born at Rumana, near Antioch, he lived in a miserable hut, with no fire or
light, and wore a heavy iron chain and a rough hair shin. He possessed the gift
of healing the sick." (F.G. Holweck, A Biographical Dictionary of the Saints (St.
Louis and London: B. Holweck, 1924], p. 865.)
2 1 . Salomey- a woman who followed jesus to jerusalem, sometimes identi
fied with the sister of the Virgin Mary.
s ukh olapl -the seagull, one of the birds listed as unclean in Leviticus 1 1 : 13- 19.
22. Didron, Christian Iconography, quotes the pattern books as follows: "The
Nativity of the Divine Mother. St. Anna, lying on a bed under a coverlet, her
head resting on a pillow. Two attendants suppon her from behind, another stirs
the air with a fan. Other women, carrying dishes, pass out by the door. Under
them are others, seated, who wash the infant in a basin. Another, again, rocks
the infant in the cradle" (p. 348).
23. Leskov here paraphrases instructions from a traditional handbook for icon
painters quoted by F.I. Buslaev, "Ob�cie ponjatija o Russkoj ikonopisi," in OMcestvo
drevne-russkogo iskusstva, Sbornik na 1866 god, pan 1 (Moscow, 1866), p. 23.
24. Hesper Star- Hesperus, ancient name of Venus as the evening star, promi
nent in December.
25. St. Zosirna (feast day April 1) is associated with St. Mary of Egypt, a woman
hermit. Zosima was a monk who buried her in the desen with the help of a lion.
St. Hieronymous jor Gerasimus; feast day March 4) extracted a thorn from
a lion's paw.
St. Neophyte jfeast day January 21). At age ten a dove appeared to him and
led him to a mountain cave where he became a holy hermit.
St. Conon the Gardener jfeast day March 5) was born at Nazareth. A humble
gardener, he was martyred under Decius.
St. Timothy jfeast day January 22) was the first bishop of Ephesus, closest
disciple of St . Paul.
St. George jfeast day April 23) was a warrior martyred under Diocletian. The
traditional story of his deliverance of the king's daughter from the power of a
dragon was attached to his vita, apparently in the 12th century.
St. Savva, or Sabas, the Goth jfeast day April 24). Also a warrior; martyred
with seventy companions at Rome under Aurelian.
St. Photius jfeast day February 6) . Patriarch of Constantinople in the 9th
Century.
St. Condratus. I have been unable to find any such saint listed in the com
mon dictionaries. Leskov may have had in mind St. Codrates jfeast day Septem
ber 21); however he has no apparent connection with clouds.
26. prokimenon-"This name is given to a short verse, generally selected from
the Holy Scriptures, which embodies the meaning of the entire service, and there
fore, refers to the chief contents of the prayers, hymns and lessons from Scrip
ture for the day" jArchpriest D. Sokolof, A Manual of the Orthodox Church's
Divine Services. [New York and Albany: Wynkoop, Hallenbeck & Crawford, 1899],
p. 45.
27. katabasis - the concluding stanza of an ode of the canon.
Preface to AN A P PA RITION
IN THE ENGINEERS ' C A S TLE
'lin Apparition in the Engineers' Castle," another

Christmas story, was published in 1882 in the daily newspaper
The News and Stock Exchange Gazette. It was reprinted without
changes in Leskov's 1886 collection, Christmas Stories, and in his
Collected Works of 1889. Like so many of his stories, it originated
in an anecdote about an actual happening, told to Leskov in this
case by a captain of engineers, /.S. Zaporozhsky, who described
"some boyish mischief perpetrated in his presence around the cof
fin of the commandant of the School of Military Engineering, Gen
eral Lomnovsky." Leskov embellishes what presumably was the
brief reminiscence of an old soldier, and creates from it a superb
ghost story. But here, as in all his stories of the "supernatural," the
ghostly happenings prove to have a perfectly rational explanation.
The story's setting, a St. Petersburg landmark known as "The
Engineers' Castle" (originally the Mikhailovsky Palace), was built
by the mad Tsar Paul between 1 796 and 1801. The pseudo-Gothic
structure, part palace and part fortress, was Paul's residence for only
forty days before a group of disaffected courtiers strangled him in his
own bedroom on March 11, 1801. During the reign of Paul's succes
sor, Alexander I, an outlawed sect of flagellan ts practiced their ec
static rites in one room of the castle. Rumors of uncanny happenings
in this gloomy and opressive building circulated in St. Petersburg.
In 1819 the building became the home of the School of Military
Engineering. Its most notable graduate was undoubtedly Fyodor
Dostoevsky, who studied there from 1838 to 1842. Memoirs of ex
cadets testify to the School's harsh regime and stern discipline.
A second Leskov story, "Unmercenary Engineers" (1887) is also
set in the Castle, but it eschews spirits to concentrate on the spiri
tuaL dealing with the religious currents that moved through the
Engineering School in the 1830s.
AN A P PA R I T I O N I N
TH E E NG I N E E R S'
C ASTL E
(From the Memoirs of an Ex-Cadet)
Chapter I
Buildings have reputations just as people do. There
are buildings which are generally considered to be unclean, build
ings where various manifestations of unholy, or at least incompre
hensible, powers are observed. Spiritualists have often tried to throw
light on such phenomena, but since their theories do not enjoy much
confidence the subject of haunted houses remains with us.
The distinctive edifice that once was the palace of Emperor Paul I,
and which is now known as the Engineers' Castle, was long held in
such ill repute by many in St. Petersburg. Mysterious phenomena
attributed to spirits and apparitions had been observed here almost
from the very time the castle was built. It is said that the voice of
Peter the Great was heard even while the Emperor Paul lived here,
and that finally the Emperor himself saw the ghost of his great
grandfather. There is no denying that the latter event was recorded in
foreign documents describing Paul's sudden demise, as well as in the
recent Russian book by Mr. Kobeko. 1 The great-grandfather had sup
posedly come out of his grave to warn his great-grandson that his days
were numbered and the end was at hand. The prediction came true.
Peter's ghost, however, was seen within the castle walls not only
by the Emperor Paut but by members of his retinue as well. In short,
the building was a fearful place because ghosts and apparitions lived
or at least appeared there and said quite frightening things, things
which indeed came true. The unexpected suddenness of the Em
peror Paul's demise, which at once revived the tales of prophetic
ghosts who had encountered the late emperor in the castle, added
even more to this gloomy building's dark and mysterious reputation.
Then the building lost its former significance as a regularly inhab
ited palace and was "turned over to the cadets/' as the popular ex
pression had it.
Leskov: AN APPARITION IN THE ENGINEERS' CASTLE 75
Nowadays officer trainees of the Engineer Corps are quartered in

this ex-palace, but the former Engineer Cadets were the first to begin
"domesticating" the place. These boys were even younger than the
trainees and were by no means yet liberated from their childish su
perstitions; in addition they were frisky and mischievous, curious
and venturesome. Of course they all knew something more or less of
the terrible things that were told about their fearsome castle. The
children were keenly interested in all the details of such gruesome
tales and eagerly drank their fill of the horrors. But those who had
managed to feel sufficiently at ease with such stories greatly loved
using them to frighten others. This was much in vogue among the
Engineer Cadets, and their officers were quite unable to extirpate
this unhealthy custom until an event occurred which at once caused
everyone to lose his taste for playing pranks and frightening others.
The following story is about that same event .
Chapter II
It was a particular custom to frighten the new boys, or
the "youngsters" as they were called, who, having found themselves
in the castle, suddenly learned such a mass of horrors about it that
they became superstitious and timid to an extreme. What fright
ened them most was a room at one end of the castle's corridors that
had served as the bedroom of the late Emperor Paul, a room in which
he lay down to rest a healthy man and from whence his corpse was
carried the next morning. The older boys assured the younger ones
that the spirit of the emperor lived in this room and emerged from
it every night to inspect his beloved castle, and the youngsters be
lieved them. This room was always tightly shut with not just one
but several locks; however, as is well known, locks and bolts mean
nothing at all to a spirit . Aside from that, it was said that there were
ways of getting into this room. It seems that this indeed was true.
At least there was, and still is, a legend that several of the older ca
dets had found a way to enter the room and continued to go there
until at last one of them conceived a reckless prank for which he
had to pay severely. He had discovered some sort of secret trap door
into the fearsome bedroom of the late emperor and managed to bring
in and hide a bedsheet there. In the evenings he would make his
way into the room, cover himself from head to foot with the sheet,
and stand in the dark window overlooking Sadovaya Street, a win
dow easily seen by anyone walking or driving past who happened
to look in that direction.
Thus playing the role of an apparition, the cadet in fact managed

to strike terror in many superstitious people who lived in the castle
and in passers-by who chanced to see the white figure they all took
for the ghost of the late emperor.
This prank continued for several months and gave rise to a tena
cious rumor that Emperor Paul was walking round his bedroom at
night and looking out his window at St. Petersburg. Many attested
to their clear and vivid impression that the white ghost standing
in the window nodded and bowed to them several times; the cadet
in fact was making such gestures. All this prompted much talk in
the castle about what the apparition portended. The matter ended
when the cadet who had caused the alarm just described was caught
at the scene of the crime and, having received "exemplary corporal
punishment," disappeared from the institution forever. A rumor went
round that the unfortunate cadet had had the bad luck to startle a
high-ranking personage who happened to be passing, and for this
the cadet received rather more than a child's punishment. Put more
simply, the cadets said that the hapless prankster had "died beneath
the birch rods." Since such things were by no means improbable in
those days, this rumor found credence as well; and from that time
the cadet himself became a new apparition. His comrades began see
ing him "all cut to pieces," crowned with a funeral wreath on which
one could read the inscription: ''For I have tasted but little honey
and lo, I die."2
If one recalls the Biblical story in which these words are found,
this proves very touching.
Soon after the cadet's downfall, the bedroom from whence had
issued the principal terrors of the Engineers' Castle was opened and
given a new function which changed its eerie character. But the leg
ends of the apparition lived on in spite of the fact that the secret
had now been exposed. The cadets continued to believe that a specter
lived in their castle and that it sometimes appeared by night. This
was a common conviction shared equally by the older and the
younger cadets with the difference, however, that the younger ones
simply believed blindly in the apparition, while the older ones some
times arranged for it to appear themselves. Yet the one did not hin
der the other, and those who created the apparition were themselves
somewhat apprehensive of it. So it is that some "false reporters of
miracles" produce them themselves, revere them, and even believe
in their authenticity.
The younger cadets did not know the whole story, since discus
sion of it was strictly suppressed after the cruel flogging of the cadet.
But they believed that the older cadets, among whom were still
some friends of the flogged or executed lad, knew the whole secret
of the specter. This gave the older cadets great prestige which they
enjoyed until 1859 or 1860, when four of them themselves experi
enced a terrible fright which I shall relate from the words of one
of the participants in an unseemly prank by the coffin.
Chapter III
In that same year of 1859 or 1860 General Lomnov
sky, the commandant of the institution, died in the Engineers' Cas
tle.3 He was by no means well-liked by the cadets, and rumor had
it that he did not e njoy the best reputation among his superiors.
Many reasons were given for this: people found that the general
treated the cadets very coldly and severely; that he made little ef
fort to understand their needs; that he had no concern for their up
keep; but principally that he was importunate, caviling, and hyper
critical. Within the Cadet Corps it was said that the general would
have been even more malicious on his own, but that his wife, a
woman as quiet as an angel, restrained his indomitable ferocity. Not
one of the cadets had ever cast eyes on her because she was chroni
cally ill, yet they considered her a good genius who preserved them
all from the general's ultimate savagery.
Apart from such reputation in temperament, General Lomnov
sky had some very unpleasant mannerisms. Among them were some
amusing ones which the cadets seized upon, and when they wanted
to mimic their unpopular commandant they would exaggerate one
of his comical habits to the point of caricature.
Lomnovsky's most amusing habit appeared when making a
speech or giving a reprimand: he would always stroke his nose with
all five fingers of his right hand. According to the cadets' interpreta
tion Lomnovsky was "milking the words from his nose." The late
general was not distinguished for his eloquence and he often could
not find the words to express his commandantal reprimands to the
children. Thus with each hesitation the "milking" intensified, and
the cadets at once lost their serious mien and began exchanging
grins. When the general noticed this insubordination he would grow
even angrier and punish them. Thus it was that relations between
the general and his charges grew worse and worse, and the principle
culprit in it all, the cadets believed, was "the nose."
Disliking Lomnovsky, the cadets let slip no opportunity to an
noy him and take vengeance, damaging his reputation in one way or
another in the eyes of their new colleagues. To this end they spread
the rumour in the Cadet Corps that Lomnovsky was in league with
unholy powers and was forcing demons to carry marble for him, mar
ble that Lomnovsky was supplying for some building, probably St.
Isaac's Cathedral.4 But, the cadets said, the demons had grown tired
of this work and were impatiently awaiting the general's demise as
the event that would restore their freedom. So as to make this ap
pear more convincing, one evening - it was the general's name day
- the cadets did something particularly disagreeable to him in or
ganizing his "funeral." They arranged that while Lomnovsky's guests
were banqueting in his apartment, a doleful procession appeared in
the corridors of the cadets' dormitory: cadets wearing bedsheets and
carrying candles bore on a bier a stuffed figure with a long-nosed
mask as they quietly sang dirges. The organizers of this ceremony
were discovered and punished, but on Lomnovsky's next name day
the unpardonable prank of the funeral was repeated. Thus it went
until l859 or 1860 when General Lomnovsky in fact did die and his
real funeral was to be solemnized. By the custom that then existed
the cadets had to stand watch in turns at the coffin. It was here the
terrible event occurred that frightened those same heroes who had
long been frightening others.
Chapter IV
General Lomnovsky died in the late autumn, in the
month of November when St. Petersburg presents its most misan
thropic aspect: cold, penetrating damp, and mud. The particularly
dull autumnal light weighs heavily upon the nerves, and through
them on the brain and the imagination. All of this gives rise to mor
bid excitability and tension. At this time of year here Moleschott
might collect the most curious data for his scientific deductions on
the influence of light upon life.5
The days after Lomnovsky's death were especially vile. The de
ceased was not taken into the Castle's chapel because he was a Lu
theran: his body rested in a large hall draped in mourning within
the General's apartment. It was here that the cadets were to stand
watch while memorial services were held in the chapel according
to Orthodox practice. One service was held during the day and an
other in the evening. All ranks in the Castle, cadets and staff alike,
were to appear at each service, and this practice was scrupulously
observed. Accordingly, the entire population of the Castle gathered
in the Orthodox chapel while the services were being held, but all
the other vast rooms and long corridors were utterly deserted. No
one remained in the deceased's apartment but the duty watch, ca
dets who stood round the coffin with rifles, their helmets under their
arms.
At this point there began to develop a vague sense of dread: every
one began feeling anxious and apprehensive. And then suddenly
somewhere in the Castle someone uttered the words that "it" had
again "risen up" and was again "walking about." The situation be
came so uneasy that the cadets all began admonishing one another,
saying "Enough of that, leave off now! The Devil take you and your
stories! You're only upsetting yourself and the others too!" But then
they themselves would repeat the same stories they had tried to dis
suade others from spreading, and by nightfall everyone was terrified.
Their terror was particularly heightened when the "good Father," the
chaplain at the time, reproved the cadets.
He shamed them for rejoicing at the general's demise, and he was
able to touch them deeply and awaken their feelings in very few
words.
"He's walking about," he told them, repeating their very words.
"Of course there is someone walking about whom you do not and
cannot see, and he has powers that you'll not contend with. He is
the man in grey, and he rises not at midnight but at twilight, when
everything becomes grey and when everyone wants to confess his
unwholesome thoughts. This man in grey is your conscience: I ad
vise you not to disturb him with your wretched joy over someone's
death. There is someone who loves every man and who takes pity
on him - mind, lest the man in grey appear as such a person and
teach you a painful lesson!"
The cadets took this much to heart, and no sooner had the day
begun to dim when they began looking around them to see if the
man in grey might not be about, and in what form. It is well known
that a special sensitivity is born in the soul in twilight hours - a
new world comes into being, obscuring the one that existed in the
daylight: the usual forms of familiar objects somehow become fan
tastical, incomprehensible, and ultimately even terrifying. At this
time for some reason every feeling seems to seek a certain unde
fined yet intensified means to express itself. One's mood and one's
thoughts are constantly changing, and in this rushing, teeming dis
harmony of one's inner world, fantasy begins to work: the real world
is transformed into a dream, and dreams into the real world. This
is both alluring and terrifying, and the more terrifying it is, the more
alluring and enticing . . .
The majority of cadets were in just such a state of mind, particu

larly before their nocturnal tour of duty by the coffin. Some highly
important personages were expected to attend the chapel on the final
evening before the burial, and therefore, apart from those living in
the Castle, there was also a large gathering of people from the city.
Even those from Lornnovsky's apartment had gone to the Russian
chapel to see this gathering of important figures; the deceased re
mained surrounded only by his juvenile sentries. There were four ca
dets on duty at this time: G -- ton, V-- nov, Z-- sky and K-- din,
all of whom flourish to this day and who now occupy respectable
positions in service and in society.
Chapter V
Of the three young lads who made up the sentry party,
one, K-- din, was a most wanton mischief-maker, who had plagued
the late Lomnovsky more than any of the others and who, accord
ingly, had most often suffered the harsh punishments of the de
ceased. The late general particularly disliked K-- din because this
rascal was highly skilled at teasing him for his "nose milking" and
was most active in organizing the funeral processions on the gen
eral's name days.
When such a procession was held on Lornnovsky's last saint's day,
K-- din himself played the role of the deceased and even made a
speech from the coffin accompanied by such grimaces and in such
a tone of voice that all the others were convulsed with laughter, in
cluding the officer sent to disperse the blasphemous procession.
Everyone knew that this event had driven the late Lomnovsky
into a rage, and a rumor circulated among the cadets that the furi
ous general "had sworn to punish K-- din for the rest of his life."
The cadets believed this and, taking into consideration their com
mandant's well-known character traits, they had little doubt that
he would fulfill his vow against K -- din. Through the whole of the
past year they had considered K-- din "hanging by a thread." But
because of his lively nature, K-- din found it very difficult to re
frain from his spirited and reckless pranks, and thus his position
became very dangerous: everyone within the institution was sim
ply waiting for K-- din to get into some sort of scrape, and then
Lomnovsky would stand on little ceremony with him, reduce all
his actions to one common denominator, and "give him something
to remember for the rest of his life."
The terror of the commandant's threat worked so powerfully on
K-- din that he made a desperate effort to control himself and fled
from every sort of prank as a reformed drunkard flees from liquor,
until the opportunity arose to test for himself the old proverb that
says, "For a year, drink he1l flee; then his devil breaks free, and he's
off on a spree."
K-- din's devil broke free at the coffin of the General, who had
gone to his rest before being able to make good his threat. Now the
general held no terror for the cadets, and the boy's frisky spirit, re
strained for so long, found an opportunity to slip free like an over
wound spring. He simply took leave of his senses.
Chapter VI
The final memorial service which had assembled all of
the inhabitants of the Castle in the Orthodox chapel was set for eight
dclock, but since highly important people were expected and it was
impolite to enter after their arrival, everyone carne to the chapel
much earlier. In the hall where the deceased lay remained only the
cadets on sentry duty: G -- ton, V-- nov, Z -- sky and K-- din.
There was not another soul in any of the huge adjacent rooms . . .
At 7:30 the door opened slightly for an instant, allowing a glimpse
of the commandant's deputy assistant. At the very same moment
a trivial event heightened the eerie atmosphere. As the officer was
approaching the door he either became frightened at his own foot
steps or thought that someone was overtaking him. He paused to
allow the person to pass, and then suddenly cried out: 'Whds there ?
Who is it?" And as he thrust his head quickly through the double
door, the other half of the door closed on him and he cried out again,
thinking someone had seized him from behind.
He soon recovered, of course, and casting a nervous glance round
the hall draped in mourning, he concluded that the untenanted room
indicated that everyone had already gone off to the chapel; he closed
the door again and, rattling his sabre manfully, stepped briskly along
the corridor leading to the chapel.
The cadets standing by the coffin could see clearly that even the
grown-ups were afraid of something, and fear spreads like an in
fection.
Chapter VII
The cadets on duty listened to the officer's departing
footsteps feeling more forsaken with every step, just as if they had
been brought here and immured with the corpse for some offense
which the dead man had not forgotten and not forgiven; to the con
trary, he would rise up and certainly take revenge for it. And it would
be a terrible revenge, such as only a corpse is capable of . . . They
needed only to wait for the hour when it would happen - the appro
priate hour of midnight,
. . . when crows the cock

And spirits scurry through the darkness . . .
But they would not be here until midnight; they would be relieved,
and in any case it was not spirits they feared, but the man in grey
whose time was the twilight.
And it was now the very deepest twilight; the corpse was in his
coffin and round about reigned the most eerie silence . . . The wind
howled with raging ferocity outside, splashing the enormous win
dows with streams of the turbid autumnal downpour and clattering
on the slates at the ridges of the roofs; the chimney-pipes hummed
from time to time as if they were sighing or as if something had burst
into them, become trapped, and was again pushing with renewed
strength to get out. None of this disposed them to sober feelings nor
to composed common sense. The burden of all these impressions
was increased even more for the boys who were supposed to stand
maintaining deathly silence: everything seemed to become confused;
the blood rushing to their heads beat in their temples, and they heard
a sound like the monotonous pounding of a millstone. He who has
experienced similar sensations knows this strange and quite singu
lar pounding of the blood - just like the grinding of a mill, but a mill
that grinds no grain, only itself. This quickly reduces a man to a
distressing and nerve-rending state such as unaccustomed people ex
perience when descending a dark mine shaft, where the usual light
of day is suddenly replaced by a smoking rush light . . . It becomes
impossible to keep silence: one wants to hear at least his own voice,
wants to take cover somewhere - to do something utterly foolhardy.
Chapter VIII
One of the four cadets standing at the general's cof
fin - K-- din to be precise - forgot discipline when he experienced
all these sensations, and leaning on his rifle he whispered:
'�he spirits are crawling out of old pappa's nose."
Lornnovsky was sometimes called "old pappa" in jest, but this
time the jest aroused no mirth in his comrades; quite the contrary,
it heightened the atmosphere of eeriness. Two of the sentries, sens
ing this, replied:
"Quiet . . . It's frightening e nough without that," and all of them
stared apprehensively at the face of the deceased, which was cov
ered by a muslin veil.
"That's just why I'm talking- because you're afraid," answered
K-- din. ''But I'm not at all afraid, because he can't do anything to
me now. Yes, we have to rise above prejudices and not get frightened
of little things like this. And a corpse is only a little thing, and I'll
prove it to you right now."
"Please - don't try to prove anything."
''No, I'll prove it. I'll prove to you that old pappa can't do anything
to me now, even if I tweak this nose very minute."
And with this K-- din, to the others' surprise, at once tipped his
rifle into the crook of his arm, quickly ran up the steps of the cata
falque and, seizing the corpse by the nose, cried out loudly and
merrily:
''There you are, old pappa; you're dead and I'm alive and I'm pull
ing your nose, and you can't do anything to me!"
His comrades were struck dumb at this prank and had not man
aged to utter a word when suddenly they all clearly and distinctly
heard a deep, anguished sigh, a sigh very similar to the sound emit
ted when a person sits on an inflated rubber cushion with a loosely
closed valve. And this sigh - so it seemed to them all - evidently
came directly from the coffin . . .
K-- din quickly drew back his hand and, stumbling, flew, rifle
in hand, down the steps of the catafalque with a thunderous racket.
The other three, terrified and scarcely aware of what they were do
ing, shifted their rifles to "port arms'' so as to defend themselves from
the corpse about to rise from his coffin.
But this was not all: the deceased not only sighed but actually
pursued the offending prankster, or at least caught him by the arm;
behind K-- din billowed a whole wave of the funeral muslin from
which he could not free himself. Screaming in terror he fell to the
floor . . . This creeping wave of muslin in fact appeared to be a to
tally inexplicable phenomenon and, of course, a terrifying one since
the corpse, who had been covered by it, was now totally exposed,
his hands folded across his sunken chest.
The prankster dropped his rifle and lay with his hands shielding
his face from the horror, emitting terrible groans. It was evident that
he was conscious and was waiting for the deceased to deal with him
at once in his own fashion.
Meanwhile the sigh was repeated, and a quiet rustling was heard
as well. It was the kind of sound that might be produced by the cloth
of one sleeve rubbing against another. Evidently the deceased was
spreading his arms; and suddenly there was a soft noise; then a wave
of air of another temperature rolled across the candles. At that same
instant the portieres covering the doors of the inner rooms stirred,
and through them appeared the apparition. The man in grey! Indeed,
the quite distinct shape of an apparition in human form material
ized before the boys' terrified eyes . . . Was this the very soul of the
deceased in some new corporeality received in the other world, from
whence it had returned for a moment to punish an offensive impu
dence, or was it, perhaps, an even more terrible visitor-the spirit
of the Castle himself, risen from the nether regions through the floor
of the neighboring room ? . . .
Chapter IX
The apparition was not a product of the imagination
- it did not disappear, and its aspect recalled the description given
by the poet Heine of the "mysterious woman'' he had seen: like
Heine's, this figure appeared to be a "corpse with a soul shut up in
side it."6 Before the terrified eyes of the children was an extremely
emaciated figure all in white, although in the shadows it appeared
to be grey. Its face was terribly thin and so pale that it had a bluish
tinge, a face from which all signs of life seemed to have faded; a dis
hevelled mass of long, thick hair covered its head. The many grey
streaks in this hair made it seem quite ashen as well, and its disar
ray concealed the apparition's bosom and shoulders. The boys could
see the figure's bright, inflamed eyes shining with morbid fire: their
glitter within the dark, deeply sunken sockets was like the glitter
of burning coals. The phantom had thin, delicate hands like those
of a skeleton, and both its hands clutched at the skirts of the heavy
drapery over the door. It was these hands, whose weak fingers con
vulsively squeezed the material, that had produced the dry rustle
of cloth that the cadets had heard.
The lips of the apparition were parted and utterly black, and from
them, after brief intervals of whistling and wheezing, escaped that
strained semi-groan, semi-sigh that first was heard when K-- din
seized the deceased by the nose.
Chapter X
When they caught sight of this formidable apparition,
the three cadets who remained on their feet were petrified and froze
in their defensive postures even more rigidly than K-- din, who lay
flat on his back with the veil from the coffin attached to him.
The apparition paid no heed at all to this group: its eyes were fixed
on the coffin in which the deceased now lay totally uncovered. It
swayed silently and evidently wanted to move. Finally it managed
to do so. With its hands on the wall for support, the apparition slowly
moved and began advancing toward the coffin with halting steps.
Its progress was horrible to watch. Shuddering convulsively with
every step, drawing breath agonizingly through its parted lips, it ex
pelled from its empty chest those horrible sighs which the cadets
had taken to come from the coffin. And now it made another step,
and now one more, and finally it was near; it approached the coffin,
but before mounting the steps of the catafalque it stopped, seized
K-- din by his hand which, responding to the feverish trembling
of his body, was causing the end of the billowing funerary muslin
to flutter; and with its delicate, dry fingers it unfastened the mus
lin from the rascal's sleeve button. Then it looked at him with in
effable sorrow, silently wagged its finger and . . . made the sign of
the cross over him . . .
And then, barely managing to stand on its trembling legs, it
mounted the steps of the catafalque and grasped the edge of the cof
fin. Wrapping its skeletal arms round the shoulders of the deceased,
it burst into sobs . . .
Two manifestations of death appeared to be exchanging kisses in
the coffin; but soon this too ended. Sounds of life were heard from
the other end of the Castle: the memorial service had ended and
the vanguard of those required to be present in the event of a visit
from the important personages were hastening to the apartment from
the chapel.
Chapter XI
The cadets heard the hollow sound of footsteps draw
ing near in the corridor, followed by the last echoes of the requiem
escaping from the opened chapel door.
This revivifying change of impressions induced the cadets to take
heart, and the obligation of their accustomed discipline restored
them to their proper attitudes in their proper places.
The same adjutant who had been the last person to look into the
room before the memorial service was now the first to come run
ning into the hall.
"My God, how did she get here!" he exclaimed.
A body clad in white with flowing grey hair lay embracing the
deceased and, it seemed, had itself stopped breathing. The mystery
was about to be explained.
The apparition that had frightened the cadets was the widow of
the late general who was herself in her dying hour but who, how
ever, had the misfortune to outlive her husband. Because of her ex
treme weakness she had long been unable to leave her bed, but when
everyone had left for the formal memorial service in the chapel she
crawled from her deathbed and, clinging to the wall for support, ap
peared at the coffin of the deceased. The dry rustl ing that the ca
dets had taken for the rubbing of the deceased's sleeves was caused
by her contact with the wall. She now lay in a deep faint, and it was
in such a state that the cadets, under the adjutant's orders, carried
her out past the draperies in an armchair.
This was the last terror the cadets experienced in the Engineers'
Castle, and it was one which, in the words of the storyteller, forever
left a deep impression on them.
"Since that incident," he said, "we would all be outraged when
ever anyone happened to express any joy over someone's death. We
always remembered our unforgiveable mischief, as we remembered
the blessing from the hand of the last apparition in the Engineers'
Castle. We had been forgiven by the right of the sacred law of love.
From that time the hauntings and apparitions in the Cadet Corps
ended. That which we saw was the last."
Notes to ':4.n Apparition in the Engineers' Castle

l. Dmitrij Kobeko, Cesarevit Pavel Petrovit ( 1 745- 1 7961 (St. Petersburg: K.
Rikker, 18811, deals with Paul's life only until he assumed the throne and began
construction of the castle and thus makes no mention of apparitions. Leskov
perhaps confused this with other accounts, possibly one by 1.0. Belov, "Carevic
Pavel Petrovic," lstoriteskii vestnik, IX (September 18821, 580-595. Belov notes
that Paul apparently did have visions and that he himself described how a spec
ter appeared to him to prophesy his coming demise.
2. I Samuel 14:43: "Then Saul said to Jonathan: 'Tell me what you have done ?'
And Jonathan told him: 'I have tasted a little honey with the tip of the staff that
was in my hand; here I am, I will die."'
3. Major-General Pyotr Karlovich Lomnovsky. Commandant of the School
of Military Engineering, 1844-1860. Lomnovsky died in January 1 860, not No
vember as Leskov states. (In the Russian text Leskov spells the name "Larnnovsk�l
4. l.eskov hints at rumors that Lomnovsky had lined his pockets when supply
ing Italian marble for the construction of St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg.
5. Jacob Moleschott ( 1822- 1893). Philosopher and physiologist who took a
materialist approach to psychology. His anicle "Svet i �izn'" ("Light and Life1 ap
peared in Russian in 1 865.
6. Heinrich Heine, ( 1 797-1856). In his ldeen. Das Buch Le Grand, Chapter
10, he describes u . .an old ruined castle, wherein ghosts wander, and at night
•
a headless dame in long, trailing black silken garments sweeps around . . ." (Pic
tures of navel by Heinrich Heine, tr. C.G. Leland [New York: Appleton, 1904),
p. ISO).
Preface to A RO B B ERY
':4. Robbery" first appeared as a Christ

mas story in a supplement to the journal The Week, No. 12, 188 7,
and was republished with some stylistic changes in Leskov's Col
lected Works in 1889. Like ''The Sealed Angel," it is a skaz, intended
to create the illusion of the spoken language rather than the writ
ten. Although the language of the elderly merchant who tells the
story is not as distinctive as that of the Old Believer, Mark Alexan
drovich the narrator's speech here is sufficiently old-fashioned and
seasoned with local expressions to give it its own unique flavor.
Leskov returns to his native Oryol to serve up a slice of life from
the provincial merchantry, a milieu he had treated before, most no
tably in "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District." Once again he
depicts the ultra-conservatism and superficial piety of the mer
chants; and once again he shows how the spontaneity of his cen
tral figure comes into conflict with the life-limiting narrowness of
his surroundings. But the overall geniality of ':4. Robbery" is far from
the grim oppressiveness present in "Lady Macbeth."
"The Sealed Angel" enabled Leskov to display his knowledge and
appreciation of the art of the inconographer; :4. Robbery" shows his
'
expertise and admiration for the other great art of the Orthodox
church - music. As the story makes clear, local congregations took
great pride in having a deacon with a fine bass voice. Delight in
the splendour of the Orthodox service was, in fact, one of the few
esthetic pleasures the dour merchants allowed themselves, and
many were true connoisseurs of Church music. By 1887, of course,
Leskov was campaigning vigorously against the "pompous Byzan
tinism" of which church music was a large part. And certainly his
intent in this story is at least partly satirical when he shows that
the "lerigion" of his merchants has more to do with the qualities
of their prospective deacons' voices than with matters of faith. But
Leskov: A ROBBERY 89
the overall gaiety of the story softens its satirical impact. Leskov
also takes a few shots at the rampant corruption and lawlessness
of the town, but again the good-humoured tone is at the opposite
end of the spectrum from the bitterness that pervades his satires
of the nineties. Indeed, the principal characters- a domineering,
overprotective mother, her submissive, overgrown son, a quick
tempered uncle- as well as the plot ("gay confusion, " in Leskov's
words) bring the story much closer to the reabn of farce than sat
ire. Leskov is concerned chiefly to tell a good story for its own sake,
and to provide, as he said, "funny reading and an accurate picture
of real life in that thievish town sixty years ago" (11:359).
A RO B BERY
Chapter I
We were talking of the embezzlement in
the Oryol bank, whose affairs were under investigation in the au
tumn of 1887.1 Some said that the embezzler had been a good man,
and that his accomplice seemed honest enough, yet they were still
caught with their fingers in the till.
An old Oryol merchant who happened to be among the company
said:
"Ah, gentlemen, when the thieves' hour arrives even honest peo
ple steal."
"Oh come now, you can't be serious."
"I'm quite serious. Why is it said: With the elect thou wilt show
thyself elect; And with the perverse thou wilt show thyself corrupt'? 2
I know of a case when an honest man robbed a person in the street."
"Impossible."
"On my word of hono r - he robbed him; I can tell you about it
if you wish."
"Please be so kind as to do so."
The merchant then told us the following story which took place
some fifty years earlier in the same city of Oryol, not long before
the famous and disastrous Oryol fires.3 The incident occured under
the late governor, Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Trubetskoy.4
This is how it was told.
Chapter II
I'm an old-timer in Oryol. Our family was not
among the least of its citizens. We had our own house on
Nizhny Street near the Plauta Well and we had our own grana
ries and barges. We kept our own team of threshers and we
Leskov: A �OBBERY 91
traded in hemp and grain. Our fortune wasn't terribly large, but
we never charged a ruble for fifty copecks' worth of goods and
were known as honest people.
My father passed on when I was not yet sixteen. My
mamma, Arina Leontevna, managed our whole business with
the help of an old overseer, while I just looked on. It was my
parents' wish that I should be in total submission to my mother
in everything. I knew naught of mischief nor of playing the fool
and had a great zeal and fear for the temple of the Lord. Mam
ma's sister, my auntie, the venerable widow Katerina Leontevna,
lived with us as well . She was a woman of exceeding piety and
devotion. We were of the Church faith on my father's side and
were numbered among the parishioners of the Church of the In
tercession, tended by the venerable Father Efim.5 But my auntie
Katerina kept to the old ways: she drank out of her own special
glass and went to pray among the Old Believers in the Fish Mar
ket. Mamma and Auntie were from Elets and had very good
family there and in Livny as well, but rarely saw their people
since the Elets merchants like to put on a swagger before the
Oryol ones, and hostilities often break out when they meet.
Our house near the Plauta Well was small but very well
furnished in merchant style. We led a strait-laced kind of life.
After living nineteen years on earth, I would still only venture
outside the house to go to the grain sheds or to the embank
ment when the barges were being loaded, and on holy days to
early mass at the Church of the Intercession. And from mass, I
might add, it was straight home again where I had to corrobo
rate my attendance by telling Mamma which Gospel was read
and whether Father Efim had preached a sermon. Father Efim,
by the way, was one of those well-schooled clergymen, and if he
happened to have a try at a sermon, there was just no making it
out at all. Turchaninov was running our theatre then, after Ka
mensky, and as Molotkovsky would after him; but Mamma
wouldn't let me go to the theatre for anything, nor would she
even allow me to have tea in the 'Vienna' tavern.6 ''You'll hear
nothing good in the Vienna," she would say, "Better stay at
home and eat pickled apples." There was only one real pleasure
permitted me once or twice in winter; that was walking out
and watching Police Sergeant Bogdanov and the deacon set their
geese to fight, or watching the fistfights between the townsfolk
and the seminarians.
At that time many people trained fighting geese, and they
would set them out on Kromy Square. Sergeant Bogdanov's

goose was the champion: once it even tore a wing off one of its
opponents. The policeman loved his goose so much that he
would carry it around in a wattle basket on his back so no one
could overfeed the bird on soaked peas or harm it in some other
way. The deacon's goose was clay white in color, and it would
fight with a dreadful honking and hissing. An enormous crowd
would gather to watch. For the fistfights, now, the townsfolk
and seminarians would come together either on the ice of the
Oka near the monastery, or by the Navugorsky Gate. They'd col
lect there and have at one another, row against row, over the
whole street. Sometimes the beatings went too far. The only
rules were to hit the chest and not the face, and not to put the
big copper ten-copeck coins in the mittens. These rules weren't
followed, though. It often happened that a man would be carried
off home and not manage to make his confession before he
yielded up his spirit. And many kept to the battle but lan
guished. Mamma, of course, gave me leave only to watch, and
on no account was I to join the ranks. But, sinner that I was, I
disobeyed my late parent. My strength and daring were a real
plague to me, and if the ranks of the townspeople happened to
falter and the seminary ranks fell upon them, threatening to
drive them off, I couldn't resist joining in. From an early age I
had such strength that I would all but leap into the retreating
ranks shouting: "Praise the Lord! Come on, lads, let's flatten
these preachers!" And I'd start in smashing those seminarians
around me sds they would all just crumble away. But I sought
no glory for myself and would even beg them all for one thing
only: "Please do me a favor lads, and don't mention my name,"
because I was afraid my mamma might find out.
And so I lived to be nineteen and was so awfully healthy that
I began having fainting fits, and blood sometimes dripped from
my nose. Then Mamma began thinking about marrying me off
so that I shouldn't start going to the Sekerensky Mill or start
amusing myself with the convert girls.
Chapter III
And so that was the reason that matchmakers in
long coats began coming to see us, suggesting to my mamma
various brides for me from Nizhny, Kromy and from Karachev
sky Streets. This was all kept in secret from me, so that every-
one else knew more about it than I did. Our threshers would be
in the shed and they'd say:
"Your mamma's gettin' ready to marry you off, Mikhailo Mik
hailich. What about you, then, d'you like the idea? Have a care,
now-you know that wife of yours will be ticklin' you after
you're wedded. But don't be shy- just you tickle her ribs as best
you can, or else she11 tickle you."
I would blush. Of course I guessed that there was something
going on concerning me, but never heard just what sort of
brides Mamma was talking to the matchmakers about. When
one or another of the matchmakers carne, Mamma and she
would lock themselves in the icon room facing the holy comer,
order a samovar, and talk away all on their own. And then the
matchmaker would come out, pat me on the head and say en
couragingly: "Don't you fret now, Mishenka, my boy. You won't
be pining away all by yourself much longer. We11 soon find
some way to make you happy."
But Mamma used to get angry even at that and would say:
"There is certainly no need for him to know about it. Whatever
fate I decide for him is what should befall him. So it is in the
Scriptures."
I certainly wasn't fretting. Marry or not marry, it was all the
same to me, and if it came down to tickling, we would see who
it was that tickled whom.
My Auntie Katerina did not see eye to eye with my mamma
and kept exhorting me against her:
"Don't marry an Oryol girl, Misha," she would say, "not for
anything. Just look around you. The local girls are all turned
topsy-turvy, not really of merchant stock and not gentlefolk
either. They marry officers. Ask your mother to get you a wife
from Elets, where she and I carne from. The men-folk there are
boozers, but you can find some real treasures for brides. They're
modest girls, not like the trash of the new faithi they don't look
at officers, they go to prayers in their kerchiefs and they cross
themselves in the good old Russian style. When you marry one
of them you11 bring real bliss into your house, and you and
your wife will begin to worship in the old style. And then I
shall bequeath all of my property to you, and give her my holy
blessing and my necklace of fine, large pearls and my silver
beads and brocade blouses and jackets and all of my Bolkhov
knitwear."
And there was a certain quiet contention between Auntie
and Mamma on this account, because Mamma had departed

completely from the old faith and was reading the acathist to
the Holy Manyress Barbara according to the new calendar of
saints. 7 She wanted to get me a wife from among our local girls
to ensure the continuance of our family line.
"At the very least," she would say, "we could have someone to
take the blessed bread to and ask forgiveness of on the Sunday
before Lent, and someone to bring fancy breads to us."
Mamma liked to slice up these loaves and dry them to dip
into her tea with honey during Lent. Auntie's old faith was
above all of that, however.
They discussed it and they discussed it, but the matter was
decided quite differently.
Chapter IV
Something quite unexpected turned up.
Once after dinner at Christmas time my auntie and I are sit
ting by the window talking over some theological matter and
eating pickled apples when suddenly we notice a troika of post
horses standing in the snow on the street by our gate. We look
and from under the lap robe in the sleigh there crawls a tall
man in a Kalmuck sheepskin coat covered in dark broadcloth
and belted with a scarlet sash; wound around his turned-up col
lar is a long green worsted scarf with its ends tucked in on his
chest; he has a felt cap on his head and was shod in calfskin
boots with the fur outside.
This person stood up and he shook the snow off him like a
poodle, and then he and the coachman fished out another man
from under the lap robe of the sleigh. This second man is wear
ing a beaver cap and a wolfskin coat. The first man takes his
arm so that he can stay on his feet because the leather soles on
his felt boots slip on the snow.
Auntie Katerina got very uneasy wondering what son of peo
ple these are and why they are disembarking in front of our
gate, but when she caught sight of the wolfskin coat she let out
a blessing:
''Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us, Amen!" she says. ''\Vhy
it's my brother, Ivan Leontych, your uncle, come from Elets.
What on earth could have happened to him ? He hasn't been
here since the day of your father's funeral three years ago, and
here he is, suddenly turning up at Christmas. Hurry, get the key

to the gate and run meet him."
I rushed off to find Mamma, and Mamma set about searching
for the key and finally managed to find it in the icon casei and
while I was running out to the gate and trying to unlock it and
pull open the bolt, the troika had already driven off and the
man in the Kalmuck sheepskin with it, leaving Uncle standing
alone holding onto the handle of the gate and getting angry.
''What's wrong with you people," he says, "huddled away in
side in the middle of the day like a flock of grouse ?"
Mamma greets him and answers:
''Do you mean you don't know how things are in Oryol,
brother dear?" she says. "Thieves everywhere, and we lock our
selves away from the police both day and night."
Uncle answers that things are the same all over: "Oryol
thieves may be the best, and Karachov can meet the test, but
we've got all the rest in our own Elets. We lock ourselves away
from the police too," he says, "but only at night. What's the
point during the day? Anyway, I don't much like you leaving me
out on the street by your gate in the daytime. These boots of
mine have leather soles, and it's so slippery I can barely walk.
Besides, I'm here on affairs of the church, and my pockets aren't
empty. God help me, one of your Oryol specimens might
pounce on me and run off, and I'd never catch him."
Chapter V
We all apologized to Uncle and showed him to his
room so that he could change out of his travelling clothes. He
changed his felt boots for leather ones, put on a frock coat and
sat down by the samovar. Mamma began to question him: what
sort of church affairs had he come on that would disturb even
his holiday, and what had become of his travelling companion
we had seen at our gate ?
Ivan Leontych answers: ''A weighty matter. You must know
that I am a church elder now, and that on the very first day of
the holidays our deacon came to a full stop."
''We hadn't heard," Mamma said.
''When do you people ever hear anything interesting! Your
town is about as lively as a graveyard."
''Tell me then, how was it that your deacon came to a full stop?"
"A victim of his own zeal, Madam. He began singing the ser
vice commemorating the liberation from the French, got to
singing louder and louder and still louder when suddenly, just
as he was proclaiming 'Salvation!� he just popped a blood vessel.
We went to help him down from his pulpit, but he had already
lost a whole bootful of blood."
''Did he die ?"
"No. The merchants wouldn't tolerate that. We hired a physi
cian. Do you think our merchants would chuck him off just
like that? The doctor says that he may yet recover, but his voice
is gone. And so I came here with the most important man in
our congregation to arrange to have our deacon taken into a
nunnery somewhere, and to choose ourselves the very best one
you have here."
''And who is the most important man in your congregation,
then, and where did he go off to ?"
"The most important man in our congregation is Pavel Miro
nych Mukomol. Married to a Moscow heiress, he is. The wed
ding went on for a whole week. A devoted churchman too, and
knows every service better than an archdeacon. That's why ev
eryone asked him: go, take a look and choose; whatever you like
will be fine with us. Old and young, . we all respect Pavel
Mironych. And he, with all his wealth, his three houses, his
candle factory and his flour mill, dropped everything and rushed
off as soon as he heard the church needed him. At the moment,
he's gone to take a room in Repin's hotel. Tell me, is that place safe ?"
'1 don't know," Mamma answered.
"Yes, I can see exactly how it is. You just go on living but
don't know anything."
"We're afraid of hotels."
"Well, it doesn't matter. It's not easy to do much damage to
Pavel Mironych. There's not a man in Elets, nor Livny either,
that's better with his fists. Two or three brawlers fall by his
hand no matter what sort of fight he's in. Last year during Lent
he went to Tula just for fun, and even though he's a miller, he
ruptured two of the leading samovar-makers there at one go."
Mamma and Auntie crossed themselves.
"God save us," they say. "Why ever did you bring us a man
like that, and on a holy day too!"
Uncle just laughs.
"You old women," he says, "whatever are you afraid of! Our
Pavel Mironych is a good man, and when it comes to church
business I can't get along without him. H e and I came t o make

short work of things, to grab whatever suits us and then be off."
Mamma and Auntie gasped again.
"Brother, dear, how can you say such shocking things!"
Uncle laughed even more merrily.
''Just listen to you fine ladies," he says. "You Oryol merchants'
wives are a lot of old crows! Even this town of yours looks as if
it's been struck by a fire - it's not much of anything at all, and
you two are lodged in here like a couple of stones letting the
moss grow over you. No, you've far to go to overtake our Elets,
even though you are the provincial capital. Our Elets may be a
little county town, but you don't know how to appreciate the
good things you do have . And that's just what we're going to
take away from you."
'�d what is that, pray tell?"
"Our congregation needs a good deacon and I've heard that
you have two deacons with voices worth listening to. One is at
the Epiphany Church near the market, and the other over in
Dyachkov at St. Nikita's. We're going to listen while Pavel
Mironych puts them through their paces, and we11 choose the
one that comes closest to our Elets standards, coax him along
and come to an understanding with him. And the fellow that
doesn't suit us will come in second: we'll give him a little some
thing to buy a new cassock for his trouble. Pavel Mironych has
already gone to get them for the try out, and I have to go to the
Cathedral of Boris-and-Gleb. I've heard there's an innkeeper
nearby who always has empty rooms. We11 take three adjoining
rooms in the place and have the tryout there. And you, young
Misha, are going to come along with me."
"Do you mean me, Uncle ?" I ask.
"Of course, you," he answers. "Who else but you, Misha, lad?
Now don't take offense, I'll call you Mikhail Mikhailovitch if
you like. Now do your kindred duty, please, and show your old
uncle around these foreign parts."
I cleared my throat and answered politely: ''I think, Uncle,
that your calculations are a bit wide of the mark. I'm not of
fended in the least and would be only too happy to help, but I
can't make any decision on my own. It all depends on what my
mamma says."
And my mamma did not like it at all.
''Why must you take Misha along in such company?" she
said. ''Perhaps someone else could go with you."
''It's more proper for me to go with my nephew."

"But what does he know about anything?"
"Maybe he knows it all. Misha, my lad, do you know it all ?"
I was very embarrassed.
''No," I said, ''I can't know it all."
''Why is that?"
"My mamma won't allow it."
"So that's how it is! Can an uncle look after his own nephew
in any situation or can't he ? Of course he can. Get dressed right
away, and we'll be off on the double till we run into trouble."
I can't make up my mind whether to rush off or to stand
there like a stump. And I listen to him and see that Mamma
doesn't want to let me out for anything.
''We think," she says, "that our Misha is still too young and
unaccustomed to going out after dark. Why are you so bent on
having him ? It will be dark before you can wink an eye and
then it will be the thieves' hour."
But at this point Uncle even raised his voice at them:
''Enough playing the fool now! You have this fellow all tied to
your apron strings! You've raised a lad here who could kill an
ox, and you're still treating him like an infant. It's all your fe
male stupidity, and he'll be the worse for it. He needs to develop
his vital forces and strengthen his character, and I need him be
cause, God help me, your Oryol thieves might well attack me
in the darkness or in some alleyway, or I might run into a po
lice patrol. You see, I'm carrying all the money we need to get
our business done. It takes a sizeable sum, you know, to palm
off a worn out deacon on the nuns and get us a decent one.
Don't tell me that you, my own sisters, have so little feeling
for family ties that you'd have me, your own brother, thumped
over the head or nabbed by the police and left with nothing
after it all ?"
My mamma says: "God save us from that! Elets is not the
only place where family ties are respected. But why not take
the overseer with you, or even a pair of our strapping young
threshers? Our threshers from Kromy are terribly strong. They
eat eight pounds of bread alone each day, and no vittles with it."
Uncle didn't want to.
''What use are hired people to me ?" he says. ''You should be
ashamed even to say such a thing, sisters. And I'd be ashamed
and afraid to go with them. Kromy people! They have a fine rep-
utation too! They'd go taking me around, and they'd be the first

to murder me. But Misha is my nephew, and at least I feel con
fident and proper with him."
He held his ground and would not yield an inch.
''There's no way you can refuse me this," he says, "otherwise I
won't call you my sisters any more."
This frightened Mamma and Auntie, and they glanced at one
another as if to say "Whatever can we do ? "
Ivan l.eontych insists: "And you must understand," he says,
"that there's more than just family ties involved. Remember that
I'm not taking him out for my own pleasure or amusement, but
on an important matter of church business. Think it over, now.
Can you refuse me that? To refuse me that is the same as refus
ing God. Misha is God's servant, after all, and God does as he
pleases with him. You want him to stay here with you, but God
will take him and he won't stay."
He had a terribly convincing way with words.
Mamma got frightened.
''No more talk of such dreadful things, please."
Uncle again laughed merrily.
"Oh, but you are a pair of crows in long dresses! You don't
even appreciate the power of words! Which of us is not a servant
of God ? I can see that you won't be able to make up your mind
about anything, and 111 have to snatch him from under your
wing myself . . ."
And with this he claps me on the shoulder and says:
"Get up, now, Misha, and put on your best clothes. I am your
uncle and an old man who's lived to see his hair turn grey. I
have grandsons of my own, and I'm taking you into my charge
and ordering you to follow me."
I look at my mother and at my auntie and I feel so happy in
side. And this Elets manner of resolving problems that my dear
uncle has appeals to me very much.
"Which of you am I to obey?" I say.
Uncle answers: "You must obey the eldest, and that's me. I'm
not taking you away forever, only for an hour."
"Mamma!" I wail. "What do you want me to do?"
Mamma answers: "Well, then, if it's only for an hour I sup
pose its' all right. Put on your best clothes and go off with your
uncle. But mind you don't stay one minute more than an hour.
If you are one minute late I shall die of fright."
"Now this is really an adventure," I say. "But how can I know

for sure when an hour has passed and a new minute is begin
ning? You'll be waiting and getting worried."
Uncle laughs.
"Just look at your watch," he says, "and you'll know the time."
'1 don't have my own watch," I answer.
"Do you mean to say that at your age you don't even have a
watch of your own! A sorry state of affairs!"
"Why does he need a watch ?" Mamma responds.
"To tell the time."
"Oh, but he is still too young . . . he won't know how to wind
it up . . . Outside you can hear the clocks striking on the Epiph
any Church and the Maidens' Nunnery."
I answer: "Haven't you heard that one of the weights fell off
the Epiphany clock yesterday and it isn't striking?"
"Well, there's still the Maidens�"
"You can never hear the one on the Maidens�"
Uncle interjected: '1t doesn't matter at all. Get dressed
quickly and don't worry about being late. We'll stop at the
watchmaker's and I'll buy a watch as a present. You might as
well have some souvenir of the time you showed your uncle
around."
As soon as I heard about the watch I was smitten. I quickly
kissed my uncle's hand, put on my best clothes and was ready.
Mamma blessed us and repeated several more times: "Only
for one hour, mind!"
Chapter VI
Uncle was as good as his word . As soon as we left
the house he says: "Whistle up a cab, now, and we'll be off to
the watchmaker's."
In Oryol at that time no sensible person went about the city
in a cab. Only the odd boozer would ride in a cab; mostly they
were used for "hirelings" in Oryol - the ones who used to sell
themselves to take the places of people from all over who got
drafted into the army.
I say: '1 know how to whistle, uncle, but I won't because it's
only the hirelings who use cabs in Oryol."
"Fool!" says he, and lets out a whistle himself. And when the
cab drove up he says: "Get in now, and stop wasting time! If we
go on foot we'll never make it back to your old ladies in an

hour. I gave them my word, and my word is my bond."
But I was so embarrassed I scarcely knew where I was and
kept leaning out of the cab.
"Why are you fidgeting about ?" he says.
"For pity's sake," I say, "people will think I'm a hireling."
"With your own uncle?"
''No one knows you here. They'll say, 'Look at him! Making a
regular tour of the town and then off on a spree.' My mamma
will be ashamed of me."
Uncle began cursing.
No matter how much I disliked it, I had to sit next to him so
as not to cause an embarrassing scene. On we go, and I don't
know which way to look. Even though I'm not watching, I seem
to see and hear everyone we pass saying: "Will you look at that,
now! There's Arina Leontevna's Misha riding in a cab. I know
what he's up to!" It is too much for me.
"You do as you please, uncle," I say, "but I'm getting off."
But he catches hold of me and laughs.
"Surely not everyone in Oryol is such a fool," he says, "as to
think your old uncle will take you round all the iniquitous
places in town ? Now tell me, where can we find your finest
watchmaker?"
"Our finest watchmaker is the German, Kern. In his window
there's a nigger with a watch on his head who looks around in
all directions winking his eyes. But to get there we have to go
across the bridge on the Orlik to Bolkhov. And there are shop
keepers there who know me, and they'll be looking out of their
store windows. I wouldn't go by there in a cab for anything."
Uncle doesn't pay the least attention.
"Go on to Kern's in Bolkhov," he tells the cabbie.
When we arrived I begged him to dismiss the cabbie because,
I said, I wouldn't go back by cab over those same streets a sec
ond time for anything. He agreed to that. He called me a fool
once more, gave the cabbie fifteen copecks, and bought me a sil
ver watch with a gold rim and a chain.
"That's the sort of watch that is most fashionable in Elets
now." he says. "And when you get used to winding it up I'll
come back again and buy you a gold one with a gold chain."
I was very pleased about the watch and thanked him, but all the
same I begged him never to take me anywhere in a cab again.
1 02 "THE SEALED ANGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
''Very well, very well," he says, "now take me to the Boris-and

Gleb Inn. I have to rent some rooms there."
'1t's only a stone's throw from here," I say.
"Let's go then. We don't have time to be taking the air here in
Oryol. Why do you suppose we came anyway ? To choose our
selves a deacon with a voice you can call a voice. And that's
just what we11 do now. There's no time to be lost. Show me to
the hotel, and then you be off home to your mother."
I took him to the hotel and then hurried home.
I got home so quickly that an hour had not yet passed since I
left and showed them Uncle's present.
Mamma took a look at it and said: ''Yes, indeed, a fine watch.
Hang it on the wall over your bed or you will lose it."
But Auntie reacted with a certain amount of criticism.
''Now why is it that the watch is silver-colored and the rim is
yellow?" she says.
''That's the latest fashion in Elets," I answer.
''What piddling things they11 think up in Elets," she says.
''There was a time when the old men in Elets had more sense,
and all the things they wore were the same footing. A silver
watch was silver, and a gold watch gold. But here you have two
elements forcibly conjoined which God created on earth asunder."
But Mamma placated her by saying that one musn't look a
gift horse in the mouth and said once more: "Take it to your
room and hang it over your bed. On Sunday I shall ask the nuns
to sew a little cushion with beads and fish-scales for you to put
under it. If you carry it in your pocket you11 break the glass."
'1t can be repaired," I say happily.
'1f it has to be repaired the watchmaker will change the mag
netic hand in the middle for a jewel and then the watch will be
finished. Go on now, hang it up."
I didn't want to argue and drove a nail over my bed, hung the
watch on it and lay down on the pillow, looking at it in admira
tion. I was very pleased at owning such an exalted thing. And
how fine it was, ticking away quietly - tick, tick, tick. And I lis
tened and listened until I finally fell asleep. I was awakened by
a loud conversation in the front room.
Chapter VII
I hear my uncle's voice outside with another, un
familiar voice. I can also hear that Mamma and Auntie are there.
The stranger is saying that he has already been at the Epiph

any Church and heard the deacon there, and was also at St. Ni
kita's, but, he says, 'We have to get them both together on the
same footing so I can try them out against my tuning fork."
'Well, let's get on with it." Uncle answers. "I've got everything
ready in the hotel. All the rooms open into one another. There's
no one else staying there. You can shout as much as you like,
and no one will be bothered. It's a fine hotel; only the clerks
from the lawcourts go there with petitioners when the court's
in session. But in the evening there's no one around at all.
There's even a regular forest of cart shafts and poles in front of
the windows on Polesya Square."
The stranger answers: "That's just what we need. There are
enough cheeky music lovers here too whdd be certain to gather
round to listen to my singing and make fun."
"Surely you're not shy?"
"I'm not shy, but cheekiness makes me angry and 111 get into
a fight."
And he says all this in a voice as loud as a trumpet.
''111 have time to explain to them," he says, "all the sorts of
singing we in Elets most admire. We11 listen to how they tune
up and how they manage with all the different types - if they
can get a really low growl when they sing the 'Vestment,' how
they do in the middle ranges, the top range in the 'Long Life,' if
they put in the right wail doing 'In Her Blessed Assumption,'
and do the memorial howl. It won't take long."
Uncle agreed.
"Yes," he said, "we have to compare them and then come to a
decision that will be tolerable for us all. We11 try to make a
deal with the one who best suits our Elets style and coax him
to come back with us. The one that comes off second best will
get some money for a new cassock for his trouble."
"Keep your money with you - there might be thieves there."
'�d you keep yours too."
"Certain! y."
"And now, you go and set up the refreshments, while I get the
deacons. They asked me to wait until it's getting dark. 'You can't
trust anyone here,' they say. 'Somebody always gets wind of
everything."'
Uncle agrees to that as well, but adds: ''I don't feel any too
comfortable going around Oryol when it's getting dark, and it11
soon be pitch black outside."
"Well, I'm not afraid of anything/' the stranger answers.

"And suppose one of these here Oryol 'pouncers' decides to
strip off your overcoat ?"*
"We'll see about that. Do you really think he'd strip anything
off me ? Let him try! I'd more likely strip it all off him."
''It's a good thing you're so strong."
''You take your nephew along. A brawny young lad like that
should be able to fell an ox with his bare fist."
Mamma pipes up: "Misha's so frail - how can he take care of
himself?"
''If he puts a roll of copper five-copeck pieces in his glove he'll
get stronger."
Auntie pipes up: ''Will you listen to the man!"
''And what's wrong with that?"
''It seems you have your own laws for everything in Elets."
"And why not? You have a governor to make laws, but we
don't have one and so we make laws for ourselves."
"For beating people up?"
''Yes, there are laws for beating people as well."
''You had best not stay until the thieves' hour. Then nothing
will happen to you."
"And just when does your thieves' hour begin in Oryol ?"
Auntie quotes from some book in answer: "For when people
have supped and, having prayed, take their rest, then do the
thieves arise and go forth to rob."
Uncle and the stranger both laughed. Everything that
Mamma and Auntie said seemed improbable or absurd to them.
''And what is your chief of police doing when this is going
on?" they ask.
Auntie again takes her answer from Scripture : '"Except the
Lord keep the house, the watchman waketh but in vain.'8 Our
Police Chief is named Tsyganok. He tends to his own affairs; he
wants to buy himself an estate. And if someone is robbed he
tells him, 'Why weren't you at home asleep? Then you wouldn't
have been robbed."'
''He should send out patrols more often."
''He has already."
''And what happened?"
•Podlyot- in the antiquated speech of Oryol, it meant the same as zhulik (cheat,
swindler, petty thief) in Moscow, or mazurik (pickpocket) in St. Petersburg. (See
Pyasetsky's A Historical Sketch of the City of Oryo]. 1874.) [Leskov's note.)
Leskov: A ROBBERY lOS
"There were even more robberies."

"Why was that ?"
''No one knows. The patrol passes and the pouncers are right
behind it, robbing."
"But maybe it's the patrol and not the pouncers doing the
robbing."
'1t might well be."
"Your local sergeant should look into it."
'1t's even worse with him. If you go complaining to him, you
wind up paying him a fine for disrespect."
'What a preposterous town this is!" cried Pavel Mironych - (I
guessed that it was he) - and he said his good-byes and left. Un
cle stayed, stirring occasionally and continuing to hold forth:
''No, in truth," he says, "it's better back in Elets. 111 take a cab."
''Don't ever take a cab! The cabby will strip you clean and
then throw you off his sleigh."
'Well if that's the way things are, 111 take my nephew Misha
with me again. No one will harm the two of us."
At first Mamma would not hear of letting me out, but Uncle
took offense and said: 'What sort of treatment is this ? I've just
given him a watch with a rim; can he be so lacking in gratitude
that he won't do a simple service for a kinsman? I can't let the
whole affair collapse now. Pavel Mironych left here with my firm
promise that I would join them and get everything ready. But
now, after I've listened to all your alarums, what would you have
me do - stay here, or go out by myself to my certain ruination ?"
Mamma and Auntie kept silent.
But Uncle wouldn't let up: '1f I were as young and lively as I
used to be," he says, "even when I was forty, I wouldn't be afraid
of any pouncers. But I'm getting on: I'm sixty-four years old, and
if someone grabs my coat when I'm a long way from the house,
by the time I get he re without it 111 surely get inflammation in
my shoulders, and they1l have to take a cupful of blood out of
me, or maybe 111 just croak on you right here. If that happens
you can bury me at my expense at St. John the Baptist's; but let
everyone around my grave remember that it was your Misha who,
in his own native town, wouldn't do his family duty to his own
uncle and who just once in his life refused to go out with him."
At this point I felt so sorry for my uncle and so ashamed
that I jumped right up and said:
''No Mamma, say what you like, but I cannot refuse my un
cle a service I owe him as his nephew. Would you have me be as
ungrateful as Alfred, in the mummers' play the soldiers do? 9 I

beg you on bended knee: do not force me to be ungrateful; let
me go with my own uncle because he is so dear to me and he
gave me a watch, and I will be ashamed before everyone if I fail
to do him this service."
In spite of her perplexity, Mamma had to let me out. But she
gave me the strictest instructions not to drink, not to look to
the left or to the right, not to stop off anywhere, and not to
come back late.
I reassured her as best I could.
"Come now, Mamma," I said. "Why should I look left and
right when the road is straight? 111 be with my uncle."
'Nl the same," she says, "even though you may be with your
uncle, don't stay out until the thieves' hour. I won't sleep a wink
until you're home again."
And then she set to crossing me behind the door and she
whispers: "Don't be too much influenced by your uncle. They're
all a lot of hellbenders in Elets. It's frightening even to go visit
ing there. They11 invite some clerks in for a little spot of some
thing and then force them to drink. Or else they11 pour it down
their gullets and hide all the coats, lock the gates and start to
sing: 'Drink you must, or you11 be bust.' I know my own brother
on that account."
''Very well, Mamma," I answer. ''Very well. Don't worry about
me at all."
But Mamma kept on. "My heart tells me that this will end
badly for you two," she says.
Chapter VIII
At last Uncle and I went out through the gate
and set off. Whatever could the pouncers do to the two of us to
gether? Mamma and Auntie, of course, were stay-at-homes and
didn't know that in a fight I could thrash as many as ten men
with one hand. And even though he was an elderly man, Uncle
could still stand up for himself.
We rushed about from one place to another- the Fish
Market, the vintners' cellars - bought up all we needed, and sent
it all to the Boris-and-Gleb Inn in large sacks. We ordered the
samovars heated immediately, unpacked the delicacies, set out
the wine and the rum, and invited the innkeeper to join us.
"We are not intending anything sinful," we told him, "but it is
our desire and our request that no one else should hear or see
what we are doing."
"You may rest assured on that account, gentlemen," he re
plies. "No one will hear you but the bedbugs in the walls."
He himself was a regular sleepyhead, continually making the
sign of the cross over his mouth as he yawned.
Pavel Mironych soon arrived, bringing the deacons from the
Epiphany and St. Nikita's Churches. First we set to our refresh
ments - cured sturgeon and caviar- in homely fashion and then
asked God's blessing on the business at hand.
The three upper rooms opened into one another. We had placed
our coats on the beds in one room, arranged the refreshments
in the third, and we kept the centre one for the vocal tryouts.
First Pavel Mironych took his place in the middle of the room
and demonstrated what the Elets merchants liked best to hear
from their deacons. His voice, as I said, was awe-inspiring; it seemed
to beat against our faces and rattled the glass in the windows.
Even the innkeeper woke up and said: '1t's you who ought to
be the chief deacon."
"What does that matter? " answers Pavel Mironych. '1 can get
along quite well with the capital I have, but I do love to hear
some volume when the holy service is being sung."
"Yes, who doesn't!"
And right after Pavel Mironych had finished his roaring, the
deacons began to show what they could do. First one, then the
other began to proclaim the same things. The Epiphany deacon
was dark and soft as if he were all quilted, while the one from
St. Nikita's was ginger-haired and wizened as a root of horse
radish, with a thin, curved beard. But when they set to bellow
ing it was impossible to choose which one of them was better.
One would come off better in one style, while the other would
be more pleasing in something else. First Pavel Mironych dem
onstrated how in Elets they liked to hear the rumbling growl re
sounding as if coming from far away. He growled his way
through "Thou art worthy," and then "Pierce, 0 Lord" and "Sacri
fice, 0 Lord," and then both deacons did the same. The ginger
one's growl came off the better. Pavel Mironych started off the
reading of '1n times of yore" on such a low note, lower than the
very lowest, that it seemed as if the wind were carrying it from
afar. And then he started going higher and higher and finally
made such an exclamification that the window panes rang. And
the deacons simply couldn't keep up with him.
Well, things went on in the same fashion, with demonstra

tions of how to do the hictenia and how to get the singers in
tune with it, then the joyous "Long Life" called "And Salvation,"
and then the plaintive "Eternal Rest." 1 0 The wizened deacon
from St. Nikita had a wail that so appealed to all of us that
both Uncle and Pavel Mironych began weeping and kissing him
and begging him, couldn't he muster together all his vital forces
and work up something still more awe-inspiring.
'Why not ?" the deacon answers. "Religion will permit me
that; but I would have to fortify myself with some pure Jamaica
rum. It makes the reverberations in the chest even deeper."
"Do it as a kindness for us then - that's why we brought the
rum. Drink it out of the wine glass if you like, or swill a tum
bler full, or better still tip up the bottle and pour it all straight
down."
"No," says the deacon, '1 don't care to take more than a
tumblerful at a time."
When he had fortified himself, the deacon began from the
bottom with '1n blessed death, eternal peace" and commenced
to rise up the scale in a throaty sub-bellow "to all the departed
Bishops of Oryol and Sevsk, Apollo and Dositheus, Jonah and Ga
briel, Nicodemus and Innocent," and when he got to "gra-a-a-nt
them" even his whole Adam's apple stuck out in a ball, and he
let forth such a howl that awe fell upon us all, and Uncle began
to cross himself and thrust his feet under the bed and I did the
same. Suddenly something under the bed gave us a rap on the
shins. We both screamed and jumped right into the middle of
the room shaking.
Uncle said in a terrified voice: "Enough of that, now! Leave
them alone, don't call up any more of 'em. There's a whole mob
under the bed here already."
"A whole mob of what under the bed ?" Pavel Mironych asks.
"The late bishops," Uncle answers.
Pavel Mironych didn't quail, however. He seized a lighted can
dle and got under the bed, but something puffed on the candle
and knocked the holder out of his hand. Then out crawls some
one who looks like our shopkeeper from the butchers' stalls in
Nicholas Square.
All of us but the innkeeper rushed away in different direc
tions repeating the same incantation: "Chur, chur!"
Right after this another shopkeeper crawls out from under
Leskov: A ROBBERY 1 09
the other bed. And it seems to me that he is from the butchers'

stalls, too.
"What does this mean?"
And these shopkeepers both answer: '1t really doesn't mean
anything. We simply love to listen to a good basso."
The first shopkeeper, the one we had kicked and who'd
knocked the candle out of Pavel Mironych's hand, apolo
gizes but explains that we had hurt him with our boots and
that Pavel Mironych had almost scorched his face with the
candle.
But Pavel Mironych got angry at the innkeeper and began ac
cusing him, saying that since the rooms had been paid for
proper in hard cash he shouldn't have started laying in outsiders
under the bed without permission .
The innkeeper still seems to be asleep, but turned out to be
powerfully tipsy.
''These folks," he says, "are both relatives of mine, and I
wanted to do them a favor as one kinsman to another. It's my
house and I can do whatever I like in it."
"No you can't."
"Yes, I can."
''But we gave you hard cash for these rooms."
''Hard cash? What difference does that make ? This house is
mine and my kinsmen are dearer to me than any hard cash.
You'll stay here for a bit and then leave, but they're always here.
And don't you dare go shoving your heels in their faces or burn
ing their eyes with fire."
"We didn't kick them on purpose, we only put our feet under
the bed," says Uncle.
''Well, you shouldn't go putting your feet under beds. Sit
straight."
''We did it out of fright."
"What's the harm, the n ? They're both devoted to lerigion and
just wanted to have a listen . . ."
Pavel Mironych flared up.
''What's this got to do with lerigion, anyhow ? This is only a
sample for our own edufication. Lerigion's in church."
'�ll the same thing," says the innkeeper. '1t all comes down
to the same sort of thing."
"You're a lot of arsonists, you are!"
"And you're mutineers!"
"What?"
"You trade in carrion. You locked up the assessor!"
A lot of stupid remarks in the same vein followed. Suddenly,
the innkeeper, completely exasperated, shouts, "Clear off, you
millers, get out of my establishment. My butchers and I will
carry on by ourselves."
Pavel Mironych threatened him.
And the innkeeper answers: ''Don't start threatening me or I11
call in a few of our Oryol lads- the sort that11 see you don't
bring a single sound rib back home to Elets."
Pavel Mironych, as Elets's premier strongman, was offended.
"What can we do?" he says. "Call them in, if you can stand on
your feet, but I11 not leave the room. We've paid good money for
the drinks."
The butchers made moves to leave, evidently thinking of
calling in some help.
Pavel Mironych pulls them back and shouts: ''Where's the
key? 111 lock 'em all in."
"Uncle!" I say, ''For God's sake! Can't you see where this is
leading? Someone will get killed here! And Mamma and Auntie
are waiting at home . . . What can they be thinking! They must
be getting so worried!"
Uncle himself had taken a fright.
"Grab your coat," he says, "while the door's still open, and
we1l leave ."
We rushed into the other room, seized our coats, and were
happy to make it out into the open air. But the darkness out
side was so thick we could barely see our hands in front of us,
while whole flakes of sticky, wet snow just stuck to our faces
and plastered over our eyes.
''Lead on," says Uncle. '1 seem to have suddenly quite forgot-
ten where we are and can't make out a thing."
''Just move along as quickly as you can," I say.
'1t wasn't good of us to desert Pavel Mironych."
''But what could we do with him?"
"Yes, I suppose so . . . still, he's the most important man in
our congregation."
"He's a powerful fellow; he won't come to any harm."
The snow just blinds us, and since we had just rushed out of
an overheated room, it seems, goodness knows why, that people
are creeping up towards us from all sides.
Chapter IX
Of course I knew the way perfectly well, because
our town is not a large one and I was born and raised in it; but
coming out of the heat and light of the room directly into this
darkness and wet snow just seemed to befog my memory.
"Just a moment, Uncle," I say. "Let me figure out where we are."
"Don't tell me you can't find some landmarks in your native
town ?"
"No, I know; first we must look for two churches, one new
and large and the other old and small. We have to go between
the two and bear right. But in this snow I can't make out either
one."
"How do you like that! It looks as if they'll grab our coats, or
maybe even all we're wearing, and we won't know where to go,
stark naked. We could catch our death of cold."
"Perhaps, God grant it, they won't take all our clothes."
"Tell me, do you know those shopkeepers who crawled out
from under the beds ?"
'1 know them."
''Both of them?"
''Both. One's Efronsin Ivanov, the other Agafon Petrov."
"And are they really shopkeepers?"
"They are."
"One of them has a mug on him I didn't care for a bit."
"How do you mean?"
"He's got a right Jazuitical way about him."
"That's Efrosin. He gave me a regular fright one time."
"How's that ?"
"On account of my own imagination, really. I was going past
their shops one evening from vespers and stopped in front of St.
Nicholas' to say a prayer for safe passage, because there are
some vicious dogs in the market. Efrosin Ivanych had a nightin
gale singing in his shop, and I could see his icon lamp shining
through the boards in his fence. I crouched down by a crack and
see him standing over a bull-calf with a knife in his hand. The
calf at his feet is being butchered and his legs have been tied
but are still kicking away and he's tossing his head. Then his
head dangles down and blood just pours out of his slit throat.
And another calf is waiting for the knife in a dark corner, sort
of mooing and trembling, and above the fresh blood is the
nightingale, singing like mad in his cage; and far off beyond the
Oka there's a rumble of thunder. I got terrified and screamed in

fright: 'Efrosin Ivanych!' I wanted to ask him to take me to the
footbridge, but he just shuddered all over . . . And I ran off. It's
fresh in my memory even now."
"Why on earth are you telling a horror story like that now?"
"What's the matter? Are you afraid ?"
'1'rn not afraid, but you needn't go on about such horrors."
''There was a happy ending to it. The next day I told him
how he had frightened me and so on. And he answers, 'Well you
gave me a fright, because I was just standin' there havin' a listen
to the nightingale and suddenly you lets out a scream.' 'How is
it that you get so absorbed in listening?' I ask. 'Can't help it,' he
answers, 'my heart often just melts inside me.'"
''Tell me, are you strong?" Uncle suddenly interrupts.
'1 won't boast of any extraordinary strength," I say, ''but if I've
got three or four of the old-style five-copeck bits squeezed in my
fist then I can flatten any pouncer you like sds he11 bid farewell
to his soul."
''That's just fine if he's all alone," he says.
''Who ?"
''Who! The pouncer, of course! But what if there's two of
them, or a whole mob?"
"Don't worry," I say. ''We11 manage if there are two -you can
help. And pouncers don't go about in big mobs."
''Well don't count on me too much. Remember, son, I'm not
so young any more. There was a time, now, when I could use
my fists for the glory of God so's they knew about Elets even in
Livny . . ."
But he hadn't managed to finish what he was saying when
suddenly we hear a noise behind us. It seemed to be a person
walking, even hurrying.
"Just a minute," I say. "' think someone is corning."
"You don't say. Even I can hear someone is corning," Uncle
answers.
Chapter X
I keep silent, and Uncle whispers to me: ''We11 stop
and let him go past."
It happened that we were right on the slope of the hill where
in summer people crossed on the Balashov Bridge, and in winter
on the ice between the barges.
This had always been a God-forsaken place. There were few

houses on the hill and those were deserted; further down to the
right, on the Orlik, were some decrepit bathhouses and an aban
doned mill, and above that stood a precipice like a wall. To the
right of us was an orchard where robbers always hid. Police
Chief Tsyganok had built a sentry box here, but people began
saying that the policeman on duty was helping the robbers. So, I
think to myself, pouncer or not - it really would be better to let
whoever is coming go past.
Uncle and I stopped. And what do you think happened? The
person who was coming up behind us also stopped, so it
seemed, since we could no longer hear his footsteps.
"Perhaps we were wrong," says Uncle. "Maybe there wasn't
anyone."
''No," I answer, "I could hear the footsteps quite clearly and
they were very close."
We stood a bit longer and couldn't hear a thing, but as soon
as we set off again we hear him keeping pace behind us. We
could even hear him hurrying along and panting. We slow our
pace and walk quietly, and he goes along quietly too; when we
speed up again, he comes along quicker as well; and suddenly
here he is almost stepping on our heels.
Well, there is no need to palaver: it was clear as day we had a
pouncer following us and that he had been following us right
from the hotel. He must have been lying in wait for us, and
when I got confused in the snow as we were making our swing
between the big church and the little one, he picked us as his
quarry. That means there is no escaping it now; something is
going to happen. He won't be alone, either.
As ill luck would have it, the snow pelted down even more
furiously. Walking along through it, it seemed just like clotted
milk when you stir it in a pot: white and wet and all sticky.
And now the Oka was ahead of us, and we had to go down to
the river ice. There were empty barges on the ice, and to get to
the other side and home we had to make our way through the
narrow passages between these barges. And the pouncer follow
ing us surely has some of his robber comrades lying in wait for
us somewhere right here. The easiest place for them to rob peo
ple is on the ice between the barges, and then murder them and
slip the bodies through the ice. This is their robbers' den, and in
the daytime you could always pick out their spots here. Their
lairs are fitted out with beds of hemp bark and straw, and they
lie on them, smoking and waiting. And some particular tavern

wenches have taken up dwelling here too. A vicious lot, these
women are. Sometimes they would display themselves, lure a
man up close and lead him off where the men would rob him.
Then the women would go back out on watch again.
They most often attacked people coming from vespers in the
monastery, because our folk loved the singers and at that time
there was a marvelous basso, Strukov, a man of terrifying as
pect: awfully dark, with three topknots on his head and a lower
lip that hung down like the folding front apron on a phaeton
carriage. When he bellowed, his lip would be all folded out, and
then it would slam shut. If anyone wanted to return safely from
vespers he would ask the clerks Ryabykin or Korsunsky to ac
company h im. Both were strong fellows, and the pouncers were
afraid of them. Ryabykin especially, who had a walleye and who was
involved in the affair when the clerk Solomka was murdered in the
Shchekatikhinsky Grove during the May holidays . . .
I was telling Uncle all this to keep him from thinking about
himself, but he interrupts:
"Leave off, now. You11 be the death of me. You people just
seem to go 'bout murdering one another. Let's at least have a
rest before we go down onto the ice. I've got three more copper
five-copeck pieces here. Put them in your glove too."
"111 take them, thanks. My mitten is loose enough; I can
hold three more."
And I am just about to take these coins when out of the
darkness someone sprang up beside us and says:
"So, my good fellows, you are out aplundering?"
I thought for sure it was a pouncer, but I recognized the
voice as that of the butcher I had been telling about.
"Is it ycu, Efrosin Ivanych ?" I say, "Come along with us,
friend."
He passes by in a great rush, seeming to blend with the
snow, and answers as he goes: "No, my friends, the goose can be
no friend to the pig. You go on splitting up your plunder and
leave Efrosin alone. Efrosin has listened his fill to the singers,
and his heart is soaring in his bosom. 111 flick my finger at you
and you11 no longer be numbered among the living."
"We11 never stop him," I say. "You see, he's mistaken us; he
thinks we're the robbers."
Uncle answers: "Let him go, he and all his kind. We don't
know if we11 survive with him either. We11 better keep going
with just God's help and let things happen as God grants. If
God doesn't grant it, even the pig won't eat . But now he's gone
by I feel much bolder . . . Lord, have mercy upon us! Nicholas,
Intercessor of Mtsensk, Mitrofan of Voronezh, Tikhon and Jo
seph . . . Scat, scat! What was that?"
"What ?"
''Didn't you see it?"
''How can you see anything here ? !"
"It felt like a cat crawling round my feet."
"You're imagining things."
"It rolled by just like a watermelon."
"Maybe the wind has torn someone's hat off."
''Hey!"
"What is it?"
"It's a cap."
"What about it ?"
"Just as you say: 'tom off.' They're likely giving a bit of trou
ble to someone up there on the hill."
''No, likely it's just the wind blown it off."
And with these words we both began making our way down
to the barges on the ice.
The barges, as I said, used to be put there in no particular
order, one next to the other, just as they came to rest. Some
times they were so awfully crowded together that there were
only the narrowest of passageways between them where one
could barely manage to squeeze through, and people would have
to twist this way and that in a regular gaggle.
'�nd now, Uncle," I say, '1 don't want to hide it from you-
the greatest danger is right here."
Uncle's heart sank; he no longer invoked any saints.
''Now," I say, "you go first, Uncle."
''Why me ?" he whispers.
'1t's safer in front."
''Why is it safer?"
"Because if a pouncer should attack you, you can fall right
back on me and then I can support you and bring him to the
ground. But if you're behind me I won't be able to see you.
Maybe a pouncer will clap his hand over your mouth or gag you
with a slippery strip of bast, and I won't hear a thing and will
just keep going . . ." 1 1
"No, wait now- tell me about those bast strips they use."
"Soft and slippery ones. Their women collect them from un-
derneath the bathhouses and bring them for the pouncers to

stuff in people's mouths so they won't be able to shout."
I can see that Uncle wants to keep up a conversation because
he is afraid to go first .
''I have a few qualms about going first," he says, "because he
could knock me on the head with a clock weight, and then you
wouldn't have time to intervene."
"But it would even be worse if you went behind, because he
could clip you across the back of the head with a svayka."
''What do you mean, a svayka?"
''What are you saying: don't tell me you don't know what a
svayka is?"
"No, I know. A svayka is a throwing spike for a game - iron,
pointed . . . "
"Pointed, yes."
''With a round head?"
"That's it . It weighs three or four pounds and it's got a little
ball on the end."
''We carry bludgeons for that sort of thing in Elets; but to do
someone in with a svayka- that's the first time I've heard of
that."
"And in Oryol it's absolutely the favorite style - over the head
with a svayka. The skull just cracks."
''I think we'd best go abreast, arm in arm."
''It1l be a tight squeeze for the two of us between the barges."
"Just imagine that, though . . . with a svayka! We'd best try
and squeeze through somehow."
Chapter XI
We had no sooner linked arms and begun squeez
ing through the little passages between the barges when we
hear that the same fellow who was following us hadn't dropped
back and is slinking along behind again.
"Now what do you think of that!" says Uncle. ''It seems he
wasn't the butcher after all."
I only shrugged my shoulders and kept listening intently.
We could hear the rustling as he made his way along, and
suddenly a hand from behind seizes me . . . And we could hear
still another one running down from the hill. Well, it was plain
enough: it was the pouncers and we had to get away. We tried
rushing ahead, but it was impossible to go quickly because it
was dark and cramped and there were broken chunks of ice
standing up from the surface. And this nearest pouncer is right
at my back, and I can hear his breathing.
I say to Uncle: "It doesn't matter now- there's no escaping it.
Let's tum around."
I thought we could e ither let him get past us or still better
meet him with a fistful of coppers in the face so as to knock
him back. But as soon as we turned to meet him, he, the rascal,
just bent down and - swish! - slipped between us like a cat!
Both Uncle and I were knocked right off our feet.
Uncle shouts to me : "Grab him, Misha, grab him! He's
snatched my beaver cap!"
I can't see a thing but I remembered my watch and made a
grab for it. And just imagine, my watch is gone . . . He's
snatched it, the scoundrel!
"And he's got my watch!" I answer.
Forgetting myself, I rushed after that pouncer for all I was
worth and to my great luck managed to capture him right there
in the darkness behind a barge; with all my strength I hit him
on the head with the coppers, knocked him off his feet and sat
on him:
"Give me back my watch!"
He replied not a word, the villain, but just sank his teeth
into my hand.
"Ow, you beast!" I say. "You bite like a dog!" And I rapped him
smartly across his moustaches, stuffed my cuff into his mouth,
reached inside his coat with my other hand, quickly found my
watch and drew it out.
Uncle hopped up at this very point and said: "Hold him, hold
him, now, and I'll take a few wrinkles out of 'im."
And so we began smoothing the wrinkles out of him in both
the Elets and Oryol styles. We did a proper fearsome job of flail
ing him, so much so that he only broke loose from us without
even letting out a shout and struck off at great speed, just like a
hare. And only when he had run beyond the Plauta Well did he
begin shouting "Help! Police!" And immediately someone else
on the hill across the river began shouting ''Police!"
"A fine lot of bandits these are!" says Uncle. "Rob people and
then start shouting for the police on both sides of the river! Did
you get your watch from him?"
"I got it."
"And why didn't you get my cap, then?"
"I must say," I answer, "the thought of your cap went clear
out of my mind."
"And now I'm cold. I've got a bald spot, remember."
"Put my cap on."
"I don't want yours. I paid fifty rubles for that cap of mine at
Faleev's."
''That doesn't much matter," I say. "It's nowhere to be seen
now."
"What will you do, then?"
"111 be all right. 111 go back home bare-headed. Anyway, it's
not far. We just tum the comer and we're home." My cap, how
ever, turned out to be too small for my uncle. He took a hand
kerchief out of his pocket and tied it over his head like a scarf.
And thus we came hurrying home.
Chapter XII
Mamma and Auntie had not yet gone to bed; both
were knitting stockings while waiting for us. And when they
saw Uncle come in looking as if he had been dragged through
the snow and wearing a handkerchief on his head like an old
peasant woman, they both gasped and said:
"Heavens above! What has happened? Where is the winter cap
you were wearing?"
"We can say farewell to my winter cap! We11 not see it again,"
Uncle answers.
"Holy Mother of God! Where has it got to?"
"Some of your Oryol pouncers grabbed it out on the ice."
"So it was you we heard calling for the police. I told my sis-
ter: 'Send out the threshers - ! think that is poor young Misha's
voice I hear."'
"Indeed! By the time your threshers had woken up and got
out, there would have been nothing left of us but a memory.
No, it wasn't us calling for the police, it was the robbers; we
took care of ourselves on our own."
Mamma and Auntie got very angry.
"What do you mean? Don't tell us that even Misha was in
volved in an exchange of fisticuffs ?"
"Indeed he was. In fact it was Misha who did the main thing.
He only let my cap slip. But he did get his watch back."
Mamma, I can see, is happy that I made such a good impres
sion on my uncle, but she says: "Oh, Misha, Misha! Didn't I ask
you not to drink anything and not to stay out late past the
thieves' hour? Why didn't you listen to me ?"
"Please, Mamma," I say, "I haven't had a single drop, and I
didn't dare leave Uncle there by himself. You can see that if he'd
come back alone something most unpleasant could have hap
pened to him."
'�ll the same, he lost his cap."
"Oh come now! We can always find another."
"That's true, certainly. Thanks be to God that you got your
watch back."
"Yes, Mamma, I did. And you should have seen how I did it! I
just knocked him off his feet, stuffed my sleeve in his mouth
sds he couldn't shout, reached inside his coat with my other
hand, pulled out the watch, and then Uncle and I began to
thrash him."
"Surely that was not necessary."
"No, it was. Let him remember it, the thieving wretch."
"The watch wasn't smashed?"
''No, I don't think so. Only the chain seems to be broken . . . "
And with these words I take the watch out of my pocket and
examine the chain. Auntie looks closely at the watch and asks:
"Whose watch is this, then?"
"What do you mean, whose ? It's mine, of course."
"But didn't yours have a rim on it?"
"Of course it did. Why do you ask?"
I take a look at it myself and suddenly I see that in fact this
watch does not have a gold rim; instead it has a silver plate with
a shepherd and shepherdess and a little sheep at their feet . . .
I begin to tremble all over.
"What on earth has happened? ? ! This isn't my watch!"
Everyone just stands there uncomprehending.
Auntie says : '� fine thing this is!"
Uncle tries to reassure her: "Wait, now," he says, "don't get
alarmed. That pouncer probably took Misha's watch off with
him; this is one he'd lifted earlier from someone else."
But I flung the watch I had extracted on the table and, not
even wanting to look at it, rushed into my room. And there I
hear, peacefully tick-tacking away on the wall above my bed, my
own watch- tick, tick, tick.
I ran up with a candle and see that it is my very own, my
watch with the gold rim, hanging there right in its place like
holy relic.
At this point I slapped my forehead with my palm as hard as

I could and began not weeping but wailing.
"Lord in Heaven! Whom have I robbed?"
Chapter XIII
Mamma, Auntie and Uncle all took fright and
ran in and began shaking me.
"What's wrong? What's wrong ? Calm yourself!"
''Leave me alone, please," I say. ''How can I calm down when
I've robbed a man!"
Mamma began to cry. ''He's gone mad," she says. ''He must
have seen some dreadful vision!"
'1 certainly did, Mamma. What can I do now!"
'Whatever did you see ?"
''This right here. Look for yourself."
'What is it? Where ?"
''This is it! This, right here! Look! Can't you see what it is?"
They looked at the wall where I was pointing and see the sil-
ver watch with the gold rim my uncle had given me hanging
there, peacefully ticking away.
Uncle was first to collect himself.
"Lord bless us!" he says. '1sn't that your watch?"
''Yes, of course it's mine."
"So that means you left it here and didn't take it with you at
all ?"
''You can see very well that I left it he re."
''That's it . . . That's it, exactly. Now whose watch did you
take ?"
''How do I know ?"
'What has happened! My dear sisters! Misha and I have com
mitted a robbery!
Mamma's legs just gave out beneath heri one moment she
was standing when she just gave out a shriek and simply sat
down on the floor.
I rushed to help her to her feet but she said in fury: "Get
away from me, you brigand!"
Auntie just makes the sign of the cross in all directions re
peating: ''Bless us, Lord! Bless us, Lord!"
Mamma puts her hands to her head and whispers: ''They
have thrashed someone half to death, then robbed him, and
they don't even know who it is!"
Uncle helped her to her feet and tried to soothe her: "Calm
down, now. It certainly couldn't have been any respectable per
son we beat up."
''How do you know? It may well have been someone respect
able; perhaps someone sent to fetch a doctor for a sick person."
Uncle says: "But what about my cap, then? Why did he grab
my cap ?"
"God only knows about your cap and where you left it."
Uncle was offended, but Mamma paid no attention to him
and again turned to me.
"For so many years I have kept my little son in the fear of
God, and now see what a vocation he chooses: a thief not in
name, but a thief just the same . . . No respectable Oryol girl
will marry you after this, because absolutely everyone will find
out that you are a pouncer."
I lost patience and said loudly:
"Please, Mamma! How can I be a pouncer when it was all a
mistake ?
She would not even listen but kept rapping her knuckles on
my head as she recited the lamentation from "Misery-Luckless
Plight": "For I have admonished thee: live, my child, in meek
ness; go not to games and carousing; drink not from two goblets
with one breath; lie not down in forsaken places, lest thy costly
garments be taken from thee and cause thee great shame and
dishonor and through thee thy family be reproached and reviled
by idle men. For I have admonished thee: go not, my child, to
the dice-players and tavemkeepers; think not to steal and rob,
but you would not submit to your mother. Take off your good
clothes, now, put on your tavern cast-offs, and go wait for the
policeman to come knocking at the gate and Tsyganok himself
to burst into our honorable house." 1 2
And she goes on lamenting and rapping her knuckles on my
head.
As soon as Auntie heard mention of Tsyganok she shrieked:
"Lord! Deliver us from the bloodthirsty man and from Jareth!" 1 3
My God! I t seemed our house had become a regular Hell.
Auntie and Mamma embraced and left the room, weeping
and still clasping one another. I was left alone with Uncle.
I sat down, propped my elbows on the table and cannot re
member how many hours I sat here. I kept thinking: whom had
I robbed? Perhaps it was the Frenchman St. Vincent coming
back from a lesson, or the Trustee's secretary who lived at Strak-
hov's, the Marshall of the Nobility's house. I felt sorry for both
of them. But what if it were my godfather Kulabukhov, crossing
the ice from the Court Secretary's! He would want to do it on
the sly, so no one would see the bag he was carrying, and here I
went and worked him over. A godson . . . robbing and beating
his own godfather!
''I'm going up to the attic and hang myself. There's nothing
else left for me to do."
Uncle just kept drinking tea furiously and then, without my
even noticing, he comes up to me and says:
"Enough of this sitting around long-faced. We must act."
"Of course," I answered, ''If we could find out whose watch I
took . . ."
"Never mind; get up, now, and we'll go together and make a
statement about the whole thing ourselves."
"Make a statement to whom ?!"
''To your Tsyganok himself, of course."
''What a shameful thing to admit!"
''What else can we do? Do you think I fancy going to Tsyga
nok? But it's still better to confess it ourselves than have him
come searching for us. Take both watches and let's go."
I agreed.
I took the watch Uncle had given me and the other I had
brought home that night, and we went off without saying good
bye to Mamma.
Chapter XIV
We arrived at the police station and see Tsyganok
sitting before a zertsalo in his office. 14 Outside his door stands
a young police sergeant, Prince Solntsev-Zasekin, a man with
few gifts apart from his illustrious name.
Uncle noticed me exchanging bows with the prince and says:
''Is he really a prince ?"
"God's truth, he is."
''Flash him a little something so's he steps out on the stairs
for a minute."
I did just that. I twirled a twenty-five copeck piece around,
and the prince sprang out onto the stairway.
Uncle slipped twenty-five copecks into his hand and asked
him to admit us to the office as soon as possible.
The policeman began telling us of how this evening, as he
said, a powerful lot of occurrences were occurring in the town.

'�d we also had an occurrence happen to us."
"Really? What sort of a one ? You both look sound enough.
But there was a body slipped through the ice out there on the
river, and two merchants have been tossing about all the cart
shafts, poles and beams over on Poleysa Square. We found a man
unconscious under a water-trough, and two people had their
watches stolen. I'm the only one left on duty here; all the
others are running about looking for pouncers."
"Yes, pouncers, that's it. Go and tell the chief that we have
come to clear up one case."
"Have you been in a scuffle or some family argument?"
"No, just go and say that it's confidential. We feel rather awk
ward talking about it in front of a lot of people. Here, take an
other twenty-fiver."
The prince slipped the coin into his pocket and within five
minutes called to us: "Be so good as to enter."
Chapter XV
Tsyganok was a squatty sort of Ukrainian who
looked just like a cockroach; his moustaches jutted out side
ways and he spoke in a rude, Ukrainian fashion.
Uncle, with his own Elets manner, wanted to step right up
close to him, but Tsyganok shouted: "Stay where you are! Have
yer say from there."
We stopped.
"State your business."
Uncle says: "First of all, there's this."
And he placed a little sweetener on the table. Tsyganok
tucked it away.
Uncle then began telling his story: "I am a merchant from
Elets and an elder of the church. I came here yesterday on an
important spiritual matter. I am staying at my relatives' home,
near the Plauta Well."
"So it's you, was it, what was robbed last night?"
"Just so. My nephew and I were returning home last night at
eleven dclock, and an unknown person was following us. As we
began crossing on the ice between the barges . . ."
"Hold on, now . . . Who was the third man with you?"
"There was no third man with us, 'cept for that thief who at
tacked us . . ."
''But who was it you drowned last night?"

"Drowned?"
''Yes!"
'We know nothing at all about that."
The police chief rang and told the sergeant: "Lock 'em up!"
Uncle begged for mercy.
''Have pity on us, Your Excellency! How can you do this to
us! We came here ourselves to tell you about it . . ."
''But it's you what drowned the man?"
'We haven't even heard of any drowning. Whds drowned?"
'We don't know. We found a beaver cap, pretty badly mangled,
beside a hole in the ice, but whose it is we don't know."
''A beaver cap! ?"
''Yes, Show him the cap and let's see what he says."
The sergeant took Uncle's cap out of a cupboard.
Uncle says: '1t's my cap. A thief took it from me on the ice
yesterday."
Tsyganok looked blank.
'What d'you mean, a thief? What kind of story is that? Wasn't
a cap, it was a watch what was stolen."
''A watch ? From whom, Your Excellency?"
"From the deacon of St. Nikita's."
"From the deacon of St. Nikita's!"
''Yes, and he got beat up pretty bad, he did."
Of course you can understand that we were simply stupefied.
So this was the person we had worked over!
Tsyganok says: '1 s'pose you know the scoundrels what did
it?"
''Yes," Uncle answers. 'We are the very ones."
And he told him all that had happened.
'Where are the watches now?"
'1f you please, here is one, and here is the other."
'1s that all ?"
Uncle put down another little sweetener and says: ''Here's a
bit more to go with the other."
The chief tucked it away and says: ''Bring in the deacon!"
Chapter XVI
The scrawny deacon comes in, much battered
and with his head bandaged.
Tsyganok looks at me and says: "D'you see ?"
I bow and say: "Your Excellency, I deserve to suffer the full

penalty of the law. But please spare me from a journey to a far
off place. I am my mother's only son."
"Never mind that. Just tell me, are you a Christian or not?
D'you have any feeling in your bones?"
I can see where this incongruous conversation is leading and
say: "Uncle, stake me a little sweetener for the Chief. You'll get
it back when we get home."
Uncle put it on the table.
"Tell me what happened to you."
The deacon began telling of how "there was a whole group of
us in the Boris-and Gleb Inn and all very decent and refined it
was, too, but then the innkeeper slipped in some strangers to
listen under the bed as a treat for them, and one of the Elets
merchants took offense, and a little brawl started up. I got
dressed quiet-like and slipped out alone, but when I was turning
past the government buildings I see two men ahead of me, keep
ing a lookout. I stop to let them get ahead and they stop; I go
on and they go, too. And meanwhile, I suddenly hear someone
else far behind me trying to catch up. I was terrified and rushed
ahead, but these two turned to face me in the narrow passage
way between the barges and blocked my path. And the fellow
from the hill behind me is right on my heels. I said a silent
prayer: 'Bless me, 0 Lord!' and bent down to slip between these
two and I made it. But they caught up with me, knocked me off
my feet, beat me up, and tore off my watch. Look, here's all
that's left of the chain."
"Let me have a look at that."
He put the chain alongside the piece that remained on the
watch and says: "That's the one. Take a look, is this watch yours?"
The deacon answers: "It is mine indeed, and I wish to have it
returned to me."
'1mpossible. It must stay here until the case is considered."
"So why then," he asks, "was I beaten up?"
''Better ask them about that."
Uncle interjected at this point.
"Your Exc'llency! There is no point in questioning us any
more. We are certainly at fault for beating up the good deacon
and we shall set matters right. You see, we're taking him back
to Elets with us."
But the deacon took such offense at that remark that he
turned right away from us.
"No," he says. ''Thank you very kindly, but I shall never agree
to go to Elets. I've had my fill of you people. You only just per
suade me to go, and then the first chance you have, you give me
a regular working over."
Uncle says: "Father Deacon, please, it was all a mistake."
''A fine mistake, when I cannot even bend my neck."
"We'll have that seen to."
"No," he says, "I don't want any more of your seeing to. The
bath attendant at Finogeyevich's always looks after me. But you
must give me a thousand rubles to build a house."
''That we shall do."
"I'm not joking, mind. It is forbidden to beat me. I am a man
of the cloth.
"We shall treat you with the dignity due your rank."
And Tsyganok also began helping out my uncle: ''The Elets
merchants will look after you," he says. "Now then, who else
have we got in the lock-up ?"
Chapter XVII
The Boris-and Gleb innkeeper and Pavel Miro
nych are brought in. Pavel Mironych's coat is in shreds and so is
the innkeeper's.
"What was the fight about?" asks Tsyganok.
They each place a little sweetener on the table for him and
answer: "Nothing at all, Your Excellency. We're on the best of
terms again."
"It's a fine thing if you don't get worked up on account of a
few punches - that's your affair. But how dare you create a dis
order in the town? Why were you tossing about all the troughs
and poles and cart-shafts on Polesya Square ?"
The innkeeper says that it was an accident.
"I wanted to tum him in to the police last night," he says,
"and he wanted to tum me in. We were pulling one another
about, and Agafon the butcher was giving me a hand. We went
astray in the snow, got to the Square, and just couldn't make
our way through . . . and everything got sort of scattered around.
We got frightened and started shouting . . . The patrol picked us
up . . . the watches disappeared . . ."
"Whose watches?"
"Mine."
"Mine, too," says Pavel Mironych.
"What sort of proof do you have?"

"Why do we need proof? We're not going to claim them."
''And who was it stuffed Agafon the butcher under a trough?"
''That we can't say," answers the innkeeper. ''The trough must
have turned over on him and trapped him, and he fell asleep un
der it, drunk. Set us free, Your Excellency, we're not making any
claim on anything."
"Very well," says Tsyganok. ''But I have to finish with the
others. Bring in the other deacon."
The black deacon came in.
Tsyganok says to him: ''Now why did you break up the sentry
box last night?"
"I took a powerful fright, Your Excellency," he says.
"What could frighten you?"
"Some people started shouting for the police on the ice. I
rushed back and begged the policeman on duty to hide me from
the pouncers, but he just drives me off. 'Not on your life,' he
says. 'I just recalled I have to pick up a pair of boots from the
cobbler.' And I, in my fright, gave a bit of a push to the door
and it just broke. It's my fault- 1 burst into the sentry box and
fell asleep, and when I got up in the morning, I see: no watch,
no money."
Tsyganok says: ''Well now what, good folk of Elets? You see,
this deacon as well has come to grief because of you, and his
watch is missing too."
Pavel Mironych and Uncle answer: ''Well, Your Excellency, we
shall have to go home and borrow from our friends because we
don't have any more with us."
And so everyone left, but the watches remained there; and
we soon consoled ourselves about it all, and much laughter and
fun there was, too. And then for the first time in my life I got
drunk with them in the Boris-and-Gleb and rode down the
street in a cab, waving a handkerchief. Then they borrowed
some money in Oryol and left, but without taking the deacon
along, because he was very much afraid of them. No matter
how they begged him, he would not go.
''I am very happy," he said, "that the Lord has given me this
gift of a thousand rubles from you for the injury I suffered. I
shall finish off my little house and get myself a good position
with the secretary; but you Elets folk, as I can see, are a very
brazen lot."
For me, however, began a terrible ordeal. Poor Mamma fell so
ill from anger at me that she was close to the grave. Blank de
spondency reigned all through the house. She did not want to
see Dr. Depiche, fearing that he would question her about the
whole state of her health. She turned to religion. At that time
Mother Eunice was living in the nunnery and she had a Jordan
sheet, one she had wiped herself with after she had wetted
herself in the Jordan River. Mamma was covered with the same
sheet. That did not help. Every day water was taken from seven
crosses in seven churches. That did not help. There was a cer
tain layabout peasant, Esafeyka, who did no work but just lay
about all day like a log, and we sent him a cap of special cut so
that he would pray for her. That was of no help either. Only
when she at last went to Finogeyevich's baths with her sister
and they cupped off a measure of blood did she at last begin to
take matters in hand. She ordered the Jordan sheet to be given
back to Mother Eunice, and she herself began looking for an or
phan to take into the house to bring up.
This was done on the advice of the matchmaker. The match
maker had many children of her own but still was very kind to
orphans, always taking them in, and she told Mamma: "Take
someone else's poor child into your house. Everything in your
house will change at once; the air itself will become different.
Some of the gentry set out flowers to improve the air and, of
course, there's no harm in that. But the main thing for the air is
children. A kind of spirit comes from them as brings joy to the
angels and makes Satan gnash his teeth. There's this girl in the
Pushkarny Hospital, now, that's in such a state over her child
that she even tried to drown it by the mill on the Orlik."
Mamma said: ''Tell her not to drown it, but to drop it at my
door."
On that very same day we had a little girl, Mavrutka, squeal
ing and sucking her little fist. Mamma attended to the child
and she herself began to change. She began treating me with
great acrimony.
''You need not bother with any new clothes for Easter," she
would say. ''You are a drinker now and your tavern cast-offs are
good enough."
It was enough to endure all this at home, but I was not even
able to show my face on the street, because as soon as the shop
keepers saw me, they began teasing: "Stole the deacon's watch,
he did."
There was no living at home and there was no leaving it either.
Only the fatherless Mavrutka would smile at me.

But the matchmaker Matryona Terentevna saved me and de
livered me from my misery. She was a simple old woman, but
such a warm-hearted one.
"Listen to me, my fine young lad," she says, "do you want me
to set things right for you? I'll arrange it so that even if some
one does laugh at you, you won't feel a thing."
"Please do what you can," I say. "Living this way is horrid."
'Well, then," she says, "forget the others and listen to me. You
and I will go to Mtsensk and pray earnestly to the blessed St.
Nicholas, and we'll set him a candle the size of a fence post.
And I'll marry you off to a beauty that's fit for a king, one you'll
live out your years with thanking God and remembering me
and having pity on orphans. Because I always show pity to
orphans."
I answer that I feel pity for orphans myself, but what respect
able girl would marry me now?
"And why not? That doesn't matter a bit. This one's a clever
girl. You didn't carry off nothing from anyone's yard, just
brought something home - there's a difference, you know. I'll
just make her to understand so's she'll see it all clear as any
thing, and she'll be very happy to marry you. And you and I will
make a fine trip to St. Nicholas, with all the comforts you
could ask for. The horse will pull the wagon with all the bag
gage, the samovar and the food, while the three of us will go on
foot along that there slidewalk. We three have to make some ef
fort for the sake of the blessed saint, you know. I'll take me a
little orphan along for company. And she, my lovely swan Alyo
nushka, feels pity for orphans, too. She and I will get absolution
in Mtsensk. And you and she will take a lot of walks together,
and then sit and sit some more, and then walk and talk again
along the road, and you'll fall in love, and once you've had a
taste of that you'll see that all our life and joy and desire to
spend our days in peaceful family living comes from love. And
then you won't care a hang for anything people say and won't
even pay no mind to it. And all will happen for the best, and
that old mischief of yours will be forgotten."
So I asked Mamma's permission to go to St. Nicholas for the
restoration of my soul, and all the rest happened as the match
maker Terentevna had said it would. I made friends with the
girl Alyonushka and I forgot all about the things that had hap
pened. And when I married her and the spirit of children en-
tered into our house, even Mamma was pacified. And since that
time I have gone on living and saying, "Blessed art Thou, 0
Lord!"
Notes to ·� Robbery"
l . The director of the Oryol State Public Bank, Avilov, and two associates,
were tried for misappropriation of funds in early November 1 887. Repons of the
trial appeared in Nedelja. Nos. 46 and 48, 1 887.
2. This appears to be a misquotation of 2 Sam. 22:27: "With the pure thou
wilt show thyself pure; and with the froward thou wilt show thyself unsavoury."
3. A fire in June of 1849 destroyed most of the town.
4. Pyotr Ivanovich Trubetskoy 1 1 798- 1871). Governor of Oryol, 1841-49. He
is mentioned in several of Leskov's writings, never favorably.
5. This refers to members of the official Onhodox church rather than the
dissenting Old Believers, of whom there was a sizeable community in Oryol.
6. Count S.M. Kamensky's renowned theatre of serf actors operated in Oryol
from 1 8 1 5 to 1835. Turchaninov, Mlotkovsky, and other enterpreneurs ran com
mercial theaters in the 1 840s and 50s IOterl<i istorii Orlovsl<ogo l<raja, [Orel:
Priokskoe knifnoe izdatel'stvo, 1968], pp. 2 1 4 ff).
7. acathis t - a collection of shon hymns in honor of an event or person com
memorated on a certain day.
8. Ps. 127: 1 : "Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in
vain."
9. A. I. Batyuto identifies this as a character from an eighteenth century folk
play "Tsar Maximillian and his Unruly Son AdolphH 18:576).
10. A pun on ectenia, a litany or collection of petitions recited at various
times during the service.
1 1 . Strips of bast were used for scrubbing oneself in the bathhouse.
12. A seventeenth-century Russian moralistic tale of a young prodigal.
13. Ps. 59:2: "Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, And save me from the
bloodthirsty men.6 For "Jareth,w see Gen. 5: 16-20.
14. A trihedral symbol of authority, inscribed with decrees of Peter I, that
stood on the desks of all tsarist officials.
Preface to TH E M OUNTA IN
In the late 1880s Leskov wrote a series of tales

based on material from the Russian Prolog, a compendium of epi
sodes from saints' lives, sermons, and other didactic material ar
ranged for daily reading according to the church calendar. The
Prolog was in fact a translation from the Greek, but had been popu
lar reading in Russia for several centuries. Leskov was attracted to
the Prolog by its rich store of narrative. The artless, laconic stories,
full of those literary basics, sex, violence, and miracle, provided
abundant raw material which he could adapt, expand, and elabo
rate. 'The Prolog is rubbish," he wrote in 1887, "but in that rubbish
are pictures such as you could never invent" (11:362).
It was not only narrative color that drew Leskov to the Prolog,
however. He had an abiding interest in church history, but by the
1880s had become very much at odds with the established Ortho
dox church, and had written some powerful satires decrying what
he saw as weaknesses in church dogma and abuses in church prac
tices. Leskov was well aware of the risks in publishing such mate
rial, and, as noted earlier, had in fact been fired from a government
post in 1883 for writing anti-clerical satires. But the ecclesiastical
censors found it difficult to condemn stories based on the Prolog,
since it had the church's sanction as edifying reading. Leskov thus
kept his Prolog stories close enough to their original sources to slip
past the censor's scrutiny, but made additions and shifts of em
phasis to drive home his points.
Leskov's Prolog stories generally contrast the simple, living faith
of his heroes with the dead ritual and dogma of the official church.
"The Mountain," like most of its companion pieces, centers on a
character whose system of personal ethics, apparently derived from
the original sources of Christianity, is not in accord with the es
tablished church of his day. When Leskov demonstrates that his
132 "THE SEALED .&.NGEL" AND OTHER STORIES
hero's faith is more genuine than that of the officers of the church.
the implica tion is clear: it is the church that has strayed from true
Christianity Not only is the church unnecessary for an individual
lNho wishes to lead a godly life, it m ay actually hinder him from
doing so.
More clearly than Leskov's other Prolog tales, 'lbe Mountain�
illustrates a fundamental conflict that runs through most of his
later. moralistic works, and indeed through his own life. On the one
hand he wants to tell a good story and do so as vividly and as enter·
tainingly as possible. Thus the taut. dramatic structure of the narra·
tive, the lush descriptions of third-century Alexandria, the obvious
delight he has in piling up details of rich fabrics and jewels. sump
tuous feasts. and sensual women. On the other band. be >vishes
to set forth an almost ascetic ideal of simplicity, love, and self
denial. This version of basic Christianity is all but obscured by the
wealth of voluptuous detail. His didactic purpose may not be fully
realized, but his capacity as a storyteller remains undiminished.
'The Mountain• was fiist published in 1890. although it was .-..Tit
ten in 1887 and 1888. Intended to appe.ar in the November issue
of the Moscow journal Russian Thought under the title "Zeno the
Goldsmith . � it was blocked by the ecclesiastical censor who saw
a sa tirical portrait of Metropolitan Filaret of Moscow in Leskov's
patriarch. Leskov denied this. but could not find anyone willing
to risk printing a story that had already at tracted the censor's at
tention. Finally. the editor of the monthly Picturesque Review had
Leskov change the title and alter the names of the main charac
ters. He submitted it to the St. Petersburg censor. who failed to rec·
ogni;:e it and passed it for publication. The original names of the
characters were restored when the story was included in the 1890
Collected Works, but the altered title remained.
THE M O U N TA I N
An Egyptian Tale (Based on Ancient Legends)
This story is of great antiquity.

Such an event would be as unusual
today as the erection of a pyramid
or as the spectacles of Rome, the
games of beasts and gladiators.
Egyptian Nights1
Chapter I
Long, long ago, when Alexandria of Egypt was ruled by
the Romans, there lived in the city a renowned and illustrious art
ist by the name of Zeno. With unusual and delicate art he made
sumptuous ornaments and ingenious silver and gold articles for
women to wear. He was a goldsmith by trade. This was at a time
when people of many different faiths lived in close contact in Alex
andria, doing business with one another and each considering his
faith to be the best and most correct while scorning and reviling
the faith of his neighbor. There were likewise those who, in the hope
of living peacefully and quietly, did not display their religion but
kept it secret within and never discussed it.
Zeno the goldsmith was a secret Christian, but the community
of Alexandrian Christians did not consider him one of its own; and
he kept at a distance from them. He found it easier to have no con
tact with them because he had been initiated into Christianity by
a certain Syrian hermit in Egypt, and not all his views were strictly
in accord with those of other Alexandrian Christians who, by cus
tom, believed unquestioningly. Thus it was that even those few pro
fessed Christians who knew Zeno considered him to be standing
in error. He would not be forced to compromise with them, yet never
disputed with them and lived alone in a cool, quiet and isolated sub
urb beyond the palestra amidst fields of melons. 2
Zeno had no equal in the art of the goldsmith, neither in Alex
andria nor Thebes, nor in the whole of Egypt. The bracelets, ear
rings, and tiaras from Zeno's hand were renowned even in Antioch.
Prominent women of these luxury-loving cities continually vied
with one another to have jewelry made by this artful craftsman. Jews
from Antioch placed large orders with him; they would collect his
works of art and take them away to their native city to sell them
at extraordinarily high prices and earn large profits. Although Zeno
was very assiduous and industrious, he still could not always manage
to fill all the orders placed with him. He was so busy that he seldom
had time for amusements and often there was no time to think of
himself at all. He was already in his thirty-first year and had suffi
cient capital to live without want and even to support a family, yet
he had not married and lived quite alone in his isolated but com
fortable house beyond the melon fields. He had a servant, however:
a Persian of inordinate strength who was utterly dedicated and faith
ful to him, even though the servant was a pagan who regularly went
to observe the secret rites of Mithra.
Zeno was a stay-at-home and when he had free time he loved to
read and to ponder various lofty questions. When he had done a full
day's work he needed only to step across the threshold of his studio
of an evening to sit beneath a broad-leafed plantain tree on a stone
bench from which he could admire the red sunset beyond the clumps
of trees and read works on spiritual matters; or he would sail on the
Nile, steering his little barge with its checked silken sail himself.
The Persian walked to the city to tend to all of Zeno's domestic af
fairs, yet everyone in Alexandria knew Zeno, including even people
of prominence, and many were honored to be acquainted with him
since he too was famous in his own way. But Zeno was a modest man
who always shunned honors. Alexandria's arbiters of fashion vied
with one another for Zeno's services and paid very dearly, if only to
try to outshine the others. But there were many of them and only one
Zeno, so this helped them little. Zeno was unable to oblige them all.
And then a certain aristocratic lady took it into her head to ac
quire some of the artist's handiwork in another way.
Chapter II
A young and extraordinarily beautiful woman, Nepho
ris or Nephora by name, came to Alexandria from Antioch. She was
Leskov: THE MOUNTAIN 135
very wealthy and so spoiled that her caprice knew no limits and she
would brook neither objection nor refusal. To abstain and deny her
self the fulfilment of any desire was intolerable and unthinkable.
After coming to Alexandria her main purpose was to overshadow
the charms of all the city's most ostentatiously beautiful women.
Nothing on earth could have persuaded Nephora to refrain from this
frivolous desire, since all of Antioch knew her as a most exquisite
beauty who eclipsed in magnificence and fascination all the other
beautiful women whose charms and finery were resplendent at fes
tivals in the grove of Daphne. Nephora's splendid clothes were allur
ing, but to make them still more remarkable she wanted to have
the very finest accoutrements wrought from gold, such as were worn
by Alexandria's fashionable beauties, but these articles absolutely
had to be finer than any yet made. She summoned Zeno, but he re
fused to come, saying he had no time. Nephora sent a second envoy
to Zeno with orders to promise him whatever payment he wished.
But Zeno answered the envoy: "Tell your mistress that I work as much
as I am able and that I undertake no commissions beyond my ca
pacities. I am not able to oblige everyone, but I serve in strict order.
No wealthy lady can offer me such that would compel me to depart
from this just arrangement."
When the envoy sent to Zeno returned unsuccessfully a second
time and conveyed the artist's message to Nephora, this spoiled
beauty, unaccustomed to any opposition to her wishes, flew into a
terrible rage which reached such a frenzy that she ordered the slaves
whom she had sent to Zeno to be punished mercilessly. Then she
ordered her servants to saddle a white mule for her at once and to
make ready a long, thick veil that could wrap her whole body from
head to foot.
Nephora had decided to go to Zeno herself and compel him in
any way she could to make a most beautiful golden tiara for her,
and to attach to it the very finest and most elegant chains, delicately
forged and strung with pearls of uniform size and color.
Both Nephora's orders were scrupulously carried out: the slaves
whose mission to Zeno had been unsuccessful were flogged with
an ox's pizzle, while she was given a white mule arrayed with a rich
carpet for a saddle, a bridle woven of broad green and yellow ribbons,
a gilded net on its head, and long tassels for a halter. A mute Syrian
from Tyre, clad in a bright red robe that reached to his very heels,
stood holding the reins.
Nephora mounted her mule and the Syrian in red, not knowing
his mistress's destination, led off the handsome animal. At turnings
and crossroads he would look back at his mistress and follow the
gestures she made with her large fan.
Chapter III
As described earlier, Zeno shunned the bustle of the
city and dwelt in an isolated, picturesque area a great distance from
Nephora's residence. The road to his residence led first through the
city, then along a shady avenue on which the busy traffic never
ceased. Nephora met slaves bearing women in palanquins; she was
overtaken by rumbling chariots drawn by teams of mules or by horses
with closely-trimmed manes; then the way became less crowded and
quieter. At this point Nephora realized the rashness of her action:
this was as far as she knew the road to Zends dwelling.
Small, winding by-paths led off the avenue into shady dales thick
with groves of luxuriant plantain. Near one of these by-paths sat an
old Amalachite eating a melon beneath a bushy tree; an equally old
camel chewed its cud beside him. Nephora asked the Amalachite
if he knew where Zeno the goldsmith lived.
"I am not of these parts/' answered the Amalachite, "but if you
go further you will see a girl tending some goats under a tree. She
lives here and knows everyone; she can tell you of the one you seek."
Nephora signaled the Syrian.
Soon they saw a broad-leafed tree beneath which grazed four yel
low goats; sitting on the grass amongst them was a bareheaded, bare
foot girl in a rough shirt of brown linen.
Nephora asked her of Zeno.
The barefoot girl shook her bluish curls and answered:
"Of course I know where handsome and kind Zeno lives. I bring
him milk from our goats, and he often gives me melons and grapes
from his garden. There's not a better nor a handsomer man than Zeno
in the whole world. Turn right at the third path and you will find
a glade from where you can see the waters of the Nile shining in
the distance; you will see an orchard right before you, and in that
orchard is a white house with a brightly-colored roof and a huge
bronze stork over the entrance. That is where Zeno lives."
Nephora followed the directions given, but again she quickly be
came mazed among the winding paths and was about to become
thoroughly lost. Fortunately she met a man of gloomy aspect with
a three-cornered scar on his forehead who carried a large basket in
which could be seen fruits, a drinking flask, and a large red fish.
Nephora asked him of Zeno, and the man answered:
'1 am Zends servant but I cannot return to take you to him be
cause I am hurrying to join my fellow believers: we are going to cele
brate the mystery of Mithra. My master has given me leave to do
my religious duties and he is now at home alone. If you go around
this large rose bush you will see a path that will take you directly
to his house. Zeno is alone now and is busy at work, but the door
to his studio is open."
Having said this, the Persian indicated that she must cross the
glade where fragrant melons were ripening. When Nephora had
passed through the lilacs, jasmine, and roses she caught sight of
the rolling waters of the Nile in the distance; nearer, in a thicket
of shrubs, stood a small white house on whose pediment perched,
as if alive, a bronze stork. All was peaceful: the blue sky stretched
out above like a smooth, vast awning; the sun burned, and the air
was intensely hot; a row of black thrushes sat singing on the white
cornice. Many lilacs and roses grew around the house, while whole
slabs of green diorite were laid near the walls and the white marble
threshold. Here all was fresh, peaceful, and chaste: here lived an
artist.
Limp and languid from the long journey and sweltering heat, she
alighted from the saddle and sent the mule and groom some dis
tance away, beneath the tree. Nephora lingered before Zends open
door. Without crossing the threshold she could now see his whole
studio. It was a huge, high-ceilinged, square room without windows;
the soft light which shone through the sheet of violet mica in the
ceiling made all the objects in it seem wreathed in ethereal smoke.
In the center of the room on a smooth slab of red porphyry stood
a splendid bronze ibis from whose beak issued a stream of fresh
water. Around the regular reddish-brown walls was a row of columns
against which the white marble and moulded figures of humans and
animals stood out sharply. Here were delicate masks of women,
weighty busts of pharoahs, doleful camel heads and rapacious croco
dile maws. Zeno, like the majority of artists of that distant time,
was adept at more than goldsmithery. Like the famous artist Theo
dorus from the time of Arnasis, Zeno was also an architect, a founder,
a modeler in clay, and a sculptor; and he was a master of each, as
well as a connoisseur and admirer of every elegant thing.3 This could
easily be evidenced by his house, before which Nephora now stood,
breathing in the cool freshness and fragrance wafting from the
beautiful, brightly-glazed basins in which grew golden musk, fill
ing the atmosphere with its perfume. Amidst all the splendid works
of art which crowded the chamber stood the artist himself.
Chapter IV
We may recall that Zeno was in his thirty-first year.
He was born in Miletus of the union of a beautiful Greek woman
and a Gaul. Nature had endowed him with a well-proportioned fig
ure, strong hands, an enormous mass of fair hair and fiery black eyes
in which shone the most captivating goodness and noble strength
of will. He wore a long chiton of soft grey silken material with pale
pink circles on the border; he was shod in light yellow sandals, and
his unruly brown hair was caught up by a fine gold band with a tur
quoise on his brow.
He stood with his back to the door, leaning on a stand which held
a lump of modeling clay and looking with rapt concentration at a
detail of his model.
"Zeno!" Nephora called out.
He started and turned. Nephora found that his face was extremely
handsome, and she stepped across the threshold into his studio to
ward him.
"You must not be angry at my coming to you. Your fame has drawn
me. Fame attracts women, and you are a famous artist. I am not a
native of Alexandria and I have never seen you before, but I know
of your fame. I also have a certain fame, which cannot rival yours:
in Antioch they called me 'the star among the beauties.' But I have
come to you for advice: you must help me, artist!"
"What help do you need from me ?"
"First, allow me to be your guest and let me rest here from this
unbearable heat."
"Enter and be my guest."
Nephora entered, removed her veil and sat in a broad armchair
covered with a panther skin.
Taken thus unawares, the goldsmith at once felt as if he were
somehow in the power of his bold and insistent guest. He gave her
some water and placed a soft pillow at her feet; then he stood before
her looking at her, his arms folded on his chest amid the soft creases
of his chiton. He was struck by Nephora's remarkable beauty. When
she had removed her veil, her elegant and becoming costume made
the natural charm of her face shine even more brightly. Nephora's
small head and shapely neck were covered by a broad and delicate
blue-and-white striped kefiye; the soft folds of this artfully arranged
and elegant fabric clung to her face and blue-black curls like the air
itself. The kefiye was bound with a yellow cord. Nephora's ears,
hands and fingers were adorned with earrings, bracelets and rings;
a gold necklace made of many fine chains, each of which was tipped
by a quivering pearl, lay on her shapely neck. Nephora's eyelashes

were darkened with mascara in the Egyptian manner, her fingertips
were lightly dyed crimson, and her slender fingernails powdered with
pink mother-of-pearl. A light pink-and-white striped tunic clung to
her supple waist, and a gold silken cord served as a belt. From one
of the tassels of this cord hung a small mirror and a tiny flask made
of a hollowed-out gemstone full of fragrant Indian essence. But what
was most striking was the unusually animated and ever-changing
expression of her tender and passionate face, a face whose features
altered so frequently that capturing them entirely, it seemed, was
quite impossible.
When she had seated herself easily in the chair, Nephora did not
wait for her host to question her but at once explained what she
needed. She said that she absolutely had to have diadem of Zends
most exquisite workmanship to wear at the forthcoming games. He
answered that this was impossible, since all his time until the games
was already taken up fulfilling other commissions which had been
received earlier.
'1ndeed? Can you tell me for whom you have undertaken to work?"
"I think that I may,'' the artist answered unconcernedly, and named
Rhodopis and Sephora, the very ones whose beauty Nephora ardently
wished to surpass when she appeared for the first time at the Alex
andrian games.
"Rhodopis and Sephora!" Nephora exclaimed. "Am I really less wor
thy than they in the eyes of a man who can appreciate true beauty?"
"A man must first fulfill his obligations."
'� artist's obligation is to serve beauty, and I am giving you the
best means of doing so. Why do you squander your talents on flat
browed Rhodopis and bony Sephora? You art will still not help them,
and they will be no more beautiful in your tiaras. But let your art
adorn Nephora; add the beauty of your tiara to her beauty, and the
spectators will ignore the stadium and applaud my beauty and your
art ."
And when Nephora saw that the artist paid heed to her, she de
cided not to let him collect himself, but to sway him even more.
Thus she resolved not to leave him until she had compelled him
to break his word, so making her triumph over Rhodopis and Sephora
even more complete. Nephora decided not merely to implore Zeno
and flatter him with her attention and endearments, but even plainly
to seduce him by her beauty so as to inspire his passionate attrac
tion and to buy his favor even at the price of her honor.
"Then," she thought, "he will no longer refuse, and that which
he would not do for a high price he will do for his lover for no pay
ment at all. This is what I wish . . . I shall have the most elegant
tiara of all, and my honor shall remain unstained because it would
probably never even occur to anyone that I, whose beauty is un
equalled, the young and wealthy widow Nephora whom so many
renowned men have sought and still seek to marry, gave herself to
a Milesian for gain . . . No one will believe that I gave myself to a
goldsmith in order to have the work of his hands . . in order to use
.
it to humiliate my rivals . . . Indeed, no one will believe it, and so

·
I am all the more determined to do it."

In any case . . . Zeno was handsome, and . . .
Nephora felt a sudden fascination with him.
Until now everyone had sought her attention, but here was a man
whom she sought . . to offer herself . . . to sell herself . . .
.
This was something new, something savage, something passion

ately desired.
Nephora gave no thought to her decision; or perhaps her reason
was too compliant and was serving only to help her obtain what
she desired.
"No matter what, I shall have to marry some man of power whom
I1l not love; but while I am free, am I not at will to dispose of my
self as I like ? I want, I can, I wish - here in this peaceful spot - to
buy at once at the price of my beauty the services of this handsome
Zeno. So, my artist! Nothing will save you from the allure of my
beauty, and my triumph over you is inevitable." And Nephora, tarry
ing not at all, rushed ahead to carry out her intention.
Chapter V
She said to Zeno:
"Very well, I shall not insist that you depart from your honorable
custom; but you can help me even while keeping the promises made
to Rhodopis and Sephora."
'1 can see no way to do that."
'1 shall teach you, if only you are willing to learn from me," said
Nephora with a smile.
'1nstruct me then, I am very willing to listen," answered the gold
smith, also smiling faintly.
"Sit next to me and listen."
Zeno sat next to her in an armchair, and she took his hand and
said:
"Now you have given your word only that you will not make new
tiaras, and you have no time to do so. I shall say no more about that.
But what would you say if I told you that you could oblige me with
out breaking your word?"
"Then I would do all I could, for I wish you no distress."
''I want nothing more; I have my brightly-colored Persian coffer
with me which contains all my jewels. There are many and various
beautiful things in it which no one in Alexandria has seen me wear.
I brought them for you to examine and consider if some of them
might not be combined so that Zends exquisite taste could create
something even better for Nephora."
"A very clever idea!" exclaimed Zeno.
''I am very pleased that you approve; and for my part I shall re
ward you with anything you wish."
Zeno caught the import of these words about his reward, and ris
ing he said:
"For a simple piece of advice and some simple work well within
my capacities, no reward is necessary."
"Why not? . . . I implore you! . . . Or . . . if you are proud, then
trust me to decide how to pay you."
"Speak no more of it! . . . I shall be pleased if only I bring you
joy . . ."
"Very well, let it be as you wish. Go to my slave now, get my cof
fer, and bring it here."
Zeno left, while Nephora glanced in the hand mirror that hung
on her belt tassel and smiled a satisfied smile.
Zeno returned with the coffer, which was not large but elegant
and quite heavy.
"Thank you," said Nephora. "Now put the pillow on my knees,
and we shall spread out the things on it."
Zeno did this as well. When Nephora's tiny hand had taken the
golden tiaras and beautifully mounted gems from her colorful cof
fer and placed them on the dark pillow of carpeting, Zeno bent to
his guest's knees and began carefully examining the amulets, hair
pins, bracelets and chains. Meanwhile, Nephora was examining Zeno
himself and admiring the grace of his movements and the delicate
charm of his fair brown curls, trimmed and curled on his forehead
in the Greek style.
For a long time Zeno made no selection, but at last he took up
one golden amulet shaped like a sun's disc with straight rays. He
pondered, and then placed it together with a smaller disc that por
trayed the voluptuous goddess Ma with her closed eyes. 4 Zeno looked
happily at Nephora and said:
"You are quite right: one can make an ensemble from these things
that would be so beautiful it would eclipse all the others. Put on
these serpent bracelets. Your hands are beautiful."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh yes, your hands are beautiful, and I would like to model them
in wax."
"Please do. I am happy that my body inspires Zeno."
"Wear a tiara with the small disc and the goddess Ma, and pin
the large disc to your bosom so that its rays are partly hidden and
partly revealed by the folds of your tunic. Wear a light-green tunic,
or one of the color of cherries ripening in the sun . . . I think cherry
would suit you better in this ensemble . . . The priest of Ma always
has a staff of cherrywood . . ."
"How well do you know all this. The goddess Ma should reward
you for it."
"And now we are finished: I have told you all you must do. You
understand, you must have a fringe of very delicate chains dangling
down from the tiara toward the rays of the large disc on your bosom
and be girded in them like the goddess in armor . . . and you will
be as beautiful as the goddess Ma herself."
''And you will do all this for me, Zeno ?"
"No, that is unnecessary. Anyone else can do what you need as
well as I. But I am no longer master of my time: I gave my word to
take no more work and I am sorry that I must disappoint you."
'1f you will do no more, then farewell, Zeno!"
With these words Nephora rose so quickly that the cushion slid
from her lap and all her jewelry scattered on the carpet at her feet.
"How careless you are," said Zeno, and bent down to gather up
the things she had dropped. But barely had he begun to extricate
Nephora's tiny shapely foot, shod in a dark leather sandal with gold
impressions round the sole, from her veil, when her foot slid away
and tensed with a shudder.
Zeno looked up and was astonished to see that Nephora's whole
face had suddenly grown terribly pale, and her beautiful eyes had
dimmed.
"What is it?" he cried.
'1 don't know," Nephora answered slowly and quietly in a weak
voice. '1 rode too long . . I am too tired . . . I was overheated in that
.
burning sun, and it is cool here; and now I suddenly feel ill . . . Help
me, Zeno! I can't get my breath . . ."
She made a move to rise and said, more quickly and with greater
alarm:
"Take me away! The musk here . . . the roses . . . the jasmine . . .

All the trees have such a powerful scent. The violet light through
the mica irritates me . . . I can't bear it . . . I'm not used to Egypt . . .
I need light! . . . Air! . . . I need fresh air quickly!"
She cried out and rose, waving her arms as if searching for some
thing in the darkness. Her eyes grew dim, and she fell at once into
Zeno's arms.
He caught her up with one arm as if she were a child; with his
other arm he tugged at the silk cord whose movement at once opened
a panel in the red walls of his studio. Behind it was the entrance
to a high-ceilinged, spacious room which the alarmed Zeno entered
carrying the swooning Nephora. Her eyes were now completely
closed, her head drooped and her whole body had grown limp.
Chapter VI
The room into which Zeno bore Nephora was quite un
like the one from which they came. It was a large, high-ceilinged din
ing room with walls panelled in smooth cedar that gave off the most
delicate, barely perceptible, healthy aroma of pitch. The room had
four large windows giving out on a broad view of the melancholy
Nile, beyond which could be seen distant, dark fields of asparagus.
Fresh air in plenty, air which contained nothing to stupefy or irri
tate the senses, flowed through the wide-open windows and the open
door to the terrace. There was no glare from the sun; only the blue
sky and the blue waters quietly cast their even and peaceful reflec
tions over everything.
The chamber was furnished with several low, broad divans cov
ered with soft, quilted mattresses of fluffy sheep's wool on which
were thrown still softer Egyptian double-sided carpets. Small tables
and tabourets were placed before every divan, while in the center
of the room was a large table with legs like lion's paws. Upon this
table was the repast which Zeno's servant had prepared for him be
fore leaving to celebrate the mysteries of Mithra.
Zeno carefully lowered Nephora to the divan most exposed to the
flow of fresh air, tucked cushions beneath her head and shoulders,
unclasped the tunic over her bosom, and ran into the adjoining room
which was his bedroom. From here he brought a flask of Indian es
sence, sprinkled a drop of it on Nephora's bosom, gently passed his
hand over it and blew on it so that the volatile liquid would vaporize
more quickly. Then he loosened his guest's headdress and slackened
the colored straps of her sandals.
His solicitations were successful: barely had he loosened the

clasps constricting Nephora's body and begun to wave a large fan
over her when her feelings and consciousness began to return. Soon
her long lashes began to tremble, and her delicate nostrils to quiver
with breath; finally her ever-changing eyes of elusive color opened.
She cast a confused glance around the unfamiliar room and asked:
"Where am I ?" When Zeno told her where she was and how she
had come there, Nephora apologized for putting him to such incon
venience. She reproached herself for setting off on an unfamiliar road
by mule and not by litter and, extending her hand to the artist, she
concluded:
''Forgive me for the problems I have caused you."
He asked her to think no more of it, and she replied:
"I cannot help but think of it, because in this unbearable heat
I doubt I shall be able to make the long journey back in a saddle."
"Please do not be concerned about that/' Zeno replied. "You have
no need to suffer in a saddle in such heat. Rest here with me in the
coolness as long as you like, and when the shadows begin to lengthen
over the earth, I myself shall take you peacefully back to your home
in my barge which is moored right here at the river's edge at the
bottom of my garden."
Nephora expressed her gratitude and stayed on.
"I am sorry for this/' she said, "but you can see yourself how weak
I am. I cannot ride my mule, and sending for a litter might give oc
casion to much vain gossip."
"I understand very well," replied Zeno, "and you must not con
cern yourself: you will not be the object of any gossip. My brightly
painted barge has thick curtains on all sides, and no one will see
you. I shall sail it myself."
"Excellent," answered Nephora, "but in that case you must have
pity on my poor mule and slave as well, since they will be waiting
for me in vain in the heat outside."
"True," replied Zeno. "And if you will permit me, I will send your
man and your poor animal home at once."
"Please be so kind."
'Willingly/' replied Zeno, and went out at once. Nephora rose from
the divan and stepped up to one of the open windows. Before her
stretched a beautifully-kept garden on a gentle slope to the river. The
garden was divided in the Egyptian style by a series of radii from
a center, which was marked by a fountain beside a small, red gran
ite obelisk; at the end of one of the paths were stairs of the same
red granite. A luxurious Nile barge, brightly decorated in Egyptian
style, was moored to a pillar of this staircase by a bronze chain. Its

bow was graced by a fiery red, winged gryphon; its stern decorated
with elaborate coils of the tail of some sort of sea monster. In the
middle of the barge was a palanquin with bronze rods on which cur
tains of soft blue-and-white material hung in thick folds.
Obviously this was Zeno's barge, in which at evening he loved
to cruise the Nile under checked silken sails.
It stood out from all the other barges moored at the river bank
not only by the richness but also by the elegance of its decoration
which, like all else that surrounded Zeno, expressed his artistic taste.
Not only he, but everything that filled his life, was beautiful, and
it all captivated Nephora; she grew more and more excited by a flood
of passionate sensations.
Having come simply to force the artist to create an ensemble for
her in which she might outshine her rivals attending the games,
Nephora unwittingly became carried away as a feeling of love for
the handsome Zeno took fire within her; having loved no one before,
she gave herself up totally to unbridled passion.
"So be it," she said, looking at the Nile but not seeing it. "Let Fate
have its way . . . Let it be, let it be . . . I am not my own mistress,
nor do I wish to be . . . All of you who once sought Nephora's smile
- Fate has now taken vengeance on me: I am stung by passion, and
today I love for the first time. Perhaps there will never be another
chance like this: I am alone here with him, and here I want to bum,
and I shall burn in Zends embrace."
Chapter VII
While Nephora, gazing through the open window upon
a scene which her lovesick imagination hid from her, was reason
ing in this manner, Zeno returned and told her that he had already
sent the mule and its mute groom home. He proposed that she sit
at the table and refresh herself with food and a cool drink of water
and wine.
"Then," he said, "you may rest here peacefully until the heat
abates, while I go on with my work."
Nephora assented to all this. She and Zeno sat at the table, and
he offered her meat, fruits, and a cool mixture of Antillean wine,
water, and berry juice. Then Nephora, in the Greek manner, offered
to tell him of herself and why she had come to Egypt.
Zeno dared not refuse and, unwilling to appear impolite to his
guest, answered:
"Your tale shall delight my ears: speak, and I shall bring some
wax and model what I need from it." And he brought wax and began
to knead it on a board, while Nephora sat close to him and began
to tell of herself.
First she told of her homeland in distant Thrace, from whence
she had been taken to Antioch as a child. Here she grew up amid
continual trepidation because of the sudden and frequent changes
in the fortunes of her parents. Then she told of how she had been
given in marriage to an old and immoral Byzantine noble who com
pelled her to shameful acts to please an even more powerful noble
on whom her husband's advancement depended. She told of her re
sistance to this and of her many sufferings; then, when her husband
died, leaving her great wealth, her love of freedom and independence
made her unwilling to return to her Hellenic family, where, to her
disgust, women were submissive and had no influence. And so she
moved from Antioch to Egypt, where women were not as enslaved
as among the Hellenes. Here she wanted to be her own mistress and
even hoped to find a worthy husband.
"You have done well to remain chaste," Zeno answered evasively.
She was silent.
Zeno glanced at her and was astonished at how the changeable
color of her eyes blazed up and then dimmed away, marking the rapid
play of her emotions.
She still hesitated, but passion overcame both her shame and her
reason.
"Yes," she said, ''but henceforth I want no more such praise . I am
young, and do not want to be a goddess, as you called me. Now I
want to be loved as simply as any mortal woman can be loved by
a simple, mortal man. Yes, and I shall love the instant I see one who
is dear to me."
'1ndeed, and I am sure you will find him."
Nephora fell silent once again; the nostrils of her exquisitely
curved nose moved quickly, and her lips parted to reveal white teeth.
Finally she could restrain herself no longer and said:
'1 have already found him, Zeno."
"Excellent. If he loves you, you will be married. I wish you hap
piness."
''Thank you for the wish," Nephora said brightly, ''but I have suf
fered too much and waited too long to wait longer now. I am tor
mented by the desire to forget my grief immediately in the embrace
of one whose kisses my lips are thirsting for."
She rose, and with a childish, capricious smile rushed to Zeno

and cried:
'1t's you, Zeno, it's you, my artist! My heart longs for you; the ter
rible force of my rebellious blood draws me to you . . . But why do
you get up? Where are you going? Love me, kiss me, give me my obliv
ion and bliss or I shall lose my mind."
But Zeno was not listening. He had moved away from her and
was even trying to block out the sound of her words by shielding
himself with his hand and repeating:
"You know not what you say! Come to your senses!"
"There is nothing I want to know except that I love you!"
Zeno raised his shoulders, clasped his hands to his bosom and
said:
"0 unhappy creature! You have forgotten your good sense and your
shame as a woman!"
"Then help me recover my good sense now!" whispered Nephora,
placing her bare arms on his shoulders and trembling spasmodically
as she lost herself in a kiss.
Zeno tried to push her away, but his eyes grew dim, his heart sank
and he barely managed to moan:
"Nephora! Nephora!"
And between her kisses she replied: "' am not a goddess, Zeno . . .
I am a passionate, mortal woman . . . Kiss me and give me a mo
ment of bliss!"
"A moment!" exclaimed Zeno. "A moment instead of union for
a whole life - that is not honorable, Nephora . . . Cast this moment
away and do not cause me the sorrow of abasing myself and you with
me!"
Nephora looked at him angrily and said: 'What are you saying!
You insult me!"
"No, I do you honor. I respect the woman in you more than do
the Hellene and the son of Mitsraim.s''
'1 will not listen to your reasoning -what need have I of it?"
"One cannot live without reasoning."
'Why not ?"
''You would not understand."
'1 understand very well . . . You love another."
''You are wrong: I love no one in the manner you want."
"Then you are a fool."
"No, I am a Christian."
''A Christian! You're a Christian! So that's it! Christians are the
ones everyone despises and persecutes! They are the ones whose
teacher would have us all renounce the joys of loving. But that's
senseless, Zeno - it's fighting against nature. You will not overcome
nature, and in any case, why should you try? You are mine, Zeno,
aren't you? You are burning with love for me and haven't the strength
to resist. I love you, Zeno. Now come!" And with this she rushed
toward him, and her lips joined with his.
Zeno felt as if the sea were roaring in his ears and a flame flash
ing before his eyes. He was bent in her embrace as a reed bends be
neath the storm's breath; but suddenly the Helmsman who com
mands the waves and the storm awakened. Zeno saw Him, pushed
Nephora's passionate arms aside and rushed to the table. And sud
denly Nephora saw something flash between her and Zeno . . . some
thing like a knife and a blood-red tongue of fire. And Zeno stood
staggering, propping himself with his hands behind him on a chair.
Blood streamed down his face, and the hilt of a knife jutted out of
his eye. The blade was in one eye, and the other looked at Nephora
with quiet reproach; his lips, turning pale, whispered to someone,
but not to her:
''I thank Thee that Thou hast not disdained me and hast shown
Thy power over my passionate nature. Mine eye hath near offended
me, but I have done as Thou hast said . . . and mine eye is no more."
When he had uttered these words Zeno staggered and fell. The
knife flew out of the wound, and the blood washed his face and
streamed on the floor.
Nephora uttered not a sound: her eyes, fixed on Zeno, were fro
zen in mute horror. And she fled from the house, leaving her veil
and her jewels.
Chapter VIII
The event described took such a short time, happened
so unexpectedly, and was so out of keeping with Nephora's state of
mind that she was utterly taken aback and lost her head. When she
regained her senses in the open air she could see that her own posi
tion was now very difficult. She gave not a thought to her jewels,
but the horror that seized her on seeing what Zeno, with his terri
ble strength of purpose, had done to himself was at once combined
with immediate concern: how was she to steal away from here and
return home unnoticed? She was far from home, and the groom and
mule had been sent back; Zeno's servant was away; Nephora could
not return on foot because her legs were trembling and giving way
beneath her. Apart from that, she was embarrassed to walk the
streets unveiled in her overly elaborate costume.
Unthinkingly, or perhaps with only the wish to avoid meetings
on the streets, she rushed through the garden to the bank of the Nile
where Zeno's barge stood moored.
Total silence reigned here, and there was no one about. But cast
ing a glance along the bank, Nephora noticed a low hut nearby,
crudely assembled from flattened reeds mixed with Nile clay. She
approached this wretched dwelling and tapped on the window. A
man black with charcoal dust peered out. He was an Egyptian.
Nephora gave him the gold bracelet from her arm and asked him
to find some means of taking her back to the city unnoticed.
"I can do that, my lady," the Egyptian answered as he accepted
her gift, "only if you are willing to go with me in my charcoal barge."
"Very well, if there is no other way I am willing to go in a char-
coal barge. But I want no one to see me, and I have lost my veil."
"I have a coal sack and can cover you."
"But that will be terrible."
"Yes, it is a bit dirty. If that frightens you I can put an empty tub
on the bottom of the barge. You can crouch down and hide your head
under it."
Nephora agreed to this.
The charcoal burner did all he agreed to do, and Nephora made
a slow and uncomfortable passage along the Nile lying under a coal
tub in the clumsy, dirty, heavy-bottomed charcoal barge. It was nearly
evening when she reached her house, to which, having awaited dark
ness, she fled besmirched with dirt and charcoal dust. Nephora's
slaves were naturally astounded to see her return in such a sorry
state. She was terribly upset as well. She immediately bathed and
retired to her bed, but was stricken with fever that same night. She
leapt from her bed and began frantically running and crying; she
tore her beautiful black curls, scratched her cheeks and, abandon
ing prudence, cried out:
"Vengeance on Zeno! Vengeance on all Christians!"
The terrified slave girls considered her possessed by an evil spirit
and summoned the renowned Egyptian wise-woman, Bubasta, who
looked long at Nephora's face and listened to her mad cries, and
then said:
''I see that a serpent has stung your heart . . . Tell me, who dared
to scorn your beauty?"
'1ndeed, I have been scorned," answered Nephora, "and I must

crush that serpent ."
"So you shall. Emperor Amasis wisely said that the venom of a
scorned woman is sharper than a serpent's. On whom do you want
vengeance ?"
"On the Christian God and all the Christians in Egypt ."
''That is good. I am also burning to take revenge on all the for
eigners in Egypt. My name is Bubasta, and I am an old woman now,
a healer. But I was young once, and I loved. My husband has long
been languishing in the quarries of Pilak, and each day my heart
feels him moving those huge slabs of granite as he wears the chains
a cruel prefect put on him. Oh, I hate foreigners and the new faith;
I would be glad to take revenge on both. I am going now to seek the
poison, and I shall come to you, my lady, when my poison is ready."
As a consequence of what happened to Zeno, not one of the women

whose orders he was hastening to finish received the ensemble she
was expecting for the games. This was the first irregularity in Zends
work, and his servant, the Persian, returned the gold and jewels to
their stylish owners, explaining that his master, the renowned art
ist Zeno, had the great misfortune to lose an eye and that it would
now be a long time before he could hope to resume his work. Then
the Persian appeared at Nephora's door as well and delivered her veil
and chest of jewels.
Nephora was little pleased by the return of her things because
she feared that it might reveal her part in the loss of Zeno's eye. But
the Persian said not a word to her, and she heard nothing more of
Zeno from anyone.
Both the artist and his servant kept silent about the whole inci
dent. The servant, in all likelihood, did not even know how Zeno's
misfortune had happened. Nephora never left her house, but there
burned in her heart the dark mixture of the insult from her rejected
passion and the thirst for revenge on Zeno. She lacked only the
means of devising the cruelest possible vengeance on him. She often
recalled the Egyptian wise-woman Bubasta, who had promised to
give her a terrible means of vengeance on the Christians she so hated,
but she thought that Bubasta had said that simply to comfort her
and had then forgotten her promise . But such was not the case: the
old Egyptian woman was only awaiting the appropriate time, and
did not miss the opportunity to make use of it as soon as the possi
bility presented itself.
Chapter IX
A year passed. Many people were born, and many died
during that time. Some human affairs were undertaken anew, others
were completed and forgotten. Also forgotten was the fact that the
handsome goldsmith Zeno, known throughout Alexandria, inoppor
tunely and by causes unknown had lost the sight of one eye before
the last games. He was convalescent for a long time, but then re
covered and now wore a blue bandage across his head to cover one
eye. Not only did this not detract from the beauty of his face, it
seemed to give him still new charm. Even with one eye Zeno worked
as exquisitely as before and with the same diligence he had set such
store on earlier. Now he would have been able to create the ensem
ble Nephora had longed for, but of course the woman of Antioch
sent him no order.
Something had happened to her as well since that time. Nephora's
beauty and wealth did not leave her in eclipse: the aged prefect of
Alexandria, a greedy man dominated by many base passions, wished
to marry Nephora to his eldest son, a man of such scant wit that
after travelling in many distant countries and squandering a large
fortune on his journey, he could, on his return, tell of nothing he
had seen save the enormous size of the eggs of the bird called stro
phokomelos.6 The father had little desire to reward his stupid son
a second time and sought to provide for him with Nephora's enor
mous fortune through marriage with her. Nephora, to the utter as
tonishment of many, acceded to the father's solicitations. But not
long after she had given her word she began postponing the wed
ding day by day. This told on her health and she became seriously
ill. And not one of the physicians whom the prefect sent to her
could determine what her malady was and which medications might
help her.
She had no specific complaint about her health, but was totally
exhausted; her face grew drawn and her eyes lost their animation.
She took no thought for her fine clothes, nor for the plaiting of her
hair; she wore no jewelry, paid no visits to acquaintances and even
spent little time in her own apartments. She could not bear to re
main indoors and sought solitude in the garden whose melancholy
and somnolence seemed to match her own mood. The fountain
played lazily; brightly-colored butterflies fluttered just as lazily from
one flower to another. But soon even this began to disturb her. And
then yet another phase of her malady began. The acanthi and yel
low mimosa in the garden, the hedges of multicolored lilac, jasmine
and rose, the tall palms, acacias and balsams were all in blossom,
exhaled fragrance, and hummed, filled as they were with the seeth
ing life of the insects. This torrent of life began to disturb and upset
her in a different way. It even seemed to her that the little gold fish
in the basin of the fountain splashed about too quickly and noisily.
Nephora would withdraw into the large flower garden where, paus
ing frequently over the beds of double poppies, she would pluck the
luxuriant blossoms, tear off their petals, place them on her palm,
blow on them and strike them with her other hand, whispering
quietly: "He loves me," or ''He loves me not." And if her hand-clap
scattered the poppy petals she would smile and glow inwardly, be
come cheerful, eat, sleep, and reward her slave girls with gifts of
clothing, but refuse admittance to her betrothed. If the poppy petals
were crushed limply between her palms she would cast them away
and fall to the ground on the spot, breaking into long, bitter, and
violent sobs like a child. More than once her slave girls found her
lying on the black earth between the fragrant, ripe melons that
looked like huge spheres of amber; and they would bring their mis
tress back home unconscious. At first they would inform the prefect
of Nephora's severe fits, and he would immediately send physicians
and his son. But since the physicians' art was of no avail, and since
Nephora had not the least desire to see the prefect's son and found
his very approach wearisome, the slave girls, acting on superstition,
again summoned the hairy-faced old woman Bubasta with her slop
ing forehead and large ears when Nephora suffered another severe
attack.
The old woman washed Nephora's face in Nile water and said:
''The poison that the serpent poured into your heart is painful,
but you must be strong in order to take vengeance on him and on
all the Christians. The time of retribution draws near: the old gods
of Egypt are coming to help us destroy this hateful new faith. The
time for vengeance on foreigners has come, and the end of all Chris
tians in Alexandria is near."
"All Christians ?" Nephora asked pensively.
"Yes all, or at least as many as possible. And amongst them the
serpent who poisoned your life will be crushed as well."
Nephora looked at Bubasta's sloping forehead and ears and recalled
other faces of old Egyptians who hated the Christian faith. She said
with a shudder:
'1 wish vengeance only for myself; but when you speak to me of
vengeance I am frightened. You are old; why do you hate them so ?"
"Oh-ho! I am old! True enough," answered Bubasta with a shake
Leskov: THE MOUNTAIN 1 53
of her head which made her long, wide earrings dance. "I am old,
but as I told you, my old husband suffers in the quarries. I eat the
bread that I earn with my own hands; and my sons and the sons of
my daughters also toil. They are weavers and ropemakers and tan
ners, and they all barely eke out livings by their labors. But now the
Christians have set up workshops in those special hidden places
where they say their prayers. The others feed them in exchange for
their prayers, and since they pay nothing for their food, they can sell
their goods for less than we can. Our hands cannot find the work
we need to feed ourselves . . . A curse on them; it's time to settle
accounts . . . Old Peokh saw a black ibis dancing on the river bank
and looking at the water. They11 soon be dancing -very soon! The
time of retribution is at hand. The kings of Egypt will awaken and
rise up in the pyramids built by the bloody sweat of their former
slaves. Mark it well . . . it is soon the night of the flood, but our Nile
will not raise its waters to wash the fields of Egypt this year.*
Everyone's eyes vainly search the burning skies for the flight of the
pigeon bringing the joyous tidings from the upper reaches that the
water has begun to rise in Memphis."
''Yes," continued Bubasta, seizing Nephora's tender hand in her
strong coarse one, "the water is not rising. The kings of Egypt who
sleep in the pyramids of Giza do not let the Nile come to us be
cause we have allowed foreigners to live among us - those of differ
ent faiths, and Christians especially, who feed lazy people in their
communes. They live well, and they prevent us from asking a de
cent price for our work. Death to them- death without mercy to
all who put down prices! They have grown too strong; they have
chosen elders here, calling one patriarch and another bishop. Their
faith is becoming fashionable, and soon, perhaps, all the prominent
people will be practising it . . . But you're not even listening to me.
You don't care which gods rule Egypt, but the people need the an
cient Nile to live in harmony with them. When the Nile floods and
waters the fields of Egypt, the gloom of the people will vanish . Then
the bright flags of foreign ships will flutter gaily at all the docks
in the mouth of the river; large Egyptian vessels with carved ibis
heads to gladden us will come in, and the songs of the clear-voiced
singers from the delta will be heard from afar. The ships will bring
rich fabrics from Malta for our beautiful women, stone from Sar
dinia, honey and wine from Cyprus, oil, resin and bronze work from
the Hellenes, bright-colored sails from happy Tyre, and Lebanese
" "The Night of the Flood" was June 27. [Leskov's note.[
.
cedar without which we have no building material in our treeless

Egypt. And from us they will buy grain and fine papyrus at good
prices, and lace from Sais and chariots from Memphis, the strong
est and lightest in the world . . . But the Nile is not flooding, and
now, instead of all this happy bustle, the sleep of death has fallen
on us all. Each day the river grows more shallow, and everyone is
beginning to fear famine; beyond Memphis people have already be
gun falling ill. Even yesterday a pigeon arrived with the news that
beyond Saun and in Thebes people have become afflicted with dark
spots on their skin. A terrible calamity is drawing near. The night
of the flood comes in three days, and if in these three days and three
nights our sacred Nile will not rise, then we shall raise the people
and go to the prefect and tell him that if he does not order the Chris
tians to leave, we will throw them into the Nile. Then this will be
retribution for every one of them. But perhaps you wouldn't like every
last one of them to be drowned? Perhaps there is one you would like
us to spare ?"
"Yes," answered Nephora, "I would like to spare one Christian
longer than the rest, but only so that he could see the disgrace and
the destruction of the others and not perish until I enjoy my revenge
on him."
"Tell me how he has offended you, and I will go to the secret priests
and we will choose a terrible revenge for him. The prefect values
your opinion; you must dress yourself in your best costume, go to
him, weep for our people and ask him to do what we tell you. And
your vengeance shall be wreaked on him who offended you and on
all people of his faith."
Nephora was so terribly overwrought that she, almost absently,
told Bubasta all that had happened to her in Zends house a year
before.
When Bubasta had heard the tale she threw up her hands, and
her earrings again jingled against her cheeks.
"Gods!" cried the old woman. "Have you ever heard such a thing?
An infidel who so boldly dares to spurn the quince offered him by
such a beautiful woman! To refuse it for the sake of some Teacher
who takes away people's greatest delights in life! It's madness! You
shall have your terrible revenge, Nephora, and scarce three days will
pass before it happens. Stay home and trust me - it will happen as
I said."
With this Bubasta veiled herself in a dark brown shawl and with
drew.
Chapter X
Bubasta bade farewell to Nephora and, leaning on her
stick, passed through the Gate of the Moon and the Heptastada to
the island of Pharos, where on the north shore near the Pirates' Dock
lived the astrologers. These were lovers of wisdom of every sort, and
it was said that they were versed in the occult sciences and could
see things in nature that were hidden from other, ordinary people.
Here on Pharos, near the Alexandrian breakwater, lived those who
translated the sacred books of the Jews into Greek; here too, near
the Pirates' Dock, lived those who thought the Biblical books a
worthless collection of Jewish fables. Here too, in isolation on the
northernmost shore, was a spacious cave whose only inhabitant was
a swarthy Memphite named Peokh. He was an old, typically Egyp
tian man - an old descendant of the old pontiffs, a man with a slop
ing forehead, high cheekbones and very large ears. He was an ill man:
rheumatism had bent him into a ball, and catarrh of the eyelids had
disfigured him; his eyes were hollow and they watered, while his
eyelashes spread wide, and a whitish circle separated his eyeballs
from his eyelids. The Egyptian rabble of that time considered Peokh
a zealot of the faith. They sought his advice as from one endowed
with the keenness of a penetrating mind refined by implacable ha
tred of everything that was not in accord with age-old practices.
Peokh was just as implacable in his hatred of all faiths not in ac
cord with the ancient Egyptian religion, and he was ready to work
evil against every infidel. Since at the time of our story the Chris
tians were those most zealously persecuted, Peokh also did his best
to confound them and wrong them at every step and every opportu
nity. Nor was this difficult, since motives to attack and rob the Chris
tians could always be found. Whatever large-scale disaster might
occur - the sinking of a ship or the blocking of a road by a landslide;
a fire or an earthquake; a crop failure or an epidemic - it was all con
sidered the fault of the Christians. Serious flooding of the Tiber in
Rome or an insufficient rise in the waters of the Nile in Egypt could
serve equally well to lay blame on the Christians. Various rare and
unusual natural phenomena were also charged to them. Anything
unfavorable was taken as a sign of the gods' displeasure. The gods,
people said, were offended that nonbelievers were now living among
their ancient worshippers, nonbelievers who did not worship the old
gods but prayed differently, in their own manner, honoring some cru
cified Nazarene and doing something mysterious with his blood.
Why do they need this blood? They say that it brings salvation from
their enemies. Who are these enemies, then? Evidently those who
do not share their strange religion. So it must be these whom they
wish to overpower and destroy with the blood of the Crucified One.
And this they do: people say that the Christians scatter this blood
in the wind to cause pustules and rash, suppuration of the eyes, swell
ing of the tonsils and putrefaction in the throat. They sprinkle a
drop of blood on the earth and clouds of midges rise up to burrow
into the cucumbers and melons and swarm into the mouths and
eyes of children. All the cucumbers and melons rot and die, and
chickens that eat them grow mangy, lose their feathers and sicken,
while people's eyes water and grow blind . . .
Even when quite ordinary misfortunes such as this occurred,
everyone was overcome by superstitious fear and sought to blame
the misfortune on the Christians and plotted riots against them.
They beat the Christians, robbing and scattering their possessions.
The rulers knew that the Christians were only tolerated but not
wanted by anyone, and so they looked the other way when outrages
were committed against them. Not only was there no fervor in their
defense of the Christian faith, they often even rejoiced that the im
poverished and enraged mobs were able to vent their anger on the
Christians instead of waxing indignant at an indifferent government.
If the beating and robbing of the Christians happened to be particu
larly severe, the rulers would repress the victors and exile the insti
gators to the quarries, while they themselves would enjoy the better
pan of the plundered goods. Local officials had no fear of being called
strictly to account for the Christians by higher and distant powers,
because Christians were scorned. Even if there were occasions when
explanations were demanded for offenses committed against Chris
tians, provincial governors could always find many reasons to jus
tify them, most often reponing that the Christians themselves were
to blame, that they were conducting some sort of mysterious cere
monies and shunning other people and so arousing widespread ha
tred toward themselves. Thus it was that tolerance of public out
rages against the Christians was often accepted as a sensibly lenient
policy through which a provincial vice regent might avert an even
greater disaster, perhaps capable of growing into a menacing politi
cal uprising.
The Christians were not considered sufficiently valuable to cause
anyone to answer strictly for them. Thus the riots occurring in dis
tant Christian communes, often with severe torture, murders, and
the most offensive mockery of their religion, passed without any
punishment or with punishments so light as to be laughable. More

often the riots remained entirely unknown to Byzantium and Rome.
Chapter XI
Uprisings and rebellions begin most easily within an
atmosphere of despondency and fear.
When the water stood low in the Nile at a season when it was
already time for it to flood, an agony of worry gripped the whole
land of Egypt from Philae to Alexandria. Everyone feared famine and
went about listless and irritable; many donned unhemmed mourn·
ing clothes and moved their belts from their loins to their chests,
the place of sighs. Impetuous women tore their hair, and pensive
men gazed silently out of doleful eyes whose lashes brimmed with
tears.
Given the gloominess prevalent in the Egyptian character, all this
was enough to enshroud the country in terror. And so it was now,
at the time of our story. In addition, the situation was complicated
by the appearance of illnesses as Bubasta had described. Carrier pi·
geons sent from the upper reaches of the river in Heliopolis, Mem·
phis and Thebes brought the most depressing news to Alexandria :
the whole of Thebia, Heptanomia and Lower Egypt groaned and suf
fered as one. People were starving, going blind, living in fear of one
another and were seeking someone to hold responsible for the ca
lamities they were suffering.
Finally, to the satisfaction of many, the guilty parties were found;
they were, as always, the Christians. Right-thinking Egyptians had
already beaten Christian weavers in Heliopolis, and the same thing
had happened to wheelwrights and glassblowers in Memphis. And
they deserved it since they were ruining prices for weavers and wheel
wrights by undertaking to work more cheaply than any free people
in Egypt. And they could lower their prices because they lived in
communes and received offerings from wealthy people of their own
faith. But he who lives by his own labor and receives no offerings
can neither spin nor weave nor fashion wheel rims for such low
prices. And therefore this cannot be tolerated; it must be stopped,
and the simplest way to stop it is to beat the Christians, take away
their possessions, destroy their tools and throw the infidels into the
river. The sacred Nile, incidentally, accepts them as a sacrifice, and
old people say that then the Nile's waters will begin to rise.
Now was an excellent time to play on these passions.
Old Bubasta went to Peokh the Memphite to inform him of the

wave of popular indignation and to tell him that she had a person
who was burning for revenge on the Christians, a person who could
place the prefect in such a favorable position that he would be com
pelled to indulge some popular outrages. Peokh was sitting in the
shadows, his back propped against the cave wall. He listened to what
Bubasta said as she stood before him. He already knew, however, of
the widespread despondency over the Nile's reluctance to flood, but
he was heartened to learn that Bubasta had secured Nephora's co
operation in disarming the prefect so that the affronts to the Chris
tians would not be charged to Egyptians and lead to harsh reprisals.
"You are a clever woman," Peokh answered. ''These people must
suffer for our misfortunes."
"Yes indeed, but how should we begin? You are famous every
where, wise Peokh. You have sat by your lamp and read all the sa
cred scrolls; you know the light of our true faith, and you know the
lies of all the other teachings. But we know nothing of foreign faiths
-we only hate them with pure hearts. You must be the head on the
shoulders beneath which the heart of the people of the sacred Kemi
quivers and sings: teach us what we must do so that the Christians
are everywhere disgraced and irreparably ruined. 7 Tell us, what could
we demand from the Christians that would be within their own law
and would reveal to everyone the impotence of their faith and dis
grace them?"
Peokh smiled as he stroked a tame ichneumon with his dirty hand
and said:8
''Very well, I shall show you how to put the frog into the tree : but
take care lest you let it slip down from the tree again!"
"Oh, we shan't let it slip!"
Chapter XII
Old Peokh silently regarded his lamp and said to Bu
basta:
"You have spoken the truth, Bubasta. I t ruly do know both our
own true faith as well as all the foreign superstitions and all the gods
of the superstitious. I can speak on Zeus, the god of the Hellenes,
and on Ormuzd and Oriman of the Farsis, and on Jehovah, that wrath·
ful God of our former slaves, the Jews, and also on that ragged wretch
who was crucified and whom the Christians now revere as a god.
We shall catch them on His very own words: He said that if one who
believes in His teachings will say to a mountain: 'Move,' then the
mountain will shift from where it stands and throw itself into the
water. If you look from your prefect's roof toward the sunrise you
can see Mount Ader.9 If the Christians are good people, then let them
pray to their God to save us all by moving Mount Ader into the Nile
to darn up the flow. Then the waters of the Nile will rise and irri
gate the burned-up fields. If the Christians cannot make Mount Ader
move and darn the Nile's flow, they shall be blamed. Then everyone
will see that their faith is false, or that they do not want to avert
a calamity. And then let the cries of the Romans resound in Alex
andria: 'Christianos ad leones!'"
"You are wise, Peokh, very wise/' answered Bubasta, reaching out
toward him and making her earrings jingle once again. "Our people
will go the prefect tomorrow to demand that he make the Chris
tians move the mountain."
And with these words Bubasta bade farewell to Peokh the Mernph
ite and ran off to those Egyptians she knew to be the most promi
nent ringleaders of the mobs. And she incited them to spread word
among the people that the Christians were to blame for the Nile's
refusal to flood.
This quickly provoked widespread alarm. The prefect immedi
ately learned of it and was deeply concerned, since he did not know
how to calm the situation. Bubasta ran to Nephora and kindled her
jealousy and sense of insult with cunning words. She convinced her
to go to the prefect and ask him to concede to the people's grief and
their hope of relief through the Christians' prayers, which could move
the mountain to darn the Nile and raise the water to irrigate the
fields.
Nephora, whose passions were quickly inflamed and whose emo
tions changed rapidly, was easily swayed by these words. She quickly
donned an elaborate costume and hurried to the prefect's house to
do as Bubasta had prompted.
Chapter XIII
At that moment the rumors that had reached the pre
fect regarding unrest among the people had left him not knowing
which way to tum. Bubasta had managed to rouse all the riff-raff
of Alexandria with her stories of the Christians' guilt, and many,
on her promptings, had gone to Peokh the Mernphite on Pharos to
hear him confirm Bubasta's words; others gathered in large numbers
and set off for the prefect's house.
When Nephora approached the house of this powerful noble she
saw a dense crowd of people surrounding the palace in a solid mass.

She was struck by the immense size and color of the crowd: it con
sisted of merchants in white robes bordered with fringes of various
colors, and of an awesome multitude of half-naked brickmakers, pot
ters, fishermen, boatmen, weavers, feltmakers, perfumers, papersell
ers, mat-weavers, grainthreshers, oilpressers, scavengers, fanbearers,
glassblowers and those who washed people's feet. The majority of
them wore only short aprons of nondescript rags held up by narrow
belts. These people were terrible in their determination and in the
fact that they had nothing to lose. All they had was with them here:
their wives, spinners in short cloaks; their utterly naked children;
their dogs and cats. The children were particularly numerous.
Women bore the smaller children on their shoulders or at their breast
and pulled the older ones along by the hand. Many among the
younger children had eyes running with pus, and they all cried out
and wept piteously; the older children jostled about continually,
quarreled, and fought over scraps of food. The host of dogs and cats
that stayed close to their masters was doing the same: they darted
between people's legs and bristled up at one another, howling, yelp
ing and engaging in furious skirmishes. But here was yet more: as
if deliberately to increase the noise and heighten the sense of alarm,
sounds summoning people to assembly blared from several places
in the crowd. The raspy growl of a Bactrian war trumpet came from
one place: the din of a Syrian tambourine answered it; and an Arian
drum rattled in a third place. All this clamor in fact did summon
up an even greater assemblage of people. The prefect's whipbearers
in yellow tunics and tall pointed caps waved their checkered staves
in vain. Strong-armed feltmakers either paid them no heed or broke
their staves and threw the fragments in the whipbearers' faces.
Above all this commotion rose a wail from the crowd in which
one could occasionally catch isolated words:
''The Nile's waters will not rise! . . "We perish from hunger . . ."
.
"The Christians outbid us on work . . ." ''They may well work cheaply,
they can live on offerings! . . . "Let them pray for us . . ." "Send them
to move the mountain into the Nile so the river will flood!"
With enormous difficulty Nephora barely managed to make her
way through this crowd in her litter. The main entrance to the pal
ace was closed, but she knew of a secret door through which she
could enter the prefect's chambers. The gatekeeper here knew her
well, and he opened the door for her, immediately locking it; again.
Guards watched the entrances on all sides.
The prefect was greatly bewildered and frightened. He knew not
what he should do: he could not repulse the crowd by force, but to
yield to the ignoble demands of a mob he considered unworthy. The
prefect's whole family was around him; here too, in a central room,
was his doltish son, thick-nosed Dunaz, along with his closest sub
ordinates. Each was giving the prefect different advice, and he lis
tened to all their opinions but was unable to resolve anything. When
he saw Nephora enter he was much cheered and exclaimed loudly:
"Now here is a dear and unexpected guest whose welcome arrival
brings me joy! I am so grateful, Nephora, that you decided to visit
my home at such an alarming and difficult moment! In doing so
you have proved your friendship. I implore you to tell me: what do
you think of all that is happening amongst this stupid and wretched
mob ? I know that you are gifted with a keen mind, and I want to
rely on it. I give you my word before everyone here that I will decide
to act only on your advice."
Nephora answered that she was aware of all that was happening
and that she could find nothing in the situation that could not be
resolved.
"Then what would you do if you were in my place ?"
"I would trick them all."
"Excellent, but how?"
"Grant their request: ask the Christians if their faith can move
the mountain and put it into the Nile so that the river will flood
from Philae to the sea."
"Come now, Nephora, who can make a mountain move ?"
"The Christians can, Prefect. Old Peokh, who knows all religions,
has read this himself in the Christians' own teachings."
"Old Peokh! . . . It's he who stirred up this stupid mob. A smart
smack of a wooden club on the back of his stubborn neck in the
Egyptian style is what he best deserves, I swear it."
"Will that be difficult ? In good time Peokh can get what he de
serves as well."
"And if the Christians do not move the mountain ?"
"What harm will be done ? The people will mock them for a while,
perhaps even give a few beatings. It will teach the Christians not
to put on airs. They will be more humble, and no one in Byzantium
or Rome will champion their cause. The people in their grief are
looking for some means to vent their misery, and they have found
the Christians. There are still not many Christians here, and no one
has much respect for them. Give them to the people! It is even your
duty to do it so as not to give cause for rebellions elsewhere in the
country, because by now, of course, the carrier pigeons have already
flown to On, to Memphis, Acanthus and Hermopolis, to Abydos and

Thebes. Believe me, an insurrection would soon seize the whole of
Egypt, and then there would be disasters which the Emperor would
not forgive, and you would be removed from office . A small com
promise and a small sacrifice will avert calamities. If you do not
do this, then I will not keep my word and will not marry your son
Dunaz."
Nephora's argument was in accord with the prefect's own
thoughts. He himself could see no other solution and was prepared
to compromise, but still continued to waver. Suddenly a new factor
arose which compelled him to yield to Nephora's urgings. Even while
Nephora was speaking, three remarkable figures whose aspect and
carriage were most unusual appeared in the square from the direc
tion of Cleopatra's Needles.
They were three men, two of whom were very tall and the third
very fat. They all wore long, fine white robes with broad strips of
embroidery around the necks; the heads were tightly bound with
cloths which clung to their foreheads and temples and to the luxuri
ant black wigs which reached well down their backs. Their swarthy
faces were calm and serious, their gait confident and majestic. Each
carried a long staff. The staves of the two who marched on the flanks
were of odorous wood whose bark had not been removed, and each
staff was topped by a blue-and-white lotus blossom. The man who
marched in the center had a staff of silver crowned with ostrich
feathers and a golden Nile crocodile with a gaping maw. A sacred
amulet of sapphire shone on his chest. From their long robes, wigs,
and all they carried wafted an exceptionally strong scent of musk.
These were the priests, "the pillars of the indestructible faith of
the people," who were being pressed on all sides by alien cultures.
The Babylonians and the Romans were almost as hateful to them
as were the Greeks.
Chapter XIV
When the crowd saw the priests it immediately parted
before them, and they passed through it quite freely. That which
the prefect's whipbearers were unable to achieve through all their
force was accomplished of itself when the long wigs and staff with
the crocodile's gaping maw appeared. The priests passed through the
crowd as if walking on a street and they touched no one. They did
not even raise their lowered, hooded eyes. Their movements were
severely restrained and executed with surprising grace : the priests
seemed not to enter but to float onto the marble porch of the pre
fect's palace. They did not halt until their bodies and faces were
directly facing the heavy bronze doors. All three simultaneously
struck the doors with their staves and paused, neither stirring nor
repeating their knock. They seemed to cling directly to the bronze
as if they knew they would soon pass through it on some all-crushing
wave. The wave was rushing up behind them, bearing them on. The
crowd poured after its priests and pressed so strongly that for a time
it crushed both itself and the priests. Terrible cries rang out from
those who were pressing and from others crushed in the crowd.
The cries both encouraged and struck horror into those within
the prefect's house. The prefect's doltish son, the thick-headed Du
naz, even bared his teeth broadly and said, laughing:
·�a! That's the end of them!"
"Of whom ?" asked Nephora.
"Of those who smell so strongly of musk that even here I can catch
the scent through the window. Where there's musk, the chariot of
death is never far away."
"Yes, that's true," answered Nephora, pointing at the window.
Through it they now could see, at the far end of the square between
Cleopatra's Needles, a wheeled battering-ram making its appearance
on the spot where a moment before the priests had stood. The crowd
rushed to seize the ropes and pull the ram to the prefect's bronze
doors.
Dunaz, his father, and all the others froze, but Nephora waved
her blue veil out the window. After this sign the shouts subsided
momentarily, and she told the crowd:
"Move away from the porch! . . . The prefect will receive your
priests at once and will do everything in his power to see that the
Nile floods soon."
The crowd moved away from the porch, and the priests entered
the opened doors. In a shan time they came out of the prefect's resi
dence and announced to the people that the prefect would send word
to the Christian patriarch immediately, ordering him to do what
the aroused crowd wanted: that is, to have common prayers said to
move the mountain.
The people listened to the priests. The trumpet blared again in
a new key, the tambourine chirred, the drum chattered sharply, and
the rebellious crowd began to disperse. The square emptied and the
crowds moved off to the outlying districts beyond the Necropolis
gates and to Lochias; but the unrest within them remained as be
fore, in readiness to show itself and to turn to violence at any mo-
ment. People sat in groups beyond the stadium and on the canal
banks awaiting word of what would be done about their request. Car
rier pigeons had indeed been dispatched by the priests, as Nephora
had supposed, and had borne the thin, inflammatory strips of papy
rus to On, Memphis, Abydos and Thebes, and to Karnak and Luxor.
The news from Alexandria quickly flew to the ears of the prophetic
statue of Memnon, and Amenhotep began to speak at dawn. 1 o
The prefect's compliance had temporarily contained the unrest
in Alexandria but had not extinguished it, and the prefect now found
it best to act with stealth rather than openly: at the same time he
had sent a report to the Emperor regarding the disturbances caused
by the mob and had requested some auxiliary troops for support.
In expectation of this support he decided to indulge the mob's de
mands to the extent of sacrificing the Christians' well-being and,
perhaps, even a few of their lives. He knew that the Christians en
joyed no special favor with the government, which was inclined to
regard them as threats to social harmony. The prefect himself hated
the Alexandrian patriarch, a very clever and adroit man with power
ful friends in the capital whose favor he maintained by means of
those purple Alexandrian carpets of which Theocritus wrote: "They
are softer than sleep and lighter than down." 1 1
These carpets were the handiwork of Christians who lived in com
munes on the offerings of their community, and thus they cost the
patriarch much less than the prefect, who had to buy his from free
craftsmen. Thus he found it difficult to rival the patriarch in offer
ings and sacrifices.
In general the prefect had long feared the patriarch's growing
wealth. Envying him, he was vexed that he had not the means at
hand to surpass the patriarch, who possessed gifts that the conquer
ors of Egypt prized highly.
Chapter XV
In order to satisfy the rebellious mob and put the pa
triarch in a difficult position, the prefect immediately summoned
one of his staff and ordered him to go to the Christian patriarch with
a bouquet of flowers, report all that had happened, and ask if the
Christian doctrine really affirmed that their faith might move a
mountain into the water. If the patriarch should say that it did, then
the envoy was to ask him, for the sake of all the inhabitants of the
land of Egypt, to order his presbyters to begin common prayers to
this end, and to ask the patriarch himself to take part in the prayers.
The patriarch, however, had already learned of everything that
was happening in the city, since he had bribed certain members of
the prefect's suite who also loved the carpets that were "softer than
sleep and lighter than down'' and was thus constantly informed by
them of everything. In the same manner he had already been in
formed of the urgent embassy being sent to him. While awaiting
the envoy with the bouquet he retired to his luxurious bathing room,
undressed, and sat in the broad, round bath. The ceiling was inlaid
in many-colored marble spelling out the words: "We believe in the
single divinity of Jesus Christ and in the resurrection of the body."
The prefect's envoy arrived when the patriarch was in his bath,
surrounded by acolytes and young boys holding small vessels of aro
matic nard and large, light fans of peacock feathers. Thus the envoy
was not received at once but waited a long time, standing in the
reception room with his bouquet. When the envoy felt that he had
waited too long, he asked that the patriarch be told that his mis
sion was urgent and threatened to return to the prefect without
awaiting a reply.
At that point the patriarch emerged from his bath, anointed him
self with nard, donned a pair of golden sandals and enveloped him
self in a white chiton. And then, sitting on a divan and refreshing
his face with cool, violet-scented water, he received the envoy. Aco
lytes and young boys stood around the patriarch waving fans over
him. The customary bouquet of "speaking flowers," brought by the
envoy as a token of the peaceable nature of his embassy, was ac
cepted, along with the letter in which the prefect first explained the
matter at hand and then reproached the patriarch. The Christian
weavers and carpetmakers were provoking working people, the pre
fect wrote, by accepting lazy good-for-nothings into their communes,
people who lacked any real convictions but who came to be bap
tized solely to live in the commune at the expense of genuine be
lievers. And then, enjoying the community's offerings of bread, meat,
and fish, these people, fed at no expense to themselves, could work
more cheaply than other industrious craftsmen with whole house
holds to support. It was from this the prefect deduced the people's
hatred of the Christians, a hatred which he condemned when made
manifest in riots. But he did not possess the means to suppress an
uprising forcefully until reinforcements arrived. Therefore, until cir
cumstances changed, he implored the patriarch that if the Chris
tian faith indeed provided the means to move a mountain, he should
call on his Christians to pray at the foot of Mount Ader to calm the
troubled people and move the mountain from its place to stand
against the flow of the Nile and create a dam which would cause
an extensive flood.
The patriarch had already realized the snare which the crafty
Peokh had set could not be evaded by direct means; and while he
was sitting in his bath, his servants were all in the courtyard mak
ing preparations for him to leave the city at once. He answered the
envoy that even though Homer himself had erred, yet nothing was
impossible for Faith. He, the patriarch, had only general, higher au
thority, he said, but he had placed a separate bishop in Alexandria;
the envoy should go to him and tell him to do all that was necessary.
An acolyte quickly composed a letter from the patriarch to the
prefect saying this and delivered it to the envoy along with a bou
quet of white roses and Persian lilacs from the patriarch's garden.
The envoy took the flowers and message and set off with them to
the prefect. The patriarch dressed at once, collected his valuables
and his suite, and galloped off on speedy mules through the Gate
of the Sun and out of the city. Beyond the city wall he turned east,
hoping to find in some one of the seven mouths of the Nile a Greek
trireme or speedy foreign vessel on which he might flee from this
troubled country and its insidious prefect, with the hope of repay
ing him from afar for this humiliation.
The prefect learned with little delay of the patriarch's defection
and was terribly angered. He sent troops to pursue him, but to no
avail since no one knew whence the patriarch had turned beyond
the Gate of the Sun. Then the prefect cried:
"Not in vain did his reply include the phrase 'Homer himself
erred.' I never expected him to do what he did, and have erred as
grievously as Homer."
And then he summoned soldiers and ordered them to seize the
bishop and bring him to the palace.
The bishop lived far away in an outlying district and did not know
what the patriarch had done.
When the soldiers came for the bishop he was peacefully play
ing chess with one of his prominent female congregants. He was
astonished at everything he heard and tried to explain that he was
only a subordinate who could venture to undertake nothing with
out the patriarch. But when he was told that the patriarch had left
him on his own in Alexandria and had departed for destinations un
known, the bishop burst into tears.
The envoys did not allow him to grieve for long. They seized him
and took him to the prefect in a covered chariot. The prefect directly
and unceremoniously demanded to know if the Christian teachings
in fact claimed that Christian faith could move a mountain. And

when the prefect received the reply that this really was mentioned,
he would hear no more and said:
"Then I give you a period of three days. During these three days
I shall provide work for all who have none and shall pay them to
build seats and vendors' stalls around Mount Ader. And between the
seats I shall leave a free space from the mountain right to the Nile
for you Christians. Gather all your finest people whom you know
to be of the strongest faith and appear there early in the morning
three days hence. Now harken. Pray as you must in accordance with
the teachings of your faith, but pray that the mountain move from
its place and fall into the water. It will go badly for you if you do
not do this. All of Alexandria will be there to watch you, and your
task is to act so that your faith either triumphs or is disgraced. If
the mountain moves and the river rises, the people will value the
service you have rendered to our whole country by this act. But if
you do not move Mount Ader, everyone will know that you did not
want to do the good you were able to do and thus are not friends
of the people among whom you live. Then I can offer you no protec
tion; let the people deal with you as they think fit. And now I am
ordering you and your other elders to be kept under strict guard un
til the day; and if you do not go to say your prayers on the mountain
voluntarily, I shall order you brought there by force. If you disobey
you will feel the full force of the anger of a sorrowing people whom
you have provoked, while I shall apply the full severity of legal pun
ishment: I shall confiscate all you have for the Imperial treasury and
send all adult Christians in chains and with wheels round their
necks to never-ending labor in the quarries. Not one of you will be
forgotten - everyone without exception will go south, toward the
land of the stupid nation of Kush.12 Your hands will be bound, and
in each man's belt will be a sentence telling the Ethiopians how
many strokes of a hull's pizzle to give him each day-you will all
be beaten thrice daily, at morning, noon and night. And you will
all remain in the quarries until the dust of the stones eats away your
bodies."
Chapter XVI
Having made these abusive remarks, the prefect called
for a freshly-cut reed pen for the bishop and ordered him to list the
names of all Christians he could identify who lived in Alexandria.
At the same time he threatened to treat the bishop as if he were
already a prisoner in the quarries should the bishop try to conceal

even one name.
The bishop quailed, accepted the reed with a trembling hand, and
in terror listed the names of all those he had grounds to consider
Christian. But even though he tried not to omit even one of his trusty
people, the prefect did not believe him and forced him to swear that
he had disclosed them all. In fear of being called to account, the
bishop strained his memory and wrote many more names; but he
was afraid to take an oath since he had little confidence in his old
memory and he began to weep. Zeno's name was not on the bishop's
list.
The prefect took pity on the bishop and released him with a stem
warning:
"Stop sobbing. If you made an error and did not list them all, I
will forgive you: Homer himself erred. Leave the list of Christians
here and go assemble these and any others you may have forgotten.
Thrice daily I shall send someone to your house to find out how
many have gathered to go and move the mountain. And now I shall
send criers with rattles to all comers of the city announcing to the
people that the wish they all share will be granted. Let no one de
spair; let them all prepare to go to Mount Ader to watch it move
from its spot and dam up the Nile."
The prefect realized he had the upper hand and was concerned
only to encourage happy hopes in the minds of an alarmed and de
spairing populace. The bishop's position was quite different.
The bishop bowed, folding his hands across his chest in a sign
of submission, and left with tears streaming down his face. He was
incapable of even thinking of the task assigned to him and of what
he must begin to do. How could he personally go to face this ordeal,
and how could he lead those on the list to face it- an ordeal devised
by the crafty and vengeful Peokh, of course, for the sole purpose of
making a public mockery of the Christian faith before thousands
of spectators ?
Willy-nilly, his first thought was the one his superior, the patri
arch, had also considered best; in addition it seemed the easiest and
the most sensible. Was it not this same patriarch who urged every
one to remember that "Homer himself had erred?"
The bishop decided to seek counsel from those who were most
devoted to him. When he returned home he at once related the dread
ful news to the prominent woman congregant who awaited him. This
distinguished woman was much alarmed and immediately dis
patched slaves to other prominent congregants to summon them
at once to an urgent council at her house. The congregants soon

assembled, and when they had heard the story were all stricken with
terror. But instead of encouraging the bishop with sensible and
shrewd advice, they began reproaching him for listing their names.
He answered them:
"Would you rather have had me lie or disobey worldly power?"
They answered somewhat shortly that this was not their concern.
All were in despair and spoke only of how Peokh's crafty trick threat
ened to damage or destroy all their business affairs; their very lives
were endangered by an infuriated mob. They ended by reproaching
the bishop:
"Why should you list only us-people of consequence - and now
summon only us here ? This goes against the faith: all are equal be
fore God, rich and poor alike. We do not wish to put on airs before
the poor and the humble and so disobey God's will. Leave your deci
sion until the morrow; when the bronze gong is struck at morning
light, we wish to assemble here together with the common people
of the Christian faith. Perhaps there will be more faith, good sense
and courage in their simple minds than in ours."
The bishop agreed to this and when, after a most anxious night,
he struck the gong in the morning, he saw his courtyard begin to
fill with the working people of Small Harbor and other distant sub
urbs. But of the wealthy and powerful who wanted to assemble here
with the working people there was now not a single one.
Among the crowd the bishop recognized slaves of some absent
members of his flock and asked if their masters would soon come.
But the slaves only shook their heads and whispered quietly:
"You wait for them in vain: they will not come. By now they are
far away."
But the bishop still waited until the people in his courtyard be
gan to suffer from hunger. Drawing their belts tighter and higher
they began clicking their teeth; looking mournfully at the bishop
they all begged for bread. The bishop sent off all his acolytes and
fanbearers to hasten those eminent but tardy Christians, but the aco
lytes and fanbearers returned, saying that none of the eminent re
mained in the city. When he heard such terrible news and saw the
famished crowd, the bishop sent his best-loved fanbearer to the
prominent woman congregant to ask her to come herself and to send
baskets of bread for the common people as quickly as she could.
But the fanbearer returned with empty hands, saying that he found
no one in the home of this prominent woman but a sick slave who
told him that as soon as his mistress had been left alone the past
night she had immediately made ready and departed with all her
best servants, taking six chariots and leaving the city via the Cano
pus Road.
The bishop shifted his head cloth to cover his face and wringing
his hands he exclaimed:
"Oh, the treachery of it! I have erred such as even Homer never
erred!"
Chapter XVII
The bishop's anguish at the flight of all his distin
guished friends was immense, but he could not yield to it and despair
for long: the crowd of common folk that had gathered in his court
yard was insistently demanding to be fed. The bishop hurried to dis
miss the crowd from his courtyard, asking all to come again the next
day and promising that from early morning food and mingled wine
would be prepared in abundance for all. The bishop himself quickly
left through another exit that linked his house with that of the
prominent woman congregant. He visited all of her rooms but found
no living soul anywhere; but he did see abandoned things lying in
disorder and all the signs of hasty preparation for flight. At last on
a small coffer containing chessmen the bishop found a papyrus tied
with a ribbon. The letter informed him that the lady had been fright
ened at the alarming events and had departed for a time to Pelusium,
taking all her moveable valuables with her. All the contents of her
granaries and her house she left at the bishop's complete disposal.
Keys to the storerooms and granaries had been placed in the chess
case as well; each key had an ivory plate with an inscription in
dicating what the key held locked away.
Such a find was most opportune since the crowd the bishop had
just dismissed found itself, for particular reasons, unable to leave
the bishop's courtyard. The bishop took the keys and sent them home
with a fanbearer, while he set off to the homes of other prominent
congregants. These were the ones who on the previous evening had
been offended that the bishop had recorded their names, and who had
dispersed with a promise to assemble the next morning with the
common people but who had not assembled. But not one of them
was at home either: they had all abandoned their houses and left the
keys to their storerooms and granaries at the bishop's disposal along
with notes indicating that they had departed to the ports - some to
Canopus, some to Sais, some to Mendes and some to Pelusium,
whence the woman congregant had hastened even before the others.
Visiting all the homes o f his prominent congregants, the bishop

everywhere found the same; and he collected such a quantity of keys
that he was scarce able to carry them all. Neither did his fanbearers
hasten to help him, and when the bishop arrived home he could find
not a single acolyte nor a fanbearer anywhere. Thus did the fear and
the urge to flee spread quickly and infectiously, an urge that began
among the wealthy, who had mules and chariots at hand, homes
outside the city, friends and relatives in Sais and Pelusium, and ships
of their own in all seven mouths of the Nile. On the other hand,
the common people-the weavers, feltmakers, glassblowers and mak
ers of bricks - stayed in the courtyard as before, shouting that they
were hungry but could not leave because the gate to the street had
been locked and a sentry posted at it.
The bishop had suddenly become the wealthy owner of all that
his prominent, fugitive congregants had left. But what benefit was
all this wealth now when it had been inherited but two days before
he must move Mount Ader and dam the Nile?
The bishop threw the keys to the well-stocked granaries to the
weavers and feltmakers and showed them the secret passage to the
neighboring house. And when the people rushed there to assuage
their hunger, the bishop threw the keys to the other storerooms and
granaries on the floor and kicked them away.
"What use is all this abundance to me now," he thought, "when
I have been forsaken by all these eminent people and soon must face
torment with only these ignonant fishermen, weavers, and felt
makers ?"
But he soon collected himself, rose, and hastened to his stable
to see if his mule had food enough and water and to check if its
bronze shoes were firmly affixed to its hooves.
The stall was empty.
The bishop could only throw up his hands . . . Of course the mule
would not have left its peaceful stall and manger full of fragrant feed
on its own account. Who had put the bishop's fringed saddle and
tassled bridle on the mule, and even remembered to take the silken
whip?
The bishop did not remain long with such thoughts, however:
he was surprised when someone touched his shoulder, and an un
troubled, mocking voice said:
''I suppose you came to check how soundly your mule was shod."
"What concern is that of yours?" replied the bishop.
''It is of considerable concern, because the prefect has sent me
to you with soldiers and whipbearers. The prefect is angry that you
have not reported to him today on your preparations to move the

mountain by faith."
"I have nothing to report, because everyone is fleeing from me
and I think that I shall soon be quite alone," answered the bishop.
"That is not our affair," replied the prefect's envoy. "We have come
to fetch you: go now, and report to the prefect."
Having said this, the envoy's eyes signaled the whipbearers to
move to the bishop; they at once bound his wrists and took him un
der guard to the prefect.
Chapter XVIII
Now that the prefect had agreed to allow a specta
cle to be made of the Christians' efforts to move the mountain, he
was annoyed at yielding to the pressure of a rebellious mob and was
seeking some means to relieve his vexation. He was trying to divert
himself in the company of friends; when the bishop was brought
to him the prefect was at his evening table with his family and cer
tain notable guests, among whom was Nephora. They were all settled
in a spacious dining room whose interior displayed Hellenic beauty
of form united with Egyptian variety and brightness of color. The
walls were faced with tiles painted in Greek style. The colors were
amazingly vivid. There was no ceiling over the dining room: in its
place was a silk fabric that could be opened or closed on rings that
moved on bronze rods. This cloth was drawn by day when the sun
burned in the sky, but was opened for the evening meal. Now, after
the heat of the day, the fabric was pulled back; a deep blue sky with
a multitude of stars hung majestically high over the heads of those
tasting the viands in this luxurious dining room. The moon's light
entered here only obliquely, painting one corner of the chamber
silver.
The candelabra and lamps burning on the table made the distant,
endless space above them seem like a black abyss in which the stars
hung like fiery spheres. On the table below were spread various fine
viands and drinks: here were enormous roasts of camel meat, smok
ing and giving off an appetizing aroma; red-scaled fishes; precious
Chian vases and trays with artful arrangements of select fruits
figs, dates, grapes and amber melons; delicate cheese on figured
plates of glazed clay; two wonderfully-executed silver beehives, the
work of Zeno, filled with honey; and between the two hives stood
a tall silver ornament like the altar of the Greek temple, also the
work of Zeno, wound about with myrtle and roses. Above the altar
an incense burner gave off aromatic smoke; here too stood a large
silver bowl of wine mixed with water. Around this bowl were cups
shaped like the heads of beasts and birds.
The company was in high spirits. The elegant women and young
men were all in a happy, witty frame of mind and were joking about
the festival which had been so unexpectedly arranged for two days
hence. It would serve both to calm and entertain the people. How
the Christians, condemned to accept the victim's role, might feel
was of no consequence. One of the group said:
''Whatever one might think of these wretched weavers and felt
makers of ours, one still must admit that they will provide us with
a most unusual bit of amusement. Granted, the stadium offers feats
of finesse and graceful daring, but we have all seen it many times
and the novelty is lost. But to move a mountain by faith alone
that is something quite new and unusual, and I raise my cup to the
clever weavers and feltmakers."
Another answered: "Rabble will always be rabble. The praise just
expressed belongs not to the mob but to old Peokh on Pharos."
"And even that is not so," interrupted the prefect's son, fat Du
naz. "We are indebted to my betrothed, beautiful Nephora, for all
the pleasure that awaits us, because it was she who persuaded my
father to give in to the mob's demands and bring the Christians to
Mount Ader. What a fine idea! Two days ago the mob had no work,
but now thousands of hands are busily building a fine amphitheater
for the spectators, and the city has come to life. All the mules are
hired; all the piesellers and fruit vendors, fishermen and winesell
ers in the city are making ready a terrible profusion of wares for the
crowd. Flowersellers, singers and conjurors will assemble there to
morrow; there will be a host of cheerful tents with flowers, food and
drink. And the day after tomorrow, early in the morning, the whole
of Alexandria will be there to watch these ridiculous people who
believe in a crucified God try to move the mountain and put it into
the Nile."
"Yes, my son Dunaz's words come close to the truth," remarked
the prefect. "But Dunaz has still not adequately appraised all that
the beautiful Nephora, whom I am eager to call my daughter, has
done. In truth, her mind is equal to her extraordinary beauty and
would surpass it if such were possible. We are indebted to the charm
ing Nephora not only for providing us and the whole city with a
pleasant pastime at the Christians' expense; we are indebted to her
for our very safety. By now we would have had a rebellion that I would
have been unable to suppress with the small number of soldiers and
whipbearers at my disposal. They are scarcely able to maintain or

der under normal circumstances. But these troops would have been
hopelessly inadequate in the face of such popular disturbances as
appeared so suddenly the other day, disturbances which would un
doubtedly have spread to the rest of Egypt. Besides, this morning
my carpetspreaders intercepted carrier pigeons with news of huge
crowds of workers moving toward Alexandria from Hermopolis; to
morrow, no doubt, we shall see their heavy-bottomed barges. The
crowds will come ashore and rush off to my palace, but the benches
now being built in the amphitheater at Mount Ader will make them
pause and change direction. The Hermopolites will not find what
they are expecting: there is no despair in our city, no wailing. Peo
ple are working with axes and tools to cover the benches, and they
are all being well paid. Carpets and upholstery material have dou
bled in price. All the people have come back to life and are happy
and working, looking forward to even greater diversions. And they
shall have them: if not in seeing the Christians actually move the
mountain for them and put it across the Nile, then at least in en
joying the spectacle of those braggarts vainly praying in their own
manner and then at evening having to admit their impotence."
''But then," interrupted one of the guests, "the crowd may attack
them and spill much blood; and afterwards there will be more dis
turbances that will threaten the ruin of all us people of means."
''No," the prefect answered calmly, "that might have happened had
I not added a particle of my old man's experience as a ruler to the
wisdom and generous sacrifice of our magnanimous Nephora. I do
not want to conceal from any of you here that Nephora has done
more than you know: not only has she convinced me of the sound
ness of this measure, but she has even provided the means for it to
be carried out. My treasury was empty and I could not have under
taken all the expenses involved in paying a generous wage to all those
now busy with the construction. But Nephora provided the means
for it."
"Can it be possible? We did not know!" exclaimed the guests, turn
ing to Nephora, who sat among them pensive and silent.
'1ndeed, you did not know," continued the prefect, ''but I am re
vealing her secret to you now along with a secret of my own that
should reassure you of your safety and reassure our magnanimous
Nephora of the security of the large sum she has spent for the com
mon good."
'1 am not concerned about recovering the money," Nephora
said.
"I am certain you are not thinking o f it. But I am surprised to see
that you are unhappy today."
"My mood has nothing to do with the money."
"To be sure; but you will soon be a member of my family, and
not for anything would I allow you to waste your wealth had I not
firm hopes of returning with interest all you have given me for these
expenses. The public disgrace the Christians will suffer at Mount
Ader will bring ruin to no one but these hateful cabalists themselves.
The mob will have no opportunity to rob the wealthy, because I have
asked for a fleet with supporting troops. At noon today ten vessels
had already come within sight of the Bolbitine mouth of the Nile.
Their sails are large, and the wind is favorable; they are moving
quickly and tomorrow they will be at Canopus. And when every
one has left the city to watch the Christians move the mountain,
the troops will round the Lochias promontory and enter the city.
When the crowds return -whatever the result of the affair on the
mountain -they shall be stopped and disarmed. Trials will be held
the next day, and all the main culprits in the rebellion will be taken
out to the Hepta with death sentences in their belts and executed.
Their possessions will go to the treasury, and the money needed to
restore what Nephora has spent today will be withdrawn."
"Excellent! You are a wise and just ruler!" exclaimed many at once.
'�d now nothing more prevents us from giving ourselves up to
peaceful celebration in your house, here in this beautiful dining
room where the stars look down from the heavens, no doubt envy
ing beautiful Nephora's bright eyes. Let us raise our cups to Nephora's
eyes and to Dunaz's happiness."
When the toast had been drunk the prefect said with a smile:
"Make merry and drink; praise the beauty and intelligence of Ne
phora. No one is in any danger, and we already have something amus
ing to entertain us all. The patriarch and that whole group of wealthy
people who support the Christian faith have fled. One of the bish
op's servants, a sly traitor, informed my staffbearer that the bishop
himself went to his stable to check how soundly his mule was shod
. . . Of course he wanted to use the animal this very night, but I did
not allow it, since it threatened to leave the audience without act·
ors. I sent people to bring the bishop here and ordered that not a
single Christian be allowed to leave the city. They will all be assem
bled in the bishop's courtyard and leave from there together to say
their prayers at Mount Ader."
Meanwhile the staffbearer reported the bishop's arrival to the pre
fect. Since everyone at the feast wished to see him, he was brought
into the dining room and left standing before the guests feasting at
the table, among whom was Nephora. The young woman quickly
cast a sharp and penetrating glance at the old man as if wanting to
read in his face something that the prefect's circumstantial account
had not explained.
Chapter XIX
The bishop felt all the humiliation of his position
and answered briefly and reluctantly. This was understandable, since
all the questions posed by the prefect and his guests were obviously
intended to make his already awkward position even more difficult
and to make both him and the people whose faith and hopes he rep
resented here the object of jest and mockery. Dunaz particularly dis
tinguished himself, for he was seeking ways to attract Nephora by
ridiculing a defenseless and confused old man. But Dunaz achieved
quite the opposite: his mockery held no appeal for Nephora, par
ticularly, perhaps, because her hated betrothed was trying to distin
guish himself by it.
"This man has a weighty task to perform/' she said, "and he must
collect all his strength. Therefore I will be so bold as to ask you to
allow him to return to his home, since when I look at him and imag
ine the fate awaiting his fellow believers I am scarcely disposed to
merriment."
The bishop heard these words, glanced at Nephora and said with
dignity:
"' thank you, compassionate lady, and I pray that the God of mercy
will grant the noblest of your wishes."
Nephora rose from her place, summoned her slave girl and
reached into the long yellow silk pouch that hung at the girl's belt.
Taking a handful of gold from the pouch, she handed it to the bishop
saying:
"Take this from me for your poor."
''Do not concern yourself/' the bishop answered nobly, pushing
her hand away. ''They who go with me are all prepared to die soon,
and we have no need of gold now."
''Do you mean that you do not expect to move the mountain?"
asked Dunaz.
The bishop did not answer.
"Do not despair yet/ the prefect interrupted. "Remember the words
'Homer himself sometimes erred."'
'1 despair of nothing."
"Excellent. But listen, please. Remember the list o n which you
recorded all the finest people of your faith and tell me: are they all,
even unto the last, so likeminded that they all managed to leave Alex
andria together? Where have they gone?"
"I did not see them and know only that all their homes are de
serted."
"Go, then, and watch over those who remain; you shall answer
to me for them. Tomorrow I shall send a detachment of whipbear
ers to your house to escort you to Mount Ader. Go!"
The bishop bowed and went out. Nephora allowed him to move
away from the others and then overtook him near the door.
"Old man!" she said. "I must warn you; you have made an error."
"In what?"
''You have not named all of the people of your faith who are trusty
and worthy of attention."
The bishop thought, trying to remember, and answered:
"I guarantee that I did not intentionally conceal anyone and can-
not remember any other Christians."
"No, I can see that you are concealing one!"
"Tell me, what is his name ?"
"His name is Zeno."
''Zeno!"
''Yes! He is a famous artist. Everyone in Alexandria knows him;
it is impossible not to know him."
'�, the one-eyed Zeno, the goldsmith?"
''You seem to have some difficulty in recalling him."
"Of course I do; I scarc�ly know him."
"What! You scarcely know Zeno when everyone else in Alexan-
dria knows him ?"
''Everyone in pagan Alexandria!"
"Why only in pagan Alexandria?"
"He makes inages in sculpture."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Such work is unseemly for a Christian."
"Why? Does art lower a Christian?"
''Father Agapetus so decreed."
"But that is madness!"
''Father Agapetus so decreed."
''Yet Zeno is of your faith nonetheless ?"
"No, we do not consider him one of ours."
"How can you not? Does he not believe the teachings of the Cru
cified One?"
"You are unable to judge that, my lady."

'1 judge by what I saw, and I saw great evidence that Zeno is a
Christian. Send for Zeno at once, hurry to him yoursel( summon
him to come with you."
"He will not come."
"No, he will come; and if the mountain is able to move at all,
then Zeno alone will be able to move it. If I must convince you, then
wait for me. I will come to you and tell you more."
The bishop left without sending for Zeno. The eminent guests
continued feasting until the stars began to pale in the dark sky, and
the corner of the room that had been silvered by the moon disap
peared, blending into a single semidarkness with the rest of the up
per cornice. Although the guests drank Chian and Falernian wine
mixed with water, their senses quickly grew dull. At one point it
seemed to Dunaz that the moon had disappeared. He mentioned
it to the others, and they laughed at him. The prefect also imagined
that a drop of something cold had spattered on his bare skull, heated
by the wine; but he only looked up at the sky and told no one for
fear he might be ridiculed.
Chapter XX
The morning of the next day, the day before the Chris
tians were to move the mountain and the troops to arrive to subdue
the populace, was overcast, a rare occurrence in Egypt at that time
of year. A light breeze was blowing and the bare beginnings of fluffy
cloudlets were visible in the sky. Those bound for Mount Ader found
it easy and comfortable to travel there and make camp at the site.
It was a day's journey, travelling toward the Canopic mouth of
the Nile, to reach Mount Ader. The journey was made as a pleasure
excursion. Among the enormous crowd of pure Egyptians were many
recent arrivals from foreign lands as well as resident foreigners. Peo
ple moved along the road in an endless line; some rode on donkeys,
others on camels, still others in mule-drawn chariots, but most nu
merous of all were the pedestrians. Venerable greybeards walked with
younger men and women. The latter led naked children. Peddlers
carried or bore on handcarts heavy baskets of fish, spicy roast meat,
fragrant spice nuts, and vegetables, consisting for the most part of
enormous cucumbers up to a foot in length and huge melons weigh
ing thirty pounds or more. These fruits rested between layers of net
tle leaves twice the size of a man's palm. Other peddlers bore on
their heads water jars almost the height of a man. These narrow-
necked vessels were stopped up with fresh nettle leaves and wrapped
round with bladders. The vessels contained Syrian wine which,
rough as it was, appealed to simple tastes no less than the wine from
Chios or from the foot of Vesuvius did to the tastes of the higher
classes. Bakers pushed long barrows of loaves; other barrows had triv
ets, pots, and sacks of rice and garlic tied on top so as to enable the
cooking of a simple meal on the site. Everyone intended to drink
and make merry and was hurrying to Ader to claim the best van
tage points. Some had taken light, portable tents. Tents had already
been pitched for the wealthy by servants sent to Ader earlier, but
the majority took their own tents on donkeys. Groups of half-naked
rope dancers and conjurors especially stood out; the latter swallowed
live snakes while walking, and performed other tricks that could
be easily done on the move. But the colorfully dressed flowersellers
attracted the most interest.
A crowd of frolicsome youths, drawn by the charms and gaiety
of these free-and-easy, charming beauties, constantly hovered around
them. The most prominent young men, tom away from the city
where they were constrained by standards of propriety, felt at lib
erty here and had no intention of restraining themselves in any way.
To the contrary, they yielded to the most unbridled passions of their
age and temperament. The flower girls were all young women of the
Egyptian type, with sloping foreheads; but they were lively, merry,
sometimes witty, pretty, and shapely, with pleasantly rounded forms
and remarkably pliant bodies. All of them, as priestesses of the same
cult of sensuality, wore white, semi-transparent clothing with
brightly-colored borders. Their garments were held up on only the
left shoulder, leaving both arms and the right breast completely ex
posed. However all the rest of their bodies showed through the light,
transparent material, exciting the glances of the youths who trot
ted among them on their feather-adorned Pannonian horses. When
these gilded youths approached them, the flower girls smiled and
offered wreaths and bouquets of orange blossoms and violets, at the
same time tossing before them a quince, the symbol of love. The
young men clapped their hands in delight, bought flowers, and tried
to pick up and break the quinces thrown to them. The flower girls
moved on lazily, stopping occasionally, hastily pitching small and
very light silk tents, each of which could shelter but two persons.
They stayed beneath these tents only as long as was necessary for
two to eat love's apple together.
Then the small tent would again be folded and packed on the back
of the donkey; the young man would ride off on his Pannonian horse
with its closely-trimmed mane, while the flower girl would rejoin
her troupe where her friends would greet her with applause and sup
ply her with new flowers and new love apples.
So the innumerable crowd of Alexandrians of all classes happily
made its way to Mount Ader, hastening to reach the Canopic mouth
on the eve of the last day before the flood was to occur. The people
wanted to arrive in time to make camp and spend the long evening
in celebration amid the fresh atmosphere of the river, tasting here
all that the freedom and cover of a dark night could offer.
The people of consequence, whose position did not permit them
to mingle with the crowd on this happy eve, were to leave for the
mountain only at evening, so as to arrive by dawn to take their places
in the enormous amphitheater built of logs and planks upholstered
in bright fabrics and carpets. The Christians, escorted by soldiers
and whipbearers, were to be sent off at noon so as to arrive at Mount
Ader before the prefect and important personages. Thus they would
have no opportunity to arrange any deception, yet would have no
reason to complain of being given insufficient time to pray.
Chapter XXI
On returning home after the prefect's banquet where
she had seen and spoken to the bishop, Nephora threw herself on
her bed. In spite of the late hour she was unable to sleep. The news
that the artist Zeno, who had spumed her, was not among the Chris
tians who were to move the mountain and, in all probability, to be
mocked by everyone, had struck Nephora and had deprived her of
all peace of mind. This meant that all her schemes and plans for
vengeance on him were in vain; Zeno would not be touched, while
other quite innocent people who had not offended her personally
in any way would be subjected to distress and ruin. But Zeno the
artist would continue to live in peace as before! Both Peokh and Bu
basta would achieve their ends, but Nephora would achieve noth
ing; she had been thoroughly deceived, and all through her own care
lessness. Damnation! Could she have anticipated this? And what
differences could there be between Zeno and the other Christians
that she was incapable of understanding? . . . When Nephora was
a child the Christian slave girl who had been her nurse had often
told her of her God who had been crucified in Jerusalem. Nephora
loved listening to the stories of His compassion for everyone, and
to His precept that no one must do evil to another. Nephora wept
with the slave girl when she told of how He had been driven out,
Lesk.ov: THE MOUNTAIN 181
how people had many times wanted to kill Him, and how they fi
nally did. He was chaste and good and besought everyone to love
one another and forgive offenses. She thought that this was the heart
of the matter. Zeno, so it seemed, lived in this way: he lived in ac
cordance with His precepts. But what the bishop had told her was
quite new and incomprehensible. This seemed to be something quite
different, and yet it was ruining all her plans. Zeno would escape
. . . Tomorrow was the last day. Tomorrow evening she must leave
for Mount Ader.
Nephora had already given orders to her chief steward to prepare
her a chariot, and her slaves had laid out a magnificent ensemble
on her broad carpets, an ensemble to grace her body as she sat in
one of the first seats of the amphitheater. Nephora had wanted to
outwit everyone: Peokh, Dunaz, Bubasta and the prefect himself.
Certain that the mountain would not move into the water, she was
absolutely certain that when the Christian faith would be thereby
discredited, the furious and despairing mob would fall upon the
Christians and begin throwing them into the Nile. Peokh and Bu
basta would give the sign to begin, and the deed would be done; but
while the other Christians were perishing as propitiatory sacrifices,
Zeno would be saved because Nephora had bribed the chief whip
bearer to help him and to provide him with a safe-conduct. He would
be taken to her estate beyond Pelusium, and she would find him
there. She loved him, after all, and wanted only to discredit the faith
for whose sake he had offended her in spuming the love she offered
him. No one would find Zeno there; she would conceal him from
everyone, and he would be her captive, her slave and . . . her lover
. . . Or else she would make him suffer, torment and torture him
and . . . She herself did not know how it would end, but it would
give value to her whole life . . .
And now, suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she learned from the
bishop that none of it would happen in this way. Many people would
be drowned in vain, while Zeno would live on with his own par
ticular faith, a faith which, as the bishop had assured her, was not
even like their genuine Christianity. And this error could not be
corrected-there was no time . . . Now both nature and humankind
had gone to sleep, and Nephora should sleep as well so that her body
might be invigorated and strong and her face clear . . . She must hide
this vexatious mistake of hers from everyone and . . . she would
sleep. She put her arm around her favorite cat, closed her eyes and
ceased to think about it all. A moment of repose and emptiness oc
curred in Nephora's mind, but immediately a definite thought burst
in once more: she was hot-the cat was too warm against her bosom.
Nephora pushed the cat away, and two small red sparks flashed and
crackled quietly in the animal's fluffy fur. The young woman set
the cat at her feet, and sparks gleamed once more. She turned her
face to the wall and tried again to fall asleep, but something rustled
in the wall behind the carpet. The air grew more close; from some
where in the distance came the importunate bleating of a young
camel answered by the cracked bellow of an old camel. One thing
and then another kept Nephora from sleeping. No sooner had the
camels fallen silent when the ugly voice of a peacock cried out. Ne
phora reached for a silken cord and drew aside the curtain. Little
silver bells sewn on the fringe jingled melodiously, and a broad win
dow with a stone frame was revealed. The sky was already begin
ning to grow light. The morning air raised Nephora's spirits, and a
daring plan to make one more attempt to involve Zeno in the com
ing events arose in her mind. She summoned a servant girl, dressed
quickly, and ordered a saddled mule to be brought to her porch at
once.
Chapter XXII
When Nephora left the house and mounted the mule
grey twilight still reigned in the city and no sound of movement
could be heard anywhere. Only the clay-colored pigeons sleepily
grooming themselves in the brightly-colored dovecote cooed wist
fully as if displeased at something.
Nephora covered herself in a dark veil and ordered her groom to
lead the mule along the road to Lake Mareotis. On the shore of the
lake, in an area she knew, lived the Christian bishop.
At one bend in the road something flashed past Nephora's eyes;
at the same time her groom looked back at her meaningfully.
'What is it?" asked Nephora.
"The Nile swallows."
'What does it mean?"
"They are flying swiftly . . . and keeping close to the ground . . ."
"So what does it mean?"
"It happens when . . . But please, mistress, I hear a large crowd
approaching . . . Please let us wait here a moment . . . Last night the
people brought a black lamb to sacrifice at Peokh's cave on Pharos,
and now they march in procession with the holy man . . . Look, you
can see him already, coming around the comer on that huge white
camel with the rich carpet. The dark old man riding it is Peokh.
You can see he is a holy man, his body is so emaciated. Look care
fully: the rags round his waist are bound with only reed and sedge,
but even such a frail belt will not break on his waist. Peokh has not
left his cave on Pharos for many years. But now, of course, he's off
to the Canopic mouth with the rest of Alexandria to see those gul
lible folk who believe in the Crucified God try to move Mount Ader.
The crowd spent the night near Peokh's cave, and now they're all
escorting him. They may do you harm unless you order me to stop
and wait so as not to cross the path of the holy man."
"Stop and let them pass."
And Nephora saw a dark-faced, emaciated Memphite with a high
forehead pass before her on a white camel, surrounded by a count
less throng of the most devout rabble. Here were people who had
not sought frivolous diversion among the raucous mobs who had
left earlier. Among this stem crowd were no importunate sellers of
fish, nor merry rope-dancers, nor conjurers, nor pretty flower-girls
with their light tents riding on little donkeys. Peokh was accom
panied by a grim, fanatical crowd of half-naked men and women who
continually raised their infant children above their heads so they
might see Peokh. This was done to cure the children of the eye dis
eases and ulcers from which many cried out in pain.
Nephora also saw the dark, emaciated body of the naked Mem
phite and the terrible gaze of his eyes with their inflamed lids and
glittering whites.
This crowd, too, contained many dogs and cats. Following up the
whole procession, mounted on an old camel, sat Bubasta; on the
saddle before her was bound a live black ram with gilded horns be
tween which was tied a glittering sacrificial knife.
This was the animal for the second sacrifice of thanksgiving when
vengeance would be wrought at the Canopic mouth.
Bubasta recognized Nephora, pointed to the knife, and said:
"Have your vengeance; they shall hear of Bubasta's revenge in the
quarries."
Anyone who looked upon Bubasta would acknowledge the just
ness of Pharoah Amasis' remark: ''The women of Egypt are bold and
vengeful; it is easier to deal with an enraged lioness than with an
angry Egyptian woman." 13
Chapter XXIII
After allowing the procession to pass, Nephora
reached the bishop's residence which was guarded by soldiers. They
had orders from the prefect to admit only those who called them
selves Christians or those brought by the police whipbearers, who
had been told to seek out Christians everywhere to ensure that the
group praying on Mount Ader would not be small and inconspicu
ous. The whipbearers carried out their instructions. Although no
one came voluntarily to declare himself a Christian, the bishop's
courtyard was full of people of both sexes who had been forcibly
driven here and who were crying out terrible laments, weeping, and
heaping abuse on the bishop. The bishop sat with a bowed head,
not only giving no answer to the insults but even, it seemed, quite
unaware of what was happening around him. His face was gloomy
and embittered. Like Nephora, he had not slept at all the previous
night, and after such deep stress his nerves had become deadened.
The presbyters and deacons who sat near him were in much the same
state. The latter were constantly coming and going as they supplied
the crowd with food.
Nephora had but one means left to enter the bishop's courtyard,
and that was to declare herself a Christian. This she did, and the
soldiers guarding the entrance to the courtyard immediately admit
ted her, leaving her mule and groom beneath a tree outside.
As she made her way through the crowd of people angrily and
chaotically pressing together in the courtyard, Nephora saw a throng
of weeping women and children and her heart was wrung. But she
was astonished when, after some difficulty, she managed to reach
the bishop's chambers and saw his stony indifference. He expressed
no particular emotion, and on seeing Nephora at once shifted his
gaze to another object and began rubbing his aged hands.
''I have come to you on an important matter," said Nephora some-
what hastily, looking about her.
The bishop said nothing.
''I would like to tell you something in private."
"Surely you are not a Christian?"
"Yes, I am."
"But . . . It seems to me . . . I saw you yesterday at the prefect's
banquet . . . You were his guest."
''Yes, you did see me. I was there . . . I wanted to know everything
they plan to do."
''What do you want?"
''I fear what will happen to you if you do not move the mountain."
The presbyters surrounding the bishop heard these heartrending
words and quietly nudged one another, whispering:
"We must listen to her."

"Speak in their presence, theni they all want to hear you/' said
the bishop.
When Nephora saw that the bishop would not leave those atten
dant, she gave up trying to conceal her plan and said openly:
'1 am amazed that I do not see among you the man who could
most help you in this hour."
"Who is this man? Probably he is not one of ours, or has now re
nounced his faith."
"No, he is devoted to the Christian teachings and is not such as
would renounce his faith."
"Then name him at once."
"The artist Zeno."
Nephora had scarcely uttered this name when everyone spoke
at once:
"Who! ? The great Zeno -the goldsmith!"
"Zeno, that friend of the wealthy and powerful!"
"The finest craftsman in Egypt! Zeno, in whom lives the soul of
Theodorus, the sculptor of Amasis!"
"The one-eyed Zeno, who wears a patch on his left eye that he
lost from some unknown reason."
"Yes, that is he, Zeno himself-the goldsmith whom all the
wealthy and powerful know and welcome, the man in whom the
art of Amasis' sculptor has been reborn. Zeno, with the blue ban
dage on his left eye that he suddenly lost from some cause no one
knows. He does not reveal the reason . . ."
'1ndeed, he speaks of it to no one!"
"That's it precisely! He has good reason to conceal it . . . But I
know the reason! Listen to mel" said Nephora.
"She knows the reason which Zeno keeps from everyone! Let us
listen!"
"That's curious."
"But this has no bearing on our situation and our problem here."
'1t hasi it concerns your problem very directly. Zeno is the man
you need . . . Zeno can save you!"
"What is she saying? What is the lady telling you?" shouted peo
ple in the courtyard as they crowded around the veranda on which
Nephora was speaking with the bishop and the presbyters. Many
began climbing the steps.
"Don't crowd in so close or you will push us all off!" one of the
presbyters shouted. "Stand still and I shall tell you what is happen-
ing. The lady is a Christian; she has come to us herself, under no

compulsion, and she says that she knows a man who can make the
mountain move into the water . . ."
But scarcely had the presbyter said this when a roar of voices was
heard, and all the people rushed onto the terrace shouting:
"Let her tell us all! We do not want to perish, we want to hear
what she says!"
The terrace was filled with people; the presbyters were crushed
and the bishop, abandoning his high-backed chair, beat a hasty re
treat through the doors to his inner rooms. In an instant Nephora
mounted his empty chair; grasping its decorated back with one hand,
she raised her other hand and shouted:
"Silence!"
The roar of the crowd subsided, and everyone fell silent.
'� I not beautiful?" asked Nephora.
Not a word was spoken in answer.
"I came here not to beguile you with my charms; I wish to tell
you something concerning the matter before you."
"You are beautiful."
''You could bewitch anyone you pleased with your beauty!" said
voices from the crowd.
''You could even make one forget his fear as he looked Death in
the face," said a voice near the chair on which Nephora stood.
"But none of this had any power over the one whose name I pro
nounce: Zeno the artist spumed my beauty for the sake of your God's
words . . . He rejected me, and so as not to look upon the beauty I
offered him, in my presence he plunged a knife into his own eye.
That is why your great goldsmith Zeno has lost his eye; that is the
strength of his faith. Summon him here at once, and if it is true that
a man with faith can move a mountain, then Zeno will move it."
"Yes, truly, one as strong as Zeno can move a mountain! . . . Where
is he, then? Summon Zeno!"
Then Nephora said to the deacon:
"Write a message to Zeno at once and throw the scroll over the
wall to my slave who stands beneath the tree beyond the gate with
a saddled mule. He will fly off to Zeno and not spare the mule. You
will see: even before the cordon of whipbearers comes to drive you
to Mount Ader, Zeno will be here, and your hearts will be comforted.
And I shall remain with you as a pledge of my promise."
Everything was done as Nephora said. The people were so much
aroused that neither the bishop nor the presbyters dared make an
appearance; Nephora, whom everyone wanted to hear and to gaze
upon, reigned over all the proceedings. A deacon found a reed and
a papyrus and wrote with trembling hand: "Zeno! People in mortal
peril summon you. Come, ease our lot or share it with us." Nephora's
slave took the note to Zeno, and everyone waited to see whether the
artist would come, and whether he would come before the detach
ment of whipbearers arrived to drive them to Mount Ader.
Chapter XXIV
The mood of the agitated crowd changed continu
ally from hope to despair: at one instant they believed that Zeno
would come and that he, being well-known to all influential peo
ple, might soften the prefect's harshness by his very presence. Then
others would say: ''What can make Zeno leave his peaceful life and
give himself up voluntarily to our sorrowful fate?" The bishop and
his advisors also thought this quite impossible, the more so that
they did not even consider Zeno a Christian.
"He knows," they reasoned, "that we are not in accord with him.
What concern can he have for the miracle we demand of him? He
will not go with us to martyrdom."
Some time passed in such doubts, and the air of despondency grew
heavier. But an hour before noon people looking toward the city from
the wall began waving their arms and shouting:
''The whipbearers are coming! . . ." And many fell to the earth in
fear.
But one man who had not jumped down with the others noticed
that a young rider on a light bay horse, a rider whose bare head was
shorn in the Greek style and who wore a bandage over his left eye,
was rushing toward them at full gallop from the opposite direction.
"Brethren!" exclaimed the one who had seen the rider. ''We are
saved. Zeno the goldsmith rides to us."
And indeed, Zeno outstripped the whipbearers, threw down his
horse's reins, leapt from the saddle and shouted to the sentry:
"Open the gate and admit me. I am a Christian; I want to be among
those who are about to suffer!"
The gate opened and the sentry admitted Zeno.
Immediately he was surrounded by a crowd of Christians, each
trying to speak to him at once; he was unable to answer anyone and
passed calmly between them, repeating quietly:
''Do not fear! . . . Christ is in our midst . . . Let us honor His words
by obedience . . . Let us die for our Teacher!"
''We shall die if we must!" came voices from the crowd.
Zeno began embracing and kissing those nearest him.

Nephora looked at Zeno from the height of the terrace, admir
ing the calmness of his gait and the movements of his arms as he
embraced and comforted those who flung themselves at him, groan
ing and wailing.
This man's heart seemed to know no fear at all, and Nephora
thought that she was seeing not a martyr preparing to meet immi
nent humiliation and death but an actor, so beautiful and tender
yet filled with dignity and strength were all his actions.
Zeno paused for a moment when he saw Nephora. Although he
was astonished by her presence here, he immediately collected him
self, raised his hand to his missing eye to adjust his bandage, and
moved without stopping into the inner chambers where the bishop
was. Zeno remained there for a minute, then emerged on the ter
race again to say:
"Brothers and sisters! If the spirit that lives within you is strong
and of good courage, then we may go freely, without escort. The pre
fect knows me, and I will go to him at once and implore him to let
us go to the mountain alone with no whipbearers to guard us."
"Why should we do that?" asked several voices from the crowd.
''We must show everyone that we are going of our own free will
and not under constraint."
The people gave no reply, but one feltmaker named Malachi
stepped from the crowd and said, looking slyly into Zends face:
'1 understand. Go then, and ask. Swear that we will go by
ourselves."
'1 am not certain that you do understand; I will not swear. We
are charged not to swear; but I will say that we shall bring no dis
grace to Christ's name."
Then everyone cried:
"Yes, excellent! Go, Brother Zeno, go and give our word that we
shall not bring shame to the name of Christ."
"But will you be coming back yourself, I wonder?" asked Malachi
the feltmaker.
Zeno paled and answered:
'1 have neither wife nor children to leave here as hostages. But
I do not lie: I am a Christian."
"Fear can work its way on anyone. It would be better to leave a
hostage."
'1 shall stay as hostage until Zeno returns!" cried Nephora.
Zeno turned to look at her and said:
'1 thank you. I need but an hour. But if something happens . . ."
'1f you do not return within the hour, let them tear me to pieces
on this rostrum where I stand," Nephora added.
Zeno reached to clasp her hand with heartfelt emotion.
The sentry allowed Zeno to leave with one of the whipbearers.
Before an hour had elapsed the artist returned alone bearing a papy
rus on which was written a pass allowing the Christians to go to
the mountain unescorted.
The whipbearers opened the gate for them, and they left freely.
The ailing bishop walked in front supported by Zeno and a woman
in a black veil.
The woman was Nephora.
She did not raise her veil as they passed through the city, and many
asked who she was. The Christians answered as they passed that
she was a new Christian! But they themselves began asking when
and where this woman had been baptized. What was her Christian
name? Zeno must know everything about her, but no one even knew
where Zeno had accepted the faith . . . And now it seemed inoppor
tune to question them, since they were marching with great cour
age at the head of the procession, and the bishop, who was steadily
weakening, was supporting himself on their shoulders . . .
Chapter XXV
While the Christians were making their own way
to Mount Ader, a third group of travellers was setting off from Alex
andria early that same evening toward the Canopic mouth. This
group also appeared quite unlike the noisy troupe of weavers, felt
makers and merry spectators with conjurors, dancers and flower girls,
and unlike the second lot of sorrowing Christians. This group was
marked by its dignity and importance: these were Alexandria's no
tables and their attendants.
Through the gates of the Canopus Road first appeared Greek and
Egyptian soldiers, who despised one another; then came merchants
dressed in identical robes with multi-colored fringes. After the mer
chants came the Egyptian priests in longer, but also identical, robes
with costly crossbelts; they wore identical broad amulets around
their necks and had fillets to hold the long black wigs that fell over
their necks and backs. After the long-haired priests came more
priests, also in strict order, with carefully shaven heads. And behind
them, lagging somewhat, marched an old priest wearing a gleam
ing sapphire amulet on his bosom.
All the priests carried long silver staves topped with white lotus
blossoms. The chief priest had a golden staff with a silver lotus sur
rounded by a tuft of ostrich plumes. A strong scent of musk wafted
from their wigs and clothing. After the priests came officials, and
then torchbearers, whipbearers, carpetspreaders, winepourers, and
breadservers, and behind them followed identically decorated chari
ots drawn by mules and bearing bright-painted baskets and casks.
After the breadservers, wearing enormously tall, pointed caps,
stepped the physicians who aided women in childbirth and others
who treated diseases of the eye; and after them the gentlemen of
the chamber and the ceremonial singers and dancers, more modest
than the flower girls, yet wearing no bodices but only transparent,
light, short skirts. Then came the companions of the table of both
sexes, wearing loose and varied costumes and having a different sort
of freedom to their gait, but all exuding the same fragrance of musk.
Behind this extraordinarily long line of marchers rode the prefect
himself on a magnificent Nisian steed whose tail and mane were
closely cropped. The horse itself was all artfully dyed blue.
The prefect wore a long, broad, red-and-gold cloak; his saddle, the
bridle, and the reins of his horse were all stamped in gold and had
gold fringes.
His chariot of ebony with a shaft and wheel rims of silver fol
lowed. The chariot was drawn by four black horses -direct and pure
blooded descendants of the horses of the pharoahs. Their harness
was of golden silk, and their cropped manes were covered with the
finest gold netting, the work of Zeno. This chariot was empty be
cause it had been intended for Nephora; but Nephora was nowhere
to be found before the departure. Her sudden disappearance had
troubled the prefect and had become the object of rumor among the
notables. Nephora's empty chariot was followed by many other en
closed chariots, also splendidly decorated, in which women rode,
and then by musicians and drummers. Bringing up the rear, again
wearing tall, pointed caps, were whipbearers who indifferently
cracked their long staves to either side whenever some dispute broke
out or simply when some loud talk was heard among the crowd that
had gathered to watch the procession of notables.
Chapter XXVI
The enormous city now seemed almost deserted.
Many houses were completely shut up, while others contained only
the ill and the servants left behind to watch over them. Fires were
put out early everywhere, and stillness soon descended upon the
Lesk.ov: THE MOUNTAIN 19 1
whole city. The moon illuminated the deserted streets, and Sirius
shone brightly in Canus Major. Three astrologers in yellow chitons
emerged on the circular market place between the Gate of the Sun
and the Gate of the Moon. Two were most venerable, the third some
what younger. For a long time they gazed into the sky where Sirius
twinkled, then consulted the tables they had broughti and then all
three clapped their hands at once and stretched out their arms be
fore them as if warding off something. This was the manner in which
the Egyptians usually prayed. Then the astrologers sighed and ut
tered the words "too late." Catching up the skirts of their robes, they
hurried to their homes and locked their doors tightly behind them.
An unbearably eerie atmosphere reigned within the prefect's spa
cious, deserted palace. When the prefect's chief steward, an old Bab
ylonian slave who had remained in the palace, entered the dining
room to clear away the food the guests had not eaten and the wines
they had not drunk, he imagined that shadows were moving along
the walls of the roofless room. Or perhaps it was the moon that
seemed to be shining tonight in a very odd way.
''Indeed," he said to himself, "something is not right in the heav
ens. Is that not the very reason I feel a heaviness in my limbs and
have the bitter taste of horseradish in my mouth? Or perhaps it is
because I have been so busy these past days and rose very early this
morning . . . What hateful people these Christians are! Why, indeed,
do they work for lower prices and so make things difficult for us
who work seriously for our living? Ah well, I can forget about them
now and have my own little feast in full freedom. The wine, espe
cially the fine, unmingled wine from Vesuvius, tastes goodi but one
must never spoil it with water as the Greeks do. Whatever happens
in life, good wine can help. I'll sit in my master's place and try these
good wines from his bowl."
And he did not spoil the wine with water as the Greeks do, but
took his seat in his master's comfortable chair, moved the vessels
of Falernian, Antillean, Chian, and Cyprus wines closer and began
treating himself for the bitter taste in his mouth. As he became ab
sorbed in comparing the merits of various wines, he lost track of
how quickly the time passed and how the chaos in the heavens grew
more pronounced. The moon's silvery light grew weaker and sud
denly disappeared entirely. A cold droplet spattered on the steward's
pate, which was as bare as that of his master. The steward wiped
it away with his hand and thought facetiously: "0 Ahriman, Ahri
man, why art thou so angered ? 1 4 Spit not upon me, but let me en
joy my situation. And please let the moon come back to the heavens
as well .. 111 make another libation in your honor. Ah, but that's
.
good . . .
"
The moon, in fact, did come out again. The steward noticed this,
but now there was a ringing in his head and a rustling in the air.
To set things right the steward poured out yet another large bowl
of winei this so calmed him that he laid his head on his arms and
with a broad yawn fell promptly to sleep. And well he slept! He
dreamt of his happy childhood, of the scorching sun in the valley
of Euphrates, Cunaxa, the journey of tens of thousands of Greeks,
handsome youths with open-necked robes and merry eyesi and he
ran with them, caught them, but they laughed at him and fled
away. 1 5 Then suddenly his wife, an Egyptian, saw their games and
flew at him in a mad fury. Domineering and totally unrestrained
like all Egyptian women, she was doing something terrible to him.
He felt her pulling him about so that the ground trembled beneath
his feet and the table shook beneath his head. Everything around
him roared and rumbled, full of fire and water, the fire mingling with
the water. And in such unnatural conjunction the fire and water
filled the open roomi the wet sky, like a gigantic rag, hung over him,
billowed out, then tore and fluttered wildly, lashing him and the
wine vessels, shattering everything to smithereens and flinging the
dishes and bowls about in the darkness. And this fury was accom
panied by the ringing of the little bells sewn on the edges of the cur
tain and the ripping of the soaked silken material.
Unfortunately this was not a dreami it was all happening in real
ity, although not at all in the manner it appeared in the steward's
drunken mind. A terrible storm and dreadful downpour such as can
not be conceived in Europe, and which is an event of extreme rarity
in Egypt, had erupted over Alexandria. A dreadful storm cloud rushed
toward the city on the wings of a destructive stormi lightning soared
in all directions, while the intervals between the lightning flashes
were utter blackness. The steward could not tell whether it was now
night or morning. Water poured in streamsi the darkness was totali
the wind lashed fragments of the ce iling screen, torn from its rods,
all about the room. Water as deep as the steward's knees swirled over
the floor tiles with seat pillows and other household articles float
ing in it. One might suffocate beneath the wet screen. The steward
howled in despair and rushed to seek salvation beneath the covered
portal.
Here he took refuge behind the columns and froze, again losing
consciousness from fear.
Thus it was not without significance that the moon had disap
peared in Dunaz's drunken eyes on the preceding day, not without
significance that a drop of water had spattered the head of the feast
ing prefect, not without significance that the camels had restlessly
exchanged cries during the night, keeping Nephora from peaceful
sleep. Nephora's groom had reason to draw her attention to the low
flying Nile swallows. They all sensed the approach of some mighty
phenomenon which humans did not expect and to which the as
trologers had remarked "too late" and hurried off to lock their doors.
When the terrible hurricane and downpour that were passing had
begun to abate, the steward regained his senses. He went out into
the courtyard and stood propping his trembling legs against a wall;
thus he remained for a long time gazing about him, his eyes dim
and his thick lips thrust out.
He could recognize none of the familiar sights he had grown ac
customed to see as he made his morning rounds surveying his il
lustrious master's well-kept courtyard. The household, always so
strictly ordered, now was in a total state of chaos. Benches, doors,
spare chariots and various rubbish floated about in the courtyard
together with chickens and peacocks that had been driven to ground
by the rain and drowned. Among the floating dead birds the stew
ard noticed a drowned carrier pigeon.
The steward instinctively sensed something amiss: he immedi
ately waded knee-deep in the water, picked up the bird and found
the mica tube on its neck. He pulled a tiny scrap of papyrus from
it, read it, and letting forth some sound curses, rushed into the hut
where he lived.
Here he found support from his wife who, from fright and from
joy at seeing her husband alive, struck him over the head with all
her might . Tearing the mica cylinder from his hand she read the very
short but fateful news: "The ships have been broken up in sight of
Lochias."
Now the wife thrust out her lips just as her husband had and,
just as he, sat down on a bench opposite him. 'What will happen
now?" they whispered to one another.
At last a thought struck the steward, who rose and touched his
finger to his forehead. After thinking a moment he answered:
"I do not know what will happen, but I can guess what has hap
pened!"
"And what was that ? " asked his wife.
"The Christians in fact did move the mountain!"
"You must still be drunk."

'1ndeed, I am. You are no more wrong in thinking that than I am
wrong in thinking that they moved the mountain."
Chapter XXVII
The crowds of people who had left the city in ad
vance of the prefect's splendid retinue did not all arrive at the moun
tain simultaneously, and they set up camps in various places. The
happy crowd of flower girls, musicians, fish vendors and conjurers
were not the first to arrive. They were preceded by those who had
come in the boats which now stood in the river in sight of Mount
Ader. The wealthy, who came in brightly-decorated vessels with
crocodiles on their bows and sails of purple and blue, took their
places in the amphitheater. The poor, who came on heavy-bottomed
boats with sails of grey or brown linen, arranged themselves on the
bare ground. They formed an enormous laborers' camp set apart from
the wooden benches upholstered with carpets and shaded by awn
ings that had been erected for the notables yet to arrive.
The riff-raff and the carousers who had come here in a troupe
sought no intercourse with the notables. They were able to find suf
ficient entertainment and merriment amongst themselves. Their
troupe was now extraordinarily animated: bonfires flamed here and
there, pots of fish were boiling, and there was wine and dancing.
Conjurers poured water and blood from the same vessel, drew swans
from their sleeves, and when the crowd pressed too near and ob
structed their arena, they threw down cherrywood staves consist
ing of small bits of wood artfully strung together so that when a
practiced hand grasped the end of the staff it would bend and writhe
like a serpent. The crowd would flee with screams and laughter. Two
or three Ethiopians, men of the "wretched nation of Kush," led in
handsome and agile camels of the Megara breed and made them
dance. These learned beasts had been trained to spit upon those who
failed to appreciate their art, and this also aroused general laughter.
But the dances of the Megara camels attracted mainly women and
children. Men of every age competed in rushing to the tents of the
flower girls. Sounds of many different kinds of music could be heard
within the sprawling camp: the roar of powerful Median trumpets
came from one place, the delicate sound of a Phrygian flute from
another, the clash of Judean cymbals and the murmur of harps from
a third. The sounds of Paphlagonian tambourines, Syrian tabors,
conch shells from the Indus, and Arian drums could also be made
out. Peasants from nearby villages circulated among the arrivals from
the city. They were dressed in long, unbelted shirts and carried pitch
ers of fresh water to sell. Moneylenders taking bets appeared here
just as they did at the stadium; they rode about quietly on old don
keys bearing sacks of coins and tablets on which disputants placing
bets on one side or the other could record the sums they staked.
There were Hellenes, Persians and Jews among the moneylenders.
They were all utterly indifferent to what might happen and offered
to take bets on whether the mountain moved or on whether it did
not. They would take other bets as well: whether, for example, the
prefect would allow all the Christians to be beaten when the moun
tain failed to move, or whether he would order only one of them
their chief- to be thrown into the Nile, sending the rest to the gran
ite quarries in Aswan with their sentences tucked in their belts.
Some took bets for one thing, others for something else.
The cosmopolitan port city had sent forth all its colorful rabble
here, and everything - the glow of fires, the neighing of horses, and
the shouts of people carousing in the open space s - produced an in
toxicating effect. It all seemed to swell and glow like an inflamed
boil that had to burst somewhere. The night flew by in wild carousal.
Many, filled with wine, slept by the dying bonfires; others still did
not sleep but neither did they notice how the moon several times
hid herself away in the heavens. Something more was needed to di
vert their gaze entirely into a dark comer. And then that something
happened. A heartrending wail came from one of the tents of the
flower girls, and then something heavy collapsed among the tents.
One man had killed another with a powerful blow and had thrown
his dead body to the ground. ''The Hellenes are murdering people!"
came a shout. To others it sounded like ''The Hellenes are being mur
dered." At once the music was drowned out by shouts summoning
people to assemble; knives flashed; people fell upon one another,
while sleepy whipbearers vainly tried to restore peace and order. Peo
ple slaughtered without mercy fell beneath the knives of the Hel
lenes; even more fell beneath the blows of the blunt Egyptian clubs.
And it all happened in utter darkness accompanied by the mighty
roar of the sudden storm and the terrible, unnatural crashing that
came from the river where the flat-bottomed vessels with their ibis
bows and long, fish-tail sterns lay moored. The fearful wind created
huge waves that tossed the ships and smashed them against each
other. The ibis bows and fish-tail stems shattered; the tall masts
swayed, waving their unfurled sails about like contending giants.
At last there were flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder, and
the rain poured down as if an entire ocean had fallen from heaven
to earth. Devastating streams rushed down from the hills, and water
poured over the valleys, covering everything.
Peokh and his fanatics had avoided the most crowded areas. They
were in the greatest danger because they had withdrawn to a gulley
where they planned to remain hidden until the Christians accepted
the disgrace for which Peokh had schemed to bring them here. Their
black lamb with the sacrificial knife between its horns was swept
away by the turbid waves, while they themselves were threatened
with death in those same waves which poured off Mount Ader.
The travelling notables had not yet reached the mountain when
the storm broke out. The downpour caught them in an open field
where they were drenched and lay in the water, losing hope that the
deluge would ever end.
The Christians faced a much more complex dilemma.
Chapter XXVIII
The group of Christians marched along, melting
away as it proceeded. Beyond the Canopus Gate, through which they
left the city, the number of those following the bishop grew ever
smaller, while the number of laggards continually increased. Some
fell to the ground saying that they could go no further because of
leg pains or stomach cramps, while others simply sat down and wept.
It was utterly impossible to compel them to go any further. The felt
maker Malachi was of the opinion that the shammers should be
killed with stones so as to inspire fear in the others, but Zeno spoke
up for them saying that there must be no compulsion. He said that
what mattered was not the number of people but the strength of
the spirit that moved them, and gave the example of Gideon who
sent away those who put their hands to their mouths to drink, tak
ing only those who lapped up the water like dogs. 16
Then Malachi the felt maker turned and went back, and with him
others who not long before had been eager to stone those who, weak
ened from fear, had lagged behind earlier. Several presbyters were
among those who returned with Malachi. The small group of Chris
tians remaining walked the whole day and by nightfall had reached
the Canopic mouth. Here stood Mount Ader. One side rose in a hilly
plateau, but the other side, facing the river, fell sharply away from
the crest and had rocky outcrops, gulleys, and precipices. It seemed
as if at one time the mountain had been slipping into the river but
had paused. The gently-sloping side was covered with sparse growth
on sandy soil; the river side was entirely without life. The ground
here consisted of layers of shale, clay, small pieces of flint, and black
pebbles; in places there were even seams of ore, some dark, some
yellow tinged with grey, others wholly whitish. C rumbling rocks
jutted out of the earth here and there; rows of granite boulders thrust
out like ribs elsewhere. Their undersides were lost in the dark-red
clay, and their tops were strewn with sand and shards from fallen
stones. A mighty rearrangement of the earth had doubtless once oc
curred here; everything seemed to have been sliding away but had
paused.
When the Christians arrived, Zeno asked the bishop what he ad
vised them to do. But the bishop answered him:
"Ah, how polite you are, Zeno! You regard me as a pastor. It is
a pity that I shunned you earlier; but now, my son, I am like unto
a sheep, even such a sheep as was taken in the midst of winter and
shorn. Some have abandoned me, while others still manage to make
their way with us, not to follow me, but you. I tremble with help
lessness and horror: there is cold in my bosom, while my head bums
like that of a baker before his oven. Why do you ask me ? I am so
weak that a child could knock me down . . . You must only act as
if I had already died and do as best you can. And if there are those
who will listen to you, let them listen. But I shall be like a dead man."
'tyou must forget me and do something quickly to encourage these
despondent people. Show them how they might strengthen their
spirits and what they must do. Otherwise you will see that they,
too, will flee."
But the bishop answered:
'ty"ou try in vair. to frighten me with what I might see. I am al
ready a dead man. Malachi the feltmaker whispered to me that I
might see you dead, but I am not such a man. I had no wish to see
that; and now I only want to close my eyes so that I see nothing
at all. I am already a dead man: I shall retire and pray."
The three presbyters who remained wished to follow the bish
op's example. They already felt themselves dead men and tried to
withdraw to pray, but the crowd surrounded them, demanding that
they say their prayers publicly and teach them all the best manner
to pray so as to make the mountain move. And if it did not move,
then they would be at hand as the guilty parties. Then disputes and
quarrels arose: some said that it was best to stand with arms out
stretched to represent crucifixion, while others affirmed that it was
best to chant the prayers and stand in the Greek pagan fashion with
arms raised upwards in readiness to accept the blessing requested
from Heaven. Here again there was disagreement: there were some
who thought that it was necessary to raise both palms, while others
thought they need raise only the right palm and tum the left to the
earth as a sign that what was received from Heaven with the right
hand would be passed over to the earth with the left. Still others
had faulty memories or perhaps had been poorly instructed and did
quite the opposite, insisting that the right hand should face the earth
and the left the Heavens. When he saw the people caught up in a
violent and insoluble argument at such a fateful moment, Zeno hur
ried off in the direction in which the bishop had withdrawn, hop
ing to ask him to clear up the confusion; but the night was dark
and he could not find the bishop praying in the blackness. When
he returned he was surrounded by arguing and bickering people who
shouted:
'Well then, if you are a holy man, tell us how we must pray."
'Who has told you that I am holy? I am not at all holy; quite the
contrary, I am a great sinner."
'We do not believe that. You cast out your own eye, and now you
alone among us here are not afraid. You have no fear of death. Tell
us then, how we should pray? If by chanting, then we shall all begin
to sing; if by speaking the words, then we shall read the prayers. Tell
us then: we must not tarry, since little time remains to pray."
Then Zeno, not wishing to add to the dissension in any way, an
swered briefly to those who stood near him that it was his custom
to pray in reverential silence, but that he could find no fault with
those who preferred to raise their eyes and hands to Heaven. It was
only necessary that the hands of those praying be cleansed of self
interest and the soul free from any malice so that it might ascend
to Heaven with thoughts of eternity. Then the fear of losing one's
brief earthly life would vanish from the soul and . . . the mountain
would begin to move . . .
"That is exactly what we need now; there must be no fear until
the mountain moves."
Zeno stepped quietly away from the crowd and, hidden by the
darkness of the Egyptian night, set off toward the peak of 'the
mountain.
Moving away a distance of two powerful stone's throws, he sat
on the ground, wrapped his arms around his knees, and began to
summon into his soul the peace so essential at a decisive moment.
He recalled Christ, Peter, Stephen, and his teacher, and how they
had spent the moments before death; and he strengthened his re
solve to ascend to the crest of the mountain alone early tomorrow,
to summon up courage in his soul, to stand in view of the assem

bled crowd and wait for whatever might happen.
''Let an arrow strike me," thought Zeno, "and perhaps then they
will be satisfied at my death; the others will be set free, and I shall
be happy. I shall have done my work."
Only two stone's throws separated the place where Zeno sat from
the very top of the mountain from where the raucous crowd, the
amphitheater, and the Nile could be seen.
He could hear the sound of musical instruments and rattles and
the drunken cries of the feasting crowds; from the other side, where
the Christians were, the wind carried the Greek chanting of prayers
led by the presbyters.
Suddenly Zeno, sunk in deep thought, started at the unexpected
touch of a tender hand to his hair.
Chapter XXIX
Zeno looked up and saw Nephora beside him.
'What do you want of me now?" he asked her.
"At one time I wanted your love, but since you spumed me I have
come to want your death."
"May Heaven forgive your evil wish. But if you want my death,
why do you destroy so many others and not just me alone ?"
''I hate all people of your faith . I want you all to be mocked for
your beliefs, and this I have already achieved."
''Perhaps you will still be proved wrong."
''You speak nonsense! Are not all your best people doubting; have
they not fled, while the rest are looking for places to hide? And have
not you yourself run off to hide and save your own life ? I understand:
you must be suffering terribly when you see your mistake and the
weakness of your fellow believers. And I am happy that I waited for
this moment and can save you. Follow me, quickly. I have made all
the preparations to save you from disgrace and death."
"But do you know for certain that disgrace and death await us ?"
''There can be no doubt of it!" answered Nephora. ''The mountain
will certainly not move to block the Nile and raise its waters, and
the furious mob will stone you or throw you into the river. Let us
flee: follow me. My love will hide you and console you!"
And she tugged firmly at Zends hand.
''I do not mean to flee!" answered Zeno, casting aside Nephora's
hand.
She paused.
'What do you want to do ?"

"I shall fulfill my duty and die if it is necessary."
Nephora sat down on the ground beside him and said:
''Then I shall remain here with you."
'Why?"
"Because I love you. I cannot bear to live without you. You must
understand that in my despair I promised the prefect to marry his
son, but I cannot fulfill my promise. To die with you will bring me
more joy than to live with the hateful Dunaz. They may have my
wealth, but I will not give myself and will die with you."
Zeno took her hand and said quietly:
'1 should thank you for such feelings, but if you love me I im-
plore you to do otherwise."
"Tell me! I will do anything for you."
Nephora's voice began to sound tearful .
'1f it is the will of Heaven we die within the hour, then I implore
you not to end your life with mine and not to marry a man who
has neither a sound mind nor a good heart. You must do otherwise."
'What must I do?"
"Many orphans and aged will be left after us, and they will be sent
in chains to the quarries. You must live and live long for their sake.
Grant me this . . . promise me this, Nephora, and I shall die hap
pily knowing I have passed on to you my love for those who suffer!"
Nephora started at the word "love" and whispered:
''Repeat it."
'What?"
''Repeat the word. 0 Zeno! If you but knew how much power the
word 'love' has for me!
"Of course I know, Nephora. Love embraces all in a single heart."
"But why did you not love me, Zeno ?"
'1 could not accept a love that made me scorn the words of my
Teacher and forget what He besought concerning the pleasures of
the flesh. But now, when you are not as you once were, when you
strengthen and not weaken my spirit, and when you promise to dedi
cate yourself to acts of love, now I love you, my compassionate
Nephora."
Nephora took both of Zeno's hands in hers and exclaimed:
"You have taken my heart . . . I shall do all that you wish; I shall
live with you to do good. But let us do something yet better. Let us
flee from here. There are people in the crowd who will hide us. We
shall go away, and I shall be your slave."
"My slave ? Why, Nephora? Now you love people without distinc-
tion of race or faith. You are ready to serve Him, you are of one spirit
with me, you are my sister, my friend . . . Be my bride if you wish
. . . I am happy; I fear nothing and will die blessing you for the joy
your wondrous impulse brought me. But I will not flee; I will not
hide myself from those who are unhappy . . . And even more: I will
not allow . . . Him whom I call my Teacher and my Lord to be dis
graced by mockery . . . He has suffered enough humiliation! Even
if I am the only one who remains -and that, perhaps, may happen - !
will go to the top o f the mountain alone. Let everyone see that he
who loves Him has faith in Him."
"But why must you do this?"
'1t must be done for people's happiness, because in His teachings
is hidden the way to the happiness of all . But to follow this path,
Nephora, one must believe. One must move something in one's own
life that is even heavier and mightier than a mountain, and to do
that one must be prepared to do anything and not consider whether
one is alone or with many."
"You will not be alone," answered Nephora, and her voice was tear
ful and full of deep emotion.
Zeno again took her hand and said:
"But then why are you troubled, and why is there sadness in your
voice ?"
'1 fear to tell you the truth."
"Do not fear; answer."
"He . . . this Teacher of yours stood and still stands between us.
You love Him more than me . . . He keeps me from you . . ."
Zeno shook his head.
"No, Nephora," he said. "He whom I love, He, who could have been
first but chose to be last, who could have destroyed his enemies but
prayed for them instead, He keeps no one apart. He unites us all
and will teach you the love that elevates your heart and your soul!"
'1 do not want such love."
"Why not?"
'1t can never satisfy a woman's heart."
"You are mistaken. Be patient and listen to me. You and I are in
the land of the pharoahs. Night hides certain places from us that
I could show you and say: there is the city of On, there are the pyra
mids of Giza that Yusuf and Zuleika saw.* Zuleika loved Yusuf with
• Zeno tells the stmy of Joseph and Potiphar's wife as it is recorded in Egyptian
tradition and in the Koran of Mohammed (The Koran, Ch. XII, 2 1 - 1 1 1 ) . [Leskov's
note.[
a passionate love, the love that you once allowed to govern you. She
did not fear to bring shame upon herself and her husband with this
love. Yusuf was handsome. He was, of course, more handsome than
me. Their marvellous story has come down to us. When the wives
of the wealthy people reproached Zuleika for loving Yusuf she gave
each of these women an orange and a knife; and when they had be
gun to peel their oranges, Zuleika called out to her slave. Yusuf
entered, and all the women cut their hands and dropped their oranges
. . . But Yusuf did not love the beautiful Zuleika then, and he was
not drawn to her because he did not love lies and deceit. Zuleika
took vengeance on him and ruined him. It cost him more than an
eye. Yusuf was thrown into prison, and Zuleika began to languish
and to weep; and when her husband died she left her home and lived
in a hut, lamenting her cruelty and repeating Yusuf's name . . . And
when Yusuf heard of this his heart was gladdened and he came to
Zuleika's reed hut and said: 'You are good, my dove; come and be
my wife.' Do you think that love such as that is worse than the deadly
fumes of befogging passion that quickly pass, leaving only regret?
The love of one who can say 'You are good in all ways, my dove,' prom
ises a l ife of reason and not passion . . . Judge for yourself: which
is better? You, now, are meek and good . . . You are no longer in a
frenzy to surpass everyone at gatherings by your fine clothing. You
listen quietly to me and, perhaps . . . you will say 'Zeno, my friend!
I feel a new heart beating within me. Be strong and fear nothing.
Let happen whatever will. Go where you are drawn - to your death
or to the quarries. Nephora is your friend: she will go on living; she
will be a mother to all the unhappy orphans who will be left when
the Christians perish . . . '
"
''Enough! Enough! I will do it all, and all for you."

''No, for Him whom I love more than myself and whom I want
to obey in all things I understand and in all things I cannot under
stand."
"Then let it be so! I am your friend and the slave of your Lord!"
Zeno rose, quietly kissed Nephora on the head, and said:
''Now it has all happened. The mountain has moved."
''Yes," answered Nephora. ''It seemed to me too that the earth
moved beneath my feet."
''You are very tired, and it is time for us to part. It must soon be
dawn. It is growing light and I can see far off a peasant in his aspara
gus field. Farewell, my friend Nephora: go back quickly to the city
and do not concern yourself about me. I am doing what I must do.
I have no fear of the quarries: I am an artist, and they will not make
me carry granitei I shall sculpt heads of Hathor . . . And I shall be
happy there, far away in exile. I shall remember you and rejoice that
you are no longer as you once were, that you love people and live
to do good for them. Farewell once more, and do not follow me . . .
But what is it? Suddenly I too felt the earth truly rise and fall be
neath my feet."
'tyes, yes! The earth is shaking!"
"And listen to the roar . . . Something is splitting in the depths
of the mountain . . . And when did those cloud gather! Fire and water
are falling from the sky! . . ."
It was the storm - such a rare occurrence under Egypt's cloudless
skies that Nephora could not even imagine it. But Zeno had read
Strabo and recognized the phenomenon at once, recalling how power
ful and awesome it was in its rarity in Egypt. 1 7 But there was no
time left to ponder because such a powerful downpour descended
upon them that they could do nothing more than fall flat beneath
it. Water poured down not in drops and not in streams but in whole,
solid torrents. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled and the earth
shuddered, swelled, and again heaved and roared.
The camel's cries and the raindrops at night in the prefect's home,
the black ibis dancing on the shore - all that these portended came
to pass. Strabo's storm and downpour repeated themselves over the
land of Mithraim.
Zeno was thrown to the ground thinking only one thing: if here
on the mountain it is such that one can neither stand nor take a
step, then what must it be like in the valleys where the water rushes
as it streams off the mountain!
Chapter XXX
For more than an hour an ocean of water poured from
sky to earth in a terrible deluge. But barely had it abated somewhat
when Zeno rose, lifted the senseless Nephora, and propped her
against a boulderi then he rushed to the crest of the mountain. He
feared he might be late and be the last to reach the place where all
were to assemblei but when he arrived he saw that none of the Chris
tians had yet come. He could not recognize the familiar view be
low: the land had all disappearedi the Nile was as immense as a
boundless seai overturned boats drifted through the turbid wavesi
the remains of huts and whole palm trees torn out by the roots
floated about; at the foot of the mountain a horde of human crea

tures struggled and tried to crawl on one another's shoulders like
crayfish in an earthen pot . . .
Zeno fell on his knees and cried:
"Heavenly Father! Spare all the living! Thou has shown them that
all is possible for Thee; now open their hearts to love for others."
And while he prayed he could feel the mountain swelling like
a sponge; its rocky ribs sank, and the soft talus thrust up; the slabs
of shale that covered it began to split and crumble . . . And suddenly
everything began to undulate; fine chips of stone sprayed about as
if shot from a sling, and masses of pulverized earth welled up and
then slid slowly down in whole streams.
"Zeno, the mountain is moving!" Zeno heard a voice behind him
say, and Nephora dropped down into his arms.
Zeno looked around and saw that the huge fragment of the moun
tain on which he was standing had broken away and was sliding down
the slippery slope into the water.
"May Thy will for us be done!" whispered Zeno and clasped the
fainting Nephora to his bosom.
The slab on which they both stood slid down, while people cried
from the waves and mountain crevices:
"The mountain moves! . . . The monntain moves! Great is the God
of the Christians! Zeno the goldsmith has moved the mountain!"
Chapter XXXI
As soon as the thunder clapped and the terrible
downpour commenced, all of those camped around the mountain,
whose senses were dulled by drink, at once leapt up and fled to the
other side; here, on its gentler slope, they met the group of Chris
tians. Past the Christians flowed torrents of water in a broad chan
nel. The prefect fled before the others, galloping ·off in his chariot
to which was harnessed one of his own horses and another whose
owner was unknown. Near a crevice he caught sight of Peokh crawl
ing from the gulley and cried out to him:
''Do you see - the mountain moves!"
'1 see," answered Peokh darkly.
"Tell me at once - what do the Christian teachings say about stop
ping. the mountain ?"
'�las, their teachings tell only how to move mountains, but say
nothing of how to stop them."
'Why did you not tell us that before ?"
Everyone took up the prefect's complaint, crying:

"Yes, why did you not tell us of that? Accursed sage! You have been
the ruin of us all!"
Peokh's inflamed eyes glittered and he raised his arm to throw
his staff at those who were insulting him; but at that moment he
collapsed at the prefect's feet, struck down by a club blow on the
back of his head . . .
The prefect took fright, drove his unmatched horses furiously to
the Christian camp, and cried out:
"My friends, pray for the mountain to stop!"
The Christians were in total disarray, and since they had remained
the whole time on the opposite side of the mountain to Zeno and
Nephora, they had seen nothing of what was happening on the preci
pice. They answered:
"My Lord, why do you still find fault with us ? We have not yet
all agreed on the manner in which to pray for the mountain to move,
and already you want something more: now we must stop it."
The prefect decided that they were a lost cause and went on,
saying:
"The mountain already moves. Run to the top and you will see
what is happening."
Then all the Christians rushed to the top of the mountain to the
place where Zeno and Nephora had slid down not long before. Here
they saw an amazing and totally new picture, quite different from
the one the prefect had seen: the mountain and the water had met,
and the clay landscape on which Zeno and Nephora had slid down
had come to rest just above the level of the water. A barge with silken
sails made its way up to it; in the barge stood the Persian, Zeno's
servant. He collected Zeno and Nephora and again sailed away. The
water's surface seethed no longer but was smooth and untroubled.
Apart from Zends barge, blue and white lotus blossoms floated in
the river; nearer the shore, flocks of birds - gulls and sea ravens
flitted over the water greedily snatching up the multitudes of fish
that had been cast up on the land. Nearer the shore floated golden
spheres of enormous melons, jostling one another. And suddenly
everyone noticed a long ripple in the water; in its midst appeared
something looking like a willow log with rough bark . . . A crocodile!
The appearance of the crocodile was a certain sign that the Nile
was fully in flood; the crocodile always came as a messenger from
the marshes of Philae and Syene.
And in fact a messenger from the city came galloping to bring
the prefect a letter delivered by pigeon from Memphis before the
storm: the Nile had flooded and the inhabitants of Thebes had al
ready taken to their rooftops.
It remained but to rejoice and celebrate: the harvest was assured,
and the crimes of th.e Christians could be forgotten for a time. The
camp made preparations to move off. Servants caught and harnessed
horses as })est they could in the squelching mud and saddled don
keys and camels. All the drenched and exhausted people were
cheered when the bright sun rose; jokes and laughter were heard
once more as they made their way back to the city.
The Nile swept away all the remnants of the lost tents, people,
and animals . . . Zeno and Nephora were no longer there and no one
thought about them nor inquired after them. Everyone was hurry
ing home. The Christians were calm once more; to complete their
joy they found on returning to Alexandria that their patriarch had
already managed to return to his palace. The prefect wanted to see
him and sent a chariot, but the patriarch answered:
"A chariot may just as easily deliver the prefect to me as me to
him; and the road from my house to his is just as long as from his
house to mine. Let him come to me if he wishes."
Chapter XXXII
The prefect at once mounted his chariot, came to
the patriarch and said:
"Excuse me, I was not certain that Your Holiness was already at
home."
"Our Humility is always near and always far from him who mer
its it," answered the patriarch.
"Your Holiness knows, of course, what a turn things have taken.
Your faith is now honored by everyone here."
"The Lord hath risen up and His enemies melt before Him."
'1ndeed: the crafty Peokh has been killed by a club blow from the
hand of one of his fellow believers, and Bubasta has been smothered."
The patriarch said nothing: Bubasta was unworthy of his words.
But the prefect continued to relate how her mouth and nose had
been stuffed with clay, and how many people of other faiths were
now asking to be accepted by those who had moved the mountain.
'1 expected such," said the patriarch.
'1 did not expect it, and I am ashamed to confess that I have erred
greatly."
The patriarch smiled and observed quietly:
"What can be done ? Homer himself erred."
"Yes, I have erred; and now I ask Your Holiness for a reconcilia
tion: we can be very useful to each other."
'1t seems to me, now, that Our Humility has little need of any
one else."
�
"But Your Supreme Holiness should remem er that even Homer
erred."
•
The patriarch remembered. . •
And they stayed together quite a long time, conversing with no

acolytes nor fanbearers to hinder them.
On that same day many people wishing to be baptized came to
the presbyters, and the bishop did not know what he should do: to
wait, as was the usual practice, until the catechizers had given them
instruction or, in view of the exceptional circumstances, to baptize
with all haste anyone who wished.
'1n this I propose that you choose whichever course is most use
ful," answered the patriarch.
Crowds of people came to the presbyters begging to be baptized.
Those most firmly grounded in superstition, the genuine "Rem-an
Kemi," looked on this gloomily and whispered quietly to one an
other that "this was as it should be . . . The Crucified God will con
quer all the gods of Kemi, and the name of the prophet of Palestine
will be borne on the waves of the sacred Yaro.* And the birds living
in the nest they built in the ears of the speaking statue of Amen
hotep heard it.*•
Chapter XXXIII
The fat Dunaz had also erred in his calculations.
Nephora broke her word and did not marry him; and he, in fact, had
little more wish to marry her since her fortune had been exhausted.
She freed all her slaves, and all her wealth which Dunaz needed she
distributed among those who had become impoverished and were
unable to support their families. Dunaz set about seeking another
bride with a large fortune and found one. Nephora lived modestly,
giving charity to the poor and organizing schools where children
were taught useful sciences and trades. Word of her activities soon
reached Zeno; then the artist came to her once more and said:
''The peace of God, which surpasses all, is with you. You have
" Kemi- the ancient name of Egypt. Rem·an·Kemi -a man from Egypt. Yam
the Nile. [Leskov's note].
• •Amenhotep-Memnon. [Leskov's note].
come to love good. Why should we live apart? Come into my home,
and we shall live together for the sake of those whom we can help.
Be my wife, Nephora!"
And so it happened. Zeno and Nephora became husband and wife
!
and lived long and ave help to people and honor to God. Zeno prac
tised his art as before, never criticizing the faiths of others and never
becom inl cs> nc� ited in his own. Once the patriarch summoned him
for some work and, after giving his instructions, asked:
'Who was it, Zeno, who gave you instruction and confirmed you
in your faith ?"
'1 have not yet taken any instruction in it," answered Zeno.
''How can that be?"
'1t is revealed to me little by little, and not always with constancy:
at times it barely glimmers like the shimmer of dawn, but at times
it bums bright and then casts light over everything for me."
"So your faith is still weak."
'1ndeed, very weak."
'Why then do you not strive to make it constant and firm?"
Zeno grew pensive.
''Tell me, what are you thinking about ?" asked the patriarch.
'1 was recalling the words of Amasis: the bowstring is weak until
an arrow is put on it and a hand draws it back. When it must be
strained, it strains and can deal a powerful blow. But if one constantly
pulls it and draws it tight, it grows thin and its strength will fail. 1 8
I fear lest I lose even that which Heaven sometimes grants me."
Notes to "The Mountain"
1 . Leskov borrowed this epigraph not from Pushkin's unfinished tale but from
some preliminary drafts for the work which were published in Russkii arxiv,
1 : 1 882.
2. A wrestling school or gymnasium.
3. Theodorus of Samos. A Greek sculptor and architect who lived in Egypt
in the time of Amasis. He is said to be the inventor of the an of casting in bronze.
Amasis II (570-526 B.C.). The last great ruler of Egypt before the Persian con·
quest. He brought his country into closer contact with the Greek world. Accord
ing to Herodotus, Egypt prospered greatly under his rule.
4. The Egyptian goddess of truth Maat was often ponrayed with eyes closed.
5. Mitsraim - ancient Hebrew name for Egypt.
6. strophokomelos - ostrich (Greek).
7. Kemi- ancient name for Egypt.
8. ichneumon- large mongoose, sacred in Egypt.
9. Ader (or Adar) - No mention is made of such a mountain in the descrip
tions of Herodotus or Strabo, although Gaston Maspero's map of the area shows
a Mount Atllr, a limestone spur which flanked the Canopic mouth of the Nile,
now dried up. The area, now Abukir, was about 14 miles east of Alexandria (G.
Maspero, The Dawn of Civilization: Egypt and the Chaldaea, ed. A.H. Sayee,
tr. M.L. McClure, 3d ed., rev. [London: Christian Knowledge Society, 1897 1, p. 751.
10. Memnon -Greek mythological hero. In Egypt his name was connected
with the colossal statues of Amenhotep III near Thebes. One statue was partially
�
destroyed by an earthquake in 27 B.C., after which the upper portion, lying on
the ground, emitted muskal sounds each morning when the sun rose. The sounds,
probably caused by air passing through the porous rock as it was warmed by
sun, were considered to be the voice of Memnon.
1 1 . "And above are purple rugs, softer than sleep . . ." (Theocritus, Idyll ,
The Idylls of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus, and the War-Songs of IYrtaeus,
tr. J. Banks [London: George Benn & Sons, 1 891[, p. 821.
1 2. Kush - Egyptian name for Ethiopia.
1 3. Georg Ebers' novel An Egyptian Princess (tr. Eleanor Grove, 2 vols., [Leip
zig: B. Tauchnitz, 18 71[1, from which Leskov borrowed descriptions of crowd scenes
and many other details, has Amasis saying: ". . . I confess I would rather provoke
a lioness than a woman" (p. 1061.
14. Ahriman - diety of darkness and evil in Zorastrianism.
1 5. Cunaxa - a small town in Babylonia where, in 401 B.C., Cyrus the Younger
was defeated by his brother Artaxerxes in a struggle for the throne. His defeated
army of 10,000 Greeks marched northward along the Tigris valley, reaching Trebi
zond on the Black Sea five months later after covering 1000 miles. Xenophon
describes the retreat in his Anabasis.
16. Judges 7:5-8.
1 7. Strabo (63-20 B.C.I. Greek geographer and historian who, from 25 B.C.
to 24 B.C. sailed from Alexandria up the Nile and left a detailed description of
the country.
18. "'Archers,' Amasis replies, 'string their bows when they wish to shoot,
and unstring them after use. A bow always kept strung would break, and so be
useless when it was needed. It is the same with a man: anyone who was always
serious, and never allowed himself a fair share of relaxation and amusement, would
suddenly go off his head, or get a stroke. It is because I know this that I divide
my time between duty and pleasure"' (Herodotus, The Histories, tr. Aubrey de
Selincourt [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1954[, p. 1 701.
Preface to THE CA TTLE PEN
"The Cattle Pen" (1893) is a product of Leskov's

final years -a time when, deeply troubled by the direction he saw
his society taking, he turned to writing savage satires designed to
"flog and torment" his readers. "Let them choke on my stories," he
told his biographers, "so long as they read them." Of the five stories
in this collection it is the one least likely to elicit an immediate
response from the Western reader. It is tightly linked with its times,
being filled with names, places, events, and outright gossip that
were meaningful to Russian readers of the 1890s but which today
require extensive footnotes. Yet beyond the specific references to
nineteenth-century Russia is a work of undoubted relevance any
time and any society.
The outline of 'The Cattle Pen" follows the swings in mood of
Russian society in the second half of the nineteenth century. from
the heady decade of the sixties with its upsurge of critical thought,
idealism, reformist attitudes and radicalism, to the seventies and
eighties and the resurgence of conservatism, chauvinism, and xeno
phobia. We see this development from Leskmr's very personal point
of view, since the work consists of a collection of autobiographical
or quasi-autobiographical anecdotes from four decades of his life,
anecdotes which all serve to illustrate the same point.
Leskov himself liked to believe that he was one of relatively few
in his society who managed to keep his bearings in the wild swings
of attitude that occurred; to a large extent he was right. He fore
saw how the blustering radicals of the 1860s would be transformed
into blustering conservatives in the 1880s; he maintained a consis
tent faith in progress and enlightenment; he spoke out vociferously
against those of both the left and the right who, for whatever rea
sons, sought to restrict the free flow of ideas and to interrupt the
Leskov: THE CATTLE PEN 21 1
measured development of society. Small wonder then that neither
liberals nor conservatives could spare much love for Leskov.
One can perhaps hear a certain prophetic note in the work when
Leskov imagines Russian xenophobia in terms of a "Chinese wall"
erected to provide shelter from the winds of change and to block
out any stray shafts of light that might happen to find their way
eastward. The career of Leskov's Mifimka may seem little more than
a collection of trivial gossip until one recalls the fateful role played
only a few years later by another "savage" who conquered high so
ciety, Grigory Rasputin. And the words of the narrator's uncle, la
menting the deceits practiced upon the Russian people in the nine
teenth century (". . . they are told lies and instilled with the idea
that what is bad is good and what is good is bad. Mark my words:
there'll be retribution for this when you least expect it!'}, are even
more suggestive within the context of twentieth-century history.
Still, Leskov's concerns here- the fear of new ideas and the conse
quent rejection of other civilizations, the narrow chauvinism that
leads the superpatriot to transform his country's vices into distinctly
national virtues ("the allure of swill and the trough'}- are hardly
unique to Russia.
"The Cattle Pen," as indeed nearly everything that Leskov pro
duced in the last decade of his life, was written very much in the
shadow of Tolstoy. While Leskov was not always a wholly uncriti
cal disciple, Tolstoy's basic Christianity remained as a moral force
capable of resisting what Leskov saw as a new upsurge of pagan
ism and barbarism.
"The Cattle Pen" may be a product of its times but, like all good
satire, it also transcends them.
THE
C ATTLE PEN
Disciplina arcani exists in full

force : its aim is to allow its
practitioners the convenience of
peacefully wallowing in the pig
troughs of superstition, preju
dice, and base ideals.
John Morley,
On Compromise1
Because they received not the
truth, they believe lies and
delusions.
2 Thessalonians II, 10- 1 P
In one of his works Dostoevsky portrays

an officer's orderly who divided the world into two unequal parts:
in the first he included "himself and his master," and in the second
"all the dirty riff-raff that's left."3 Even though such a division is ab
surd and stupid, our society has never lacked people who would
follow the orderly's example even in a much wider sphere. Antics
of this sort have become almost a mania of late. At the end of Sep
tember 1 893, in a session of the Society for the Advancement of Rus
sian Trade and Industry, one speaker stated flatly that "Russia should
isolate herself, forget about the existence of other West-European
states, separate herself from them by a Chinese wall."4
Such striving to wall ourselves off from the world is not a new
thing among us, but its results have never brought us any benefit,
as was shown in the "opus" of Thiinen, Der isolierte Staat ( 1 865).5
In 1 857 it was considered necessary to "adapt it for the Russian
Leskov: THE CATTLE PEN 213
reader," and thus the opus was translated and published in that same
year at the Court Printing House in Karlsruhe and was distributed in
Russia with the sanction of the St. Petersburg Censor's Committee:
At the very time we were reading that part of Thiinen's opus
adapted for us, a print was circulating that served as an illustration
to the book. It depicted a dark cattle pen surrounded by a wall broken
here and there by a few small cracks through which a few weak rays
of light penetrated the utter darkness.
The "isolated state" was just such a cattle pen which everyone
recognized as Russia. Those who thought this way felt that we could
not remain in seclusion but must enter into broad contacts with
the rest of the world. At that time we fearlessly acknowledged Rus
sian backwardness in everything. But we were most astonished at
the fact that we had fallen behind the Westerners even in the art
of working the land. We had had the firm conviction that we were
the "granary of Europe," but suddenly something happened to make
us doubt it . Clear-minded people pointed out to us that Russian
methods of cultivation were thoroughly bad, and if they were not
improved Russia might soon be threatened with calamity. This was
said to be because our peasants worked the land with archaic and
inferior implements and did not know how to use anything better
because they were savage and ignorant. And if one were to give them
good things they would treat them as the Biblical swine did the
pearls (Matt. VII, 3).
I permit myself to offer here something of what I have chanced
to see in this regard.
It concerns peasants and non-peasants.
I. The Allure of Swill and the Trough

In various fragments of
my memoirs I have more than once spoken of the English Scott
family. The father and three sons managed the extensive estates of
the Naryshkins and the Perovskys, and in their time were consid
ered honest people and good masters.6 Now I must again mention
two of these Scotts here.
Alexander Yakovlevich Scott was the son of the "old Scott"
· The Isolated State in Relation to Social Economy, from the works of Z.G. von
Thiinen, Mecklenburg economist, extracts adapted for the Russian reader by Mat
vey Volkov. Karlsruhe, at the Court Publishing House of B. Gossner. Approved
for publication February 7, 1857. Censor B. Beketov. [Leskov's note.j
(James) .7 Verigin and the well-known abolitionist Zhuravsky served

Perovsky after him.8 Alexander Scott often told of his father's ef
forts in trying to teach Russian peasants to plow the land properly,
and of the apparently inconsequential and trivial reasons for which
all his efforts not only vanished without positive result, but al
most made him the perpetrator of a crime he had no intention of
committing.
When the elder Scott came to Russia he saw that the Russian
peasants plowed badly, and that if they did not begin to plow better
the soil would soon be exhausted. This prediction applied not only
to the shallow black soil of Oryol but also to the virgin soil of the
steppe which is even now being covered by drifting sands.* Foresee
ing this enormous and inevitable calamity, Scott wanted to dispense
with the wretched Russian wooden plows (sokha) and harrows, and
replace them with better implements. He hoped that when he had
succeeded in doing this on Perovsky's estates, Perovsky would not
refuse to introduce this improvement on all the Crown estates for
which he was responsible. The technique would then be adopted
generally.
Perovsky, it seems, had spoken to Emperor Nicholas I about this
and was in excellent spirits when saying his good-byes to Scott in
Moscow.
"Go with God and begin your work!" he told him.
The work proceeded in the following manner.
After resettling the Oryol peasants from the lands they had ex
hausted to the virgin black soil on the lower reaches of the Volga,
Scott decided that here he would take away their pre-Rurikovian
"grub hoes" or wooden plows and teach them to use the light Small
two-horse plows. 1 0 But the peasants would not hear of such a change
and hotly defended their "grub hoes" and wooden-toothed harrows.
The peasants who had been brought here from the Ukraine could
plough better than the ones from Oryol. But the heavy Ukrainian
ploughs needed many draft oxen, and none were available because
they had been killed off by a cattle plague.
Scott then ordered three of the two-horse Small ploughs, and in
order to acquaint the plowmen with them, he took one himself, put
his son Alexander at another, and a bright, adroit peasant lad at the
third. They all began at the same time on plots of equal size, and
everything were splendidly. The peasant lad on the third plough, be
ing young and strong, at once outdid both Englishmen, father and
• See Vladimir Solovyov's article ''Disaster from the East." [Leskov's note. ]9
son. H e was given a reward, and he praised the "machine." Then vari
ous others were allowed to take a tum at the plows, and all found
them to be "clever machines." That particular plot of ground bore
a good harvest in the fall. In that very same year an opportunity arose
to demonstrate the undertaking to Perovsky, who was passing
through the area accompanied by certain important personages.
It is well known that the Count was an enlightened man of no
ble character. For that reason he had come to have the nickname
"the knight."
When Scott met the landowner he brought out his plowmen and
he placed side by side a Russian sokha, a heavy Ukrainian plow har
nessed to five yoke of oxen, and a light, "clever" Small plow drawn by
a pair of ordinary peasant nags. They set to the plowing test at once.
The trial furrows showed most graphically the multifarious ad
vantages the Small plow had not only over the Russian "grub hoe,"
but even over the heavy Ukrainian plow. Perovsky was very pleased
and shook Scott's hand several times, saying:
''Today marks the finish of the sokha. I shall spare no effort to have
it immediately replaced by these plows on all the Crown estates."
And to bolster the Englishman's authority even more, Perovsky,
growing quite jolly, turned to the men and asked if they thought
this new plow did a good job.
The peasants answered:
"It's as Your Worship wishes."
"I know that; but I want to know your opinion. Is it a good thing
or not to use that son of plow?"
Then one balding old man of Ukrainian extraction made his way
out of the midst of the crowd and asked:
''Where d'they use those there plows, then?"
The Count told him that "those there plows" were used in other
countries, abroad, in England.
"You mean the Germans use 'em ?"
"Yes, indeed, the Germans use them."
The old man continued.
"So it's them what buys grain from us as uses 'em?"
"Yes, they are the ones."
"Right, then. When we start in usin' those there ploughs, who are
we goin' to buy our grain from?"
A lovely little tableau ensued, and Perovsky's enlightened intellect
was unable to come up with a joke that could top the peasant's. And
all of the important personages who happened to be there caught
up the peasant's "pithy remark" and, unfortunately, recalled it when
they returned to St. Petersburg. It made the rounds in St. Petersburg

and so annoyed Perovsky that when the emperor happened to ask:
'1s the Englishman still managing for you ?" Perovsky thought that
the conversation would once again go on to the "witty reply'' and
he preferred just in case to say that the Englishman was no longer
managing his estates.
At this the emperor remarked '1 see," and spoke no more of it.
And when Perovsky returned home he wrote to Scott telling him
to leave the steppe lands and offering him a new assignment.
The honest Englishman took offense: he gathered up the plows
so that they would not be charged to the estate and left.
The cause of the "grub hoe" was won, and so it remains unto this
day.
The Small plows, with which old Scott had wanted to teach set
tlers from the exhausted lands to tum the fertile earth of their new
settlements in the wide open spaces of the Trans-Volga region, I saw
in the fifties in an empty stone shed in the village of Rayskoe, which
Alexander Scott took over from N. A. Vsevolozhsky. 1 1
II. The Buffoon

Vsevolozhsky was also an interesting man of his
times. Most of his contemporaries knew him only as a mad spend
thrift who had run through an enormous fortune in a short time.
But he also had other qualities for which one may remember him
fondly.
He lived as if drugged or in a sort of frenzy which did not pass
from him until he had transformed himself from a millionaire to
a beggar. Vsevolozhsky lived in extraordinary luxury. Not only were
all the toiletries and clothes for him and wife (nee Kushina) ordered
"straight from Paris," but he insisted that French fish and fine foods
be sent with dispatch to Penza as well. Anyone who happened to
call would enjoy these delicacies. He would treat with equal lavish
ness the then governor of Penza Province, Panchulidzev (the "musico
phile and beast"), his office clerks, and sundry small fry from the
nobility, many of whom did not know what to do with the things
they were served. 1 2 Vsevolozhsky's elderly butler, who after his mas
ter's ruin served others as wealthy as Vsevolozhsky (Danilevsky and
Savinsky), said:
'1 used to serve the Assessor B. some French pate and see the tears
falling on the sleeve of his tail coat. It was embarrassing to watch
him picking away, not knowing what to d o with it. And l'd whisper
to him: 'Your Excellency, might I offer you a little caviar instead ?'
And he'd be delighted: 'Please do,' he'd say, 'I adore caviar!"'
Guests of this kind were deliberately made drunk, bound, un
dressed and put in coffins with naked women standing over them.
Then they were tossed something by way of reward and thrown out.
Everyone, or nearly everyone did this; Vsevolozhsky was perhaps even
less guilty of such pranks than others. But Vsevolozhsky introduced
some heretical ideas: he began to be concerned that the peasants
in the village of Rayskoe should live better than they had lived in
Oryol Province from whence they had been brought. Vsevolozhsky
prepared a whole new "village of stone" for their arrival.
The Oryol peasants, who had always lived in chimneyless huts,
had never dreamt of such clean and comfortable accommodation.
All the cottages built for the peasants in the new village were of
the same size and constructed of well-fired brick, with stoves, chim
neys and floors, and were topped by high, tiled roofs. This "new
fangled arrangement" stretched in a line along the steep bank of a
swiftly-flowing stream, beyond which was a dense forest preserve
with flawless "mast timber" of amazing straightness and height that
had been specially stamped by the authorities in the time of Peter I.
There was such a plenitude of animals and wild game in this forest
and such an abundance of berries and mushrooms that it seemed
one might eat for the whole of the century and not exhaust the sup
ply of food. But when the Oryol peasants, who had come to this spa
cious expanse from crowded conditions where "there wam't room
to let out the chickens and all" saw this "stone village," they balked
at living in it.
''Now who ever thought up a thing like that! My grandaddy never
lived in a stone house, and I won't neither."
They rejected the new houses and at once found a way to arrange
things to their taste.
Thanks to the extraordinary cheapness of construction timber
here, one paid but five or ten rubles for enough logs to build a hut.
Scraping together their last resources, the settlers immediately
bought the cheapest logs available, threw them together wherever
they happened to find a place "out back" beyond the brick dwellings,
and began living in them- chimneyless, crowded and besooted. They
allocated their spacious brick houses for use as privies.
Not a month had passed before all the beautifully-built cottages
were thoroughly befouled, and such a stench rose from the new vii-
lage that one could pass through it only with extreme repulsion.
The glass had been broken out of all the windows, and foul odors
poured from them.
Once things had been arranged in this way the word was glee
fully passed round all the fairs and markets that "the Rayskoe peas
ants have made a right mess of that stone village for their master."
Everyone answered:
"Just what he needs!"
"What a joker he is, thinking up a thing like that!"
"Give it to 'im, that's the way! Give it to 'im!"
And I think that even they themselves could not explain why they
bore such malice toward him: they simply bristled up and would
not accept even one of his acts of charity. For example, he had built
them a bathhouse in the village which everyone could use, and had
started a school where he planned to teach the young boys and girls
to read and write. But the peasants would not go to the bath house,
claiming that their feet "got cold" in it, and they made a fuss about
the school: why should our children be cleverer than their fathers ?
'�in't we the parents of our own children? Our sons ain't drunk
ards!"
The landowners were delighted at this, because if the Rayskoe
peasants accepted their master's charity it could have served as a
bad example for others who continued to live "in the manner of
beasts" like the Avars and Dulebians of old. 1 3
One had to beware of such an alluring example, of course.
When the "master of Rayskoe" had squandered all his money and
fled, his stone village came by auction to two owners, one of whom
fate willed to be Alexander Scott, the son of that same James Scott
who tried to teach the peasants to plow the land with good imple
ments.* This transfer was effected at the beginning of the fifties. By
then the Rayskoe peasants had already put the finishing touches
to their befouling of all that their former master had built for them
and were choking and going blind in their chimneyless huts. Seli
vanov left the peasants in their smoky huts in his part of Rayskoe,
but Scott could not bear to do this. He was not a philanthropist and
looked at the peasants squarely as a work force, but he took care
of that force and realized at once that he could not countenance such
peasant willfulness; the numerous cases of blindness and suffoca
tion were also causing him a serious financial loss. Scott began per
suading the peasants to clean up the brick houses and move into
• The other half of Rayskoe was acquired by F.I. Selivanov. [Leskov's note.j14
them. But the peasants got their backs up and declared that living
in such houses was impossible. Scott reminded them of the house
serfs, who lives in stone houses.
''There's many a thing they1l do when they're forced to," the peas
ants replied, "but we don't want to. Living in stone is just the same
as being in jail. If you want to drive us out of our homes then you'd
better send us straight to jail. We11 all go to jail."
Persuasion passed to punishment and one of them was flogged,
but that did not help either. And Scott received a warning from Pan
chulidzev through the local police officer, Moore (another English
man), that he was not to stir up the peasants.
Scott got angry and went to see the governor, hoping to show that
he intended to help, not harm the peasants, and that if he had pun
ished one or two it had been done without cruelty, since in those
days all the landowners without exception meted out punishments
mercilessly. But Panchulidzev was a stubbornly proud man and
would permit no explanations of any sort. He and Scott were "ac
quainted through music," since Scott played the cello well and par
ticipated in the governor's symphonic concerts. But now the gover
nor would not even receive him.
Scott wrote Panchulidzev an audacious letter which the latter
could not make public since it noted the author's former position
as chief administrator of Perovsky's estates and enumerated some
"gifts" given to Panchulidzev and also pointed out certain deeds "for
which a man should not be ruling a province but sitting in jail." And
Panchulidzev bore with this letter and made no reply to it. The let
ter contained much truth and served as evidence for Zarin's cam
paign, which ended in Panchulidzev's removal from the governor
ship. 1 5 But at the time people in the Cattle Pen still did not believe
that such things could happen to stir up the long-stagnant swamp.
The Marshal of the Nobility, General Arapov, supported the gover
nor's cause more vigorously than anyone . 1 6 He was also mentioned
in Scott's letter as an insufferably willful and domineering man.
General Arapov, in turn, was renowned and lived in grand style: his
home in Lekarskaya Street had an "open table" and the most vicious
dogs; he also kept his own writers and poets. Malicious lampoons
against Scott issued from here, and soon a pamphlet arrived in Penza
explaining how everything in Russian was fine and simple and all
was in conformity with our climate and our tastes and the habits
of our good folk. And our good folk understand this and appreciate
it and wish nothing better for themselves. But there are certain frivo
lous people who cannot see this and do not understand it and think
up goodness knows what sort of stupid and utterly ludicrous proj

ects. The chimney less hut was taken as an example, and its various
advantages were pointed out : it might not seem to be very fine, but
when you examine it closely it is an excellent thing, and living in
it is far better than in a hut with a chimney, and it simply cannot
be compared with a brick cottage. Now that is an abomination in
every respect! The chimney less hut requires little fuel and is as warm
as living in the very bosom of Christ. And a certain lightness can
be felt in the air; one can even sleep on its broad stove, warm one
self, dry footcloths and bast shoes and thaw out sacking. Vermin
will not live in a chimneyless hut, and never mind if the calf and
the sheep fill it with a foul smell - that will all escape through the
door while the stove is being lit. Now where and how could you do
all this in a clean room? But the principal boon of the chimneyless
hut is the soot! There is not another country in the world where
the "black, shiny soot" still clings to the walls of peasant dwellings;
this has been "lost" everywhere else, but we still have it! Because
of the soot no small vermin of any sort will live in the walls. And
the soot has very important medicinal qualities as well, and "our
good peasants may drink it with great benefit, mixing it with our
simple, good Russian liquor."
In short the chimney less hut, in the words of the pamphlet, was
satisfactory in every respect.
The "Russian party" celebrated a victory; nothing new was needed:
we must live as of old, in a smoky hut, treating ourselves with soot.
III. The Soot Treatmen t

The Englishman laughed.
'1t's not enough that people live in soot and go blind - they want
to teach them to drink it with vodka as well! It's a crime!"
- Scott himself knew how to put together a pamphlet - it is a pas
sion of the English- and he went to St. Petersburg to have one printed
on how peasants were being blinded and suffocated in their chim
neyless huts. But he did not succeed in printing his pamphlet on
how peasants were being blinded. Meanwhile the opposing party,
whether by chance or not, found support from an official leaflet pub
lished in St. Petersburg and signed by the editor Bumashov.*
• Vladimir P. Bumashov passed away at a ve ry advanced age not long ago in the
Mariinsky Hospital in St. Petersburg. In the last years of his life he worked in
publications of Messrs. Katkov and Komarov. He left many autobiographical notes,
Burnashov's zeal was responsible for the near-simultaneous ap
pearance of two pamphlets on domestic matters: one, "On the Salu
brious Medicinal Action of the Bark and Young Shoots of the Aspen
Tree"; the other, "On the Curative Qualities of Shiny Soot." District
police officers and clergy were to cooperate in disseminating these
useful pamphlets.
The pamphlet about the aspen stated that this tree gave protec
tion from poisoning and snake bite. One need only have an aspen
staff to easily find good water beneath the earth; if mangy children
are washed in an alkaline solution of aspen bark they will be
cleansed; steam from its ashes is good to cure rash around horses'
tails. One need only place an aspen branch in the sheep-fold and
the ewes would lamb much more prolifically than without the aspen.
Aspen eased the flow of menstrual blood in women and did many
other things which are difficult to recall after so many years. But
the "shiny soot" from peasant huts was exalted even more highly.
The pamphlet on soot, which was much more voluminous than
the one on the aspen, positively stated that with it and God's bless
ing one might cure nearly every ailment known to man, and particu
larly "ailments of the female sex." One need only have the knack
of scraping the soot; that is, whether to scrape it from top down
wards or from bottom upwards. Scraping altered its medicinal quali
ties: collected in one direction it would raise the fallen, but taken
the other way it would lay low whatever it was supposed to raise
up. And one could get it only from Russian chimneyless huts and
nowhere else, because it had to be the shiny soot that exists only
on the walls of Russian huts, rubbed by the sweaty, bent backs of
peasants. Powdery or shaggy soot had no curative powers. Such bless
ings no longer exist in the West; the West will have to come to us
in the Cattle Pen for our soot, and it will depend on us whether we
give it to them or not. And as far as the price is concerned, of course,
we may ask whatever we like. We shall have no competitors.
This was said in all seriousness; our soot was placed on the same
footing as rhubarb and galanga root, with which it would compete
and eventually vanquish, making Russia's fame around the world.
The Cattle Pen was pleased: possessed by these notions and de
void of all shame and sense, people began describing how to use soot
as a curative. They advised that the "shiny soot" be dissolved in vodka
extracts of which appeared in the Historical Messenger. In his words, he some

times served other than purely literary ends as he moved in literary circles. [Les
kov's note.p 7
or water and taken internally by people of all ages, particularly by

women and children . And who will venture to say how many lives
this cost! Nonetheless, the pamphlet on soot was disseminated.
People rejoiced that they had not listened to the mischief-makers
and had safeguarded their peasant huts; and they abused and de
famed the mischief-makers, calling to mind great numbers of them
and confusing the sensible with the senseless: Speransky with Vse
volozhsky. 1 8
"God help us if they'd been given power! What wouldn't they have
done!"
The same famous Penza aristocracy - a group grown so shallow
that it prided itself on its Arapovism - would, in the intervals be
tween the shameless and vulgar pranks they played at provincial
balls, heap praises on the "intelligence and sensitivity of the Rus
sian tiller of the soil" who did not want to live in a clean house.
At the same time, they mocked the ruined and absent Vsevolozhsky
at every opportunity; not one of the noble people who had eaten
his delicacies thought to seek him out on the roadway for which
he was breaking paving stones and return even a fraction of the
money they had borrowed from him.
Indeed, they wanted to make him a laughingstock in perpetuity.
IV. Betises of All Sorts

A certain S., an insignificant man "of gen
teel origins by a collateral line," remarkable for his amazing resem
blance to Gogol's Nozdryov and also the very soul of his society, once,
after drinking his fill of the Marshal of Nobility's wine, proposed
collecting material for a museum of Vsevolozhsky's "betises" so that
everyone might see what we don't need in Russia."
This appealed to Betrishchev who laughed and promised not to
spare the thousands of rubles needed to set up this "musee de
betises."19
He had many thousands!
Everyone recalled things that should be considered betises. Many
were collected: Vsevolozhsky had not only built brick dwellings for
the peasants, he had ordered plows, reapers, winnowing and thresh
ing machines for them from Buitenhop; he had founded a school
and a hospital and had set up a brick-making machine and the first
copper Schwartz still in his distillery. 20 The still had caused more
problems: the peasants plugged its pipes so that the warm, stinking
wort and not the liquor poured into the receiver. The oxen brought
by the Ukrainians to work the treadwheel and be fed on the distil

lery refuse went wild because they drank themselves into intoxica
tion. They lifted their tails, butted at one another, and nearly half
of them were maimed.
Vsevolozhsky paid the Ukrainians for the oxen they lost from
drunkenness and fighting, and paid them still more not to talk about
this fracas at his distillery.
There was no way of buying up and exhibiting this scene, but
someone proposed that a picture of it be painted by the artist Pyotr
Sokolov: ''True, he charges a lot, but he's a landowner like us and
we can bargain with him."2 1
Nozdryov promised to bring the betises back to Penza. But after
he left for Rayskoe with the general's money, Nozdryov stopped to
change horses at the Mordvin's in the village of Chemodanovka
which then belonged to Leonid Mikhaylovsky-Danilevsky, a son of
the well-known military historian.22 And this landowner had the
habit of inviting in passers-by to wine and dine them and play cards.
On the strength of this custom a mounted messenger invited Noz
dryov as well to visit the master of Chemodanovka, and there Noz
dryov "mislaid" his money and went neither to Rayskoe nor back
to Penza but made off home until the affair of the betises should
be consigned to oblivion.
The betises remained lying in Rayskoe until Scott's time. He showed
them to me, and a melancholy, heartbreaking spectacle it was! They
were all good, useful and most necessary things, but they had been
of no benefit and had only ruined those who brought them here.
Scott added his own and his father's "improved implements'' to Vsevo
lozhsky's betises. Trembling with old age, he mumbled quietly:
''None of this is suited for Russia."
''You're not serious, uncle."
"I certainly am. Nothing good is suitable here, because the peo
ple who live here are savage and wicked."
''Not wicked, uncle!"
''Yes, wicked. You're a Russian and perhaps you find that unpleas
ant. But I'm an outsider and I can judge independently: this people
is wicked. But that's not the most important thing; what's worse
is that they are told lies and instilled with the idea that what is bad
is good and what is good is bad. Mark my words: there11 be retribu
tion for this when you least expect it!"
In that same Penza, one of the darkest sections of the Cattle Pen,
people even reached the point where they tried to arrange everything
topsy-turvy: the streets were kept in the condition of swamps, and

sidewalks for pedestrians were contrived so that no one ventured
to walk on them. These sidewalks were made of planks, and beneath
the planks were ditches full of water. The nails holding the planks
had come out, and the planks would drop pedestrians into the sewer
to meet their deaths. Policemen robbed people on the square; the
dogs of the Marshall of the Nobility attacked people on Lekarskaya
Street in full view of the general himself on one side and District
Police Officer Frolov on the other. The governor personally struck
people on the street with his whip; terrible but credible rumors cir
culated of assaults on women who had been deceitfully invited to
evenings in the homes of people from the highest levels of society
. . . In short, it was not a town but some sort of robbers' camp. And
God saw that the deeds of all who lived here were evil and, finding
not a single righteous man, sent upon them Efim Fyodorovich Zarin,
who called for a Senatorial Inspection.
V An Interval
Let us step off to one side where there is more light.
We suffered certain indignities in Europe; we saw the need to take
up arms. Our own Crimea became the scene of the action. Regular
regiments and militia warriors trudged through Kiev to be met by
Askochensky, a poet from the fledglings of Kiev Theological Acad
emy, who commanded: ''To your prayers here, friends! Kiev stands
before you!"23 And he turned to others threatening: "Don't boast, 'I
march to meet the foe,' while you s --your pants each step you go.'"*
It soon turned out that those whom we urged "not to boast" in
fact boasted much less than we did but, to our complete surprise,
proved to be far more successful in everything than we were. A good
deal of corruption crept in as well, and things began to go badly for
us. This has all been brought to light time and time again but un
fortunately seems now forgotten. Yet many curious matters have re
mained undisclosed to this day. Among the anecdotes and incidents
from that time I recall how two captured English military engineers
were sent to Penza. One of them was named Miller. It was said that
he possessed an excellent knowledge of the builder's art and was
quite fearless. In any case, he stood in high repute with Napier.24
But when he came to us he disgraced himself immediately and con-
· On September 15, 1893 this poem was published in full in a very well-known
Russian newspaper. [Leskov's note.)
Lesk.ov: THE CATTLE PEN 225
elusively. As soon as this Miller was brought to Penza, Scott paid
him a visit. He did this as a fellow countryman, and no one re
proached him for it. He spent the evening with the prisoner, and
on the next day the English engineer went to return the visit. But
he was stupid enough to think that one was supposed to walk along
the sidewalk and not down the middle of the street which, by the
way, was knee-deep in liquid mud.
Miller walked along the Penza sidewalks which were not used
in Penza.
And Scott never told him that.
And so it was that one end of the sidewalk plank dropped the
English engineer into the sewer, and the other clapped him over the
head, and that was the end of him.
It was ludicrous! People did not know how to react: should they
feel ashamed or boast? He had been spared by all the cannon of the
Crimea but caught it from a plank in Penza. How amusing!
And Scott was to blame: he ought to have warned him immedi
ately that the sidewalks were not to be used. But he's an English
man, a sly fellow, and deliberately wanted to cause an incident . . .
Old Scott lost his temper and sent General Arapov, in whose
house these things had been said, a challenge to a duel.
The general gave no reply but began using a covered carriage.
Something new was going on: the bragging was replaced by little
pictures of ''The True Story of the Crimean War" and by the ''Paral
lels" of Palimpsestov.25 ''Parallels" in particular troubled the Cattle
Pen, since it provided a simple but detailed picture in which every
one could see how things stood with us, and what life beyond our
Cattle Pen walls offered to correspond to our impoverishment. A
print made the rounds showing our Cattle Pen as dark and cheer
less but solidly protected by our Chinese wall. Various restive souls
outside the wall were trying to force through chinks and points of
access and were making cracks through which rays of light barely
shone. These rays illuminated a few things, and what could be made
out was horrible. But everyone realized that much more than this
was in need of illumination. A struggle immediately began over
whether more light should be cast or the lamp blown out altogether.
Concerns were expressed on how to stuff up the cracks through
which the light was shining. Some people from the other side be
gan breaking through, but rubbish was stuffed into the cracks from
our side. Amid those stuffing in the rubbish stood out one head with
the features of a well-known figure of the day. In the picture he was
saying: ''Let it be : if the light comes from man, it will disappeari
if it comes from God, then you cannot stop it." And in fact he was
saying almost the same thing, or at least things in that same spirit,
in real life. He was the favorite and the true hero of Russia's finest
days: he was Pirogov.26 People said of him that "during the war he
cut off arms and legs; after the war he's looking for heads." We all
understood one thing: that Pirogov wanted to "educate the human
being" and that this was what we needed most of all, since we were
very much lacking in education.
Such a frank admission of our own sins bore witness, of course,
to the fortunate capacity of the nation for rapid self·improvement.
Pirogov's "Questions of Life" was published in the Naval Anthology
on the instructions of Grand Duke Constantine Nikolaevich.27 Peo
ple put their trust in Pirogov, and he was praised not only by the
mature and intelligent but even by the young generation and by those
dull people who otherwise had no opinions to express. In February
of 1 859 the Novorossiisk Literary Anthology was published in
Odessa. Its publisher, A. Georgievsky, was a man who knew very
little about literature, but he dedicated his collection "to the name
of N.l. Pirogov."28 In the words of this A. Georgievsky, "Russia should
look at Pirogov with pride, for his activities bode well for the fu
ture." Georgievsky particularly pointed out Pirogov's efforts to "stimu
late intellectual activity in the country, activity whose main arena
is literature" (Foreword, ii) . Georgievsky explained that this should
proceed so that "every region might learn about itself through its
own resources, by means of its own local literature; for the central
ization of intellectual activity is an abnormal and harmful phenome
non that paralyzes the life of the other parts by draining all the
strength to one point" (ibid., iii) . The main article in the anthology
was an excerpt from Pirogov's work entitled 'What do We Want ?"
Here he examined the question of higher education independent of
"one single, short-range goal" (p. l 85) . Pirogov explained that in "fol
lowing only the short-term, we unwittingly stray into a labyrinth
from which it will be difficult to escape" (p. l 86). And ''by the law
of counter-force, others may take their turn before we have had our
chance." But we were so full of joy that we feared nothing and did
not foresee the consequences as we travelled along the path of mis
fortunes. Our daring and bragging led us astray: hordes of people
gathered for Pirogov's send-off. He really was a beloved man, and part
ing from him was painful and difficult. People wept while saying
farewell, and one young female student leapt onto a wobbly table
and cried: "You must be our president!" and fell down together with
the table. Several people picked her up. She was in a frenzy and kept
shouting "President!" and complaining of a pain in her knee.
Among those fussing over this young person were a naval doctor,
a warrant officer, and a staff officer in a light-blue uniform. The lat
ter wished to make a few inquiries of her about something, but the
naval doctor sternly moved him aside, saying:
"Can't you see that the girl is in hysterics ?"
Others shouted to him:
"Shame, Colonel, shame!"
The colonel gave way; he only asked someone:
'What on earth was she cackling about ?"
'Why the little chicky was just clucking for a mate," he was told.
'�a," said the colonel not taking offense. "She is clucking for
a red rooster."
"Of course."
And in fact a rooster appeared, and the little chicky married him
with remarkable alacrity.
The important issue of education that Pirogov had conceived in
such broad terms was decided in "the spirit of half-measures," some
thing that Pirogov feared more than anything. And then even Piro
gov himself was subjected to editorial ridicule in journals of the day;
not only was he relieved of his educational responsibilities, he was
"slandered" as well, as he remarked on his jubilee. And even Mr. A.
Georgievsky no longer defended him . . .
Then Katkov uncovered weakness and debility in the government
and began frightening us by saying that "the boundary with Europe
will soon be drawn along the Narva;" our Petersburg generals' wives
will then be very happy ''because they will not have so far to travel
to go abroad."29 What doesn't happen when women are concerned!
It would seem that they should once again don the old-style povoy
niki and be sent back to their womens' quarters.30 Indeed, a little
book appeared in St. Petersburg expressing this very tendency, and
from Moscow the cry resounded to all and sundry: "Back! Home
ward!"
And it no longer seemed such a savage thing; it became the fash
ionable slogan.
The interval passed.
Celebrities appeared such as do not exist in the West and which
the West was supposed to envy. Maklay, whose works have not been
read in Russia to this day, was hailed as a scholar.3 1 And then Mr.
Katkov sought out and brought to light the warrior Ashinov, the "free
Cossack" who, in Mr. Katkov's opinion, inspired complete trust .32

Other well-known people supported him: Vissarion Kornarov, Vas
ily Aristov, the priest Naurnovich, and others whose names will re
main forever linked with this "historical phenornenon."33 I remem
ber Ashinov surrounded by notables on one ceremonial occasion.
He was reddish-haired, thickset, with round, shifty eyes and stubby
hands covered with freckles. He was magnificent in his way. Ko
rnarov, Aristov, and Naurnovich attended him along with one Rus
sian poet of bureaucratic persuasion and three "Bulgarians, who had
only just been beaten in their homeland." He had to be protected
because England was threatening him. For this reason he drank noth
ing from the goblets he was served but swigged noisily from his
neighbor's glasses. This all seemed so "sweet and simple." And later
carne such renown that no one threatened him any longer: the Cos
sack rode off and (according to the account in one children's maga
zine) only once did he "have to buy some vaseline." Meanwhile, not
only he but his grey gelding as well were paid all tokens of respect.
If the editor of the Petersbourger Zeitung had once caused astonish
ment by travelling to Berlin to see Bismarck and "kiss the chestnut
mare" on which he had ridden into battle, then our ladies would
concede nothing to this editor in their sense of dignity and . . . the
grey gelding could expect the same sorts of caresses, and not from
a man . . . The pernicious inclination toward foreign things that Kat
kov had been expecting never arose among the ladies. To the con
trary, they began taking a liking for all that was simple, unspoiled
by civilization, even plainly savage.
A multitude of people suddenly felt that they had been too care
less and had vainly permitted the spirit of the times to carry them
too far. They were disconcerted because they had, as it were, thrust
themselves beyond the line drawn by prudence. They felt ashamed
and peculiar: what sort of Europeans were they, after all!
Someone recalled that even Katkov had once said that "we mustn't
put salt on Europe's tail/' but now nothing of that sort appeared very
likely. One mustn't sprinkle salt; indeed, there was no need to do
so. And all along the front lines there was frantic scurrying to tum
back.
In all the haste and confusion a few people were knocked off their
feet and forgot things they ought not to have forgotten. They forgot
how thoroughly unprepared we were in the Crimea and forgot the
purgative fire that accompanied the period of atonement that fol
lowed. They forgot what Alexander II had in mind when he pressed
and urged the landowners to carry out the "liberation of the serfs
from above." They even forgot the injustices of the old, closed courts
from which everyone suffered and groaned. They forgot more quickly
and completely than any other nation in the world forgot its griefi
they even laughed at all the best practices, calling them "fits of
madness."
A sober state of mind came over us in which we sensed that we
again needed a wall, and within it - a Cattle Pen!
Since the time of this last turn of affairs which I have briefly sketched
here, I have been neither in the Oryol nor the Penza nor the Ukrai
nian countryside, but I have passed a good deal of time on the Bal
tic coast. I lived in various places here, from Narva to Polangen, but
I found nothing better than Merikiila, which maintains its ancient
and honorable reputation. This is precisely that first point beyond
the Narva where Katkov calculated the Russian generals' wives
wished to create a "foreign place" for themselves. It is good to live
here because Merikiila has a very fine coastal situationi there is or
der, cleanliness, a quiet way of life, many fine walks and an abun
dance of Russian generals' wives. It is very curious to observe some
of the things these respectable ladies, drawn to foreign climes, or
ganize here.
VI. Elevated 7lansports

People say that Merikiila is stuffy, and
perhaps it was so at one time when a certain well-born elite domi
nated Russian society. Wealthy people from this elite spent their
summers here then, and they added "tone" to the place. But now gen
erals and "exalted clerks" summer here along with a few Germans
and Englishmen, and Merikiila's tone has become mixed and turbid.
The Merikiila generals who have not yet been superannuated
serve for the most part on the staffs of certain active and power
ful central institutionsi thus they usually spend six days in the capi
tal and come to Merikiila only on Sundays. On weekdays one sees
only the very oldest generals in Merikiila, ones who feel no need
to be in the capital in summertime. But they do not make the sum
mer in Merikiila. Those who do adorn and animate the place are
the generals' wives and their progeny- children and grandchildren
whom they teach to wipe their noses, make curtseys and cross them
selves. Among the generals' wives is one who brings to mind the
most blessed time of my youth, a time when she had neither chil
dren nor grandchildren and herself was a flighty "chicky." Yes! She,
who once cried out "Our President!" and fell under the table, she
·
is here.
Her erstwhile "rooster" has now achieved all that he could achieve
and this year is being superannuated. Next summer they will no
longer be living in Merikiila.
We scarcely recognized one another and, of course, spoke little
of the past. We realize that we are old and that it is inappropriate
to recall what we were like when she fell under the table. The gen
eral's wife evidently wishes to keep up her acquaintance with me,
but she is so polite that she always tries to speak of such things as
do not interest me. However she sometimes speaks of Tolstoy whom,
she says, she ''buried after Anna Karenina." When he "went out mow
ing" she said to him: "Good-bye, dear man!" She, however, "does not
attack him like the others." "Why should I? Let him think as he likes.
But why does he want to spread it everywhere ? That's not his busi
ness. Suvorin gave him a lovely--.34 He respects and reveres him,
but he gave him a lovely - - for the 'Foreword' to the 'Sonata: He
shouldn't meddle in things that aren't his business. The human race
cannot simply end itself . . . Suvorin gave him a fine --." The gen
eral's wife has an inexhaustible supply of talk on this topic and is
always equal to herself. She rates Suvorin very high -"il a une bonne
tete"-, and although Tolstoy "has a brilliant mind, ce nest pas
serieux, vous savez. The one thing I cannot forgive Tolstoy is the
way he corrupts servants and men. He upsets the order of life. I once
had an honest and faithful maidservant who asks me right out of
the blue: 'Please don't order me to say that you are not at home when
you are. I can't do that.' 'What kind of nonsense is this?' 'No, ma'am,'
she says. 'That's a lie and I don't want to lie.' And she was most ob
stinate about it. I had to dismiss her so that she wouldn't set a bad
example to the others, and only then did I learn that this little fool
was always reading those 'lntermediocre' books.35 But now I have
a maidservant, and what a liar she is! Every word is a lie, and she
steals coffee, too. But one must change them as often as possible;
then they're better. Men are a different matter: they're the most licen
tious and stupid creatures on earth, and the worst of it is that one
can't change them as often as servants. They have the same thing
in mind as the nihilists had - not to support the family. But things
won't go on this way: things will stay as we want them to."
Fundamentally she knows nothing at all or, more precisely, she
knows only genealogies, and has consummate knowledge of which
famous personages are living where, and who is on intimate terms
with whom. She considers herself a pious woman and occupies her-
self with spreading Orthodoxy among the outlanders. Merikiila is
extraordinarily convenient for this sort of activity: here there is an
Orthodox church "as tiny as a toy," and many Estonians who have
no real understanding of the faith at all. One might have great suc
cess among them.
Formerly there was only a Lutheran chapel here, built in the
woods. It stands even today. It is called the Waldkapelle. It is con
structed entirely of logs and roofed with shingles. It has an organ
and a crucifix and a small bell in the steeple. Neither outside nor
within are there any moveable valuables. A little spot has been
cleared in front of the chapel, in the center of which nestles a small
column. This is a memorial to Gendt, and around it, under the mag
nificent pines, are benches on which seekers of poetic tranquility
like to sit.36 This is a charming place to read, and lovers of reading
- those few who remain- make use of it. It is also a fine place to
play croquet, although this is not permitted. The paths leading to
the chapel are marked with signposts reading "Please do not play
croquet near the chapel." The Germans think that a house of prayer
ought to be kept isolated from any noise: silence is appropriate to
such a place. Children's nurses are displeased by this; they bring their
generals' children here, and the children carefully kick at the memo
rial to the late owner of Merikiila and try to break the chain encir
cling the pedestal. People of stormy passions do not find this a cheer
ful place, but many do say that here they "felt like praying."
Twenty years ago or more the Orthodox priest Alexander Gumi
levsksy arrived here from St. Petersburg through a set of rather pe
culiar circumstances.37 He was a young man, hot-tempered and
kind-hearted, with a love of goodness but with no great restraint or
consistency. He had begun to preach and got so carried away by his
minor success that he considered himself a Bossuet and forgot about
Askochensky, who at that time was carrying on with the spirit and
the force that Meshchersky is today.38 For this the poor careless fel
low was transferred from St. Petersburg to Narva, where he and his
household found everything remarkably distasteful.
People thought, though, that he had got off lightly and that it
could have gone much worse for him. But Metropolitan Isidore did
not like ruining people's lives. 39
Gumilevsky's crime consisted in the fact that he became "car
ried away by the spirit of a Christian," and that his ideas generally
were akin to those of Archimandrite Fyodor Bukharev, who con
stantly tried to reconcile Orthodoxy and contemporary life but only
managed to earn the appellation "enfant terrible of Orthodoxy."40
Askochensky, as high priest, cursed him and "smelled the stench

of his blood." But Archimandrite Bukharev was cleverer and had more
character than Gumilevsky. Moreover, he was alone when Askochen
sky thrust the sacrificial knife into his bosom and "ran through the
streets with bloodied phiz." He who does battle in seclusion has a
great advantage!
In Narva Gumilevsky had to put up with both his own people
and with foreigners. And the main thing was that he had no one
here who would listen to his extemporizing. The Russian public in
Narva was not accustomed to this, and the young and genuinely good
man, thirsting for activity, felt himself deprived of this best and most
pleasant activity and was about to begin working in some other field
but then changed his mind. In Merikiila he met some acquaintances
from among the St. Petersburg generals' wives, and together they got
the idea to build a "small but fine Orthodox church." The good priest
hoped to be able to "let his lips pour forth" in it, since he could hope
that the idolatrous Askochensky had people enough to harry in St.
Petersburg and would not hear what was said beyond the Narva. The
most daring things could be said: "All people on earth have one com
mon Father''; "No one nationality has the grounds nor the right to
insult and humiliate those of another nationality''; "One must not
pray for peace unless one considers a life in peace with all nations
as a duty and obligation before God," and so forth. Gumilevsky loved
to expatiate on all of this in the St. Petersburg Church of the Nativ
ity and wanted to put forth the same thing to the generals' wives
in Merikiila, which would have been a propos.
The choice of a site for the Russian church in Merikiila was made
from "the Russian point of view." They did not want to hide the
church like the Waldkapelle; on the contrary, they wanted to set
it out on view. And therefore they built it on the high road leading
to the Narva market and the slaughterhouses where animals were
butchered for meat. The church had to be absolutely conspicuous:
this might bring something or other into the poor-box from those
walking or driving by. (This hope was not realized, perhaps only be
cause the Estonians are very thrifty and niggardly. ) The Russian
church also surpassed the Waldkapelle in its exterior finishing. Al
though the latter may be charming in its Gemutlichkeit, it has no
magnificence at all and there is not even anything to steal from it.
Our church was roofed in white tin plate with gilded ridges. The
gold sparkled in the sun, but at night the brazen hand of the thief
reached into the altar of the temple and carried off what valuables
it chanced to find. Then this happened a second time, and the ser-
mons in the spirit Gumilevsky had proposed preaching in this "small

but fine" church were never heard. Gumilevsky, who hoped to steer
his own course in this new ship, found he could not. They took pity
on him and returned him to St. Petersburg to a hospital church to
"admonish the dying," to whom he could say whatever he wished,
since they would learn of the benefits of his exhortations only in
the next life. There was no more concern over preaching in Meri
kiila. The Merikiila church was attached to the Narva cathedral,
from whence a priest and deacon come to this day. They serve the
vespers and midnight mass on Saturday and mass the next day and
then go back to Narva.
There are no sermons, but there are still many problems, and they
all cost the elder's treasury of this tiny church a healthy sum of
money. It appeared that the income was small because few people
went to midnight mass, preferring to pass the time strolling and lis
tening to the band music. Efforts were made to cancel the music
on the greensward on the eve of holy days, but this only annoyed
the Germans and did not help the church. People went strolling with
out music. An attempt was made to show off the splendor of the
church by organizing religious processions on the Feast of the Vir
gin of Kazan and on Transfiguration Day. This produced an impres
sion, since such religious ceremonies had not yet been seen here.
But no one explained the significance of the processions to the Es
tonians, and even now they call them "promenades." The carrying
of objects that glittered in the sun from the Russian church only
drew it to the attention of thieves, who all think that there are ''heaps
of money'' there.
It became necessary to hire a full-time year-round watchman. But
the thieves came again even with the watchman present. In order
to save the riches that had so seduced the thieves, the valuables were
removed for the winter. A portion of them went to the cathedral in
Narva and a portion to the elder, a risky move and one not entirely
in accordance with church law. But what tried the Russians more
than anything was supplying clergy for each service; so as to guar
antee it they found it necessary to construct a summer rectory in
Merikiila.
An undertaking of this sort proves that affairs beyond the Narva
did not proceed at all in the direction Katkov foretold. This will be
demonstrated even more clearly below.
The building of a summer rectory in Merikiila presented some
difficulties. Fears were expressed that our own powers-that-be might
perhaps find this unnecessary and not approve the building. But it
was possible to raise a building for a school, and to do it in such

a way that the rectory and watchman's quarters would take up more
space than the classrooms. This was done. A house was built of no
smaller capacity than the church itself; it was roofed in sheet iron;
even the road leading to it was fenced off so that neither rider nor
pedestrian could hinder the doing of what had to be done. And this
was the plan they hit upon: to get for this Russian school a teacher
who, for his single teacher's salary, would also be the church watch
man and, incidentally, also act as bell-ringer in the summer; who
would sweep out the church and run errands for the deacon, the fa
thers, and the elder.
They expressed the wish to get such a teacher for the Russian
school in Merikiila, hoping thus to make great economies and put
the Estonians to shame. But before they succeeded, the butcher Vol
kov joined the congregants and began saying things everyone found
rude and uncivil: that in building the house for the Merikiila clergy
our primordial foe the Devil had so troubled the builder that he was
not able to distinguish properly between what belonged to him and
what belonged to the church. In short, the well-known word "thief"
was proclaimed . . . there was a lawsuit about defamation . . .
Our customs and our manner of doing things revealed themselves
here once more.
But this is still an affair of provincial aborigines: the generals'
wives who came here did much more by way of propaganda.
VII. Apotheosis
The coastal-dweller of the Gulf of Finland may
be gullible, but he has a different sort of gullibility from the Rus
sian who dwells on "solid ground." The local people are lacking in
many things. We have our holy fools and fools-in-Christ, for exam
ple; the Estonians have nothing whatsoever of that sort and even
regard such people as scoundrels or fools. Thus there are quite dif
ferent attitudes: a deed that we might consider saintly will cause
the doer to be sent packing here. There were never any saints in
Merikiila's heyday. However our ladies found a very remarkable man
here and made his fame.
The man of whom I am going to speak was known here from the
very day of his birth. At the time of the events I wish to describe,
he was sixty-six or sixty-seven years old. His name was Efim Dmi
trievich Volkov. He was born here and also died in Merikiila at the
end of the summer season of 1 893. He was a heavy drinker all his
life and was given to telling various nonsensical stories about him
self and about others. This earned him a reputation as a worthless
fool. The local people set no store by him at all and called him some
most unsavory names.
I had occasion to hear the following things about his past. Until
he was about twenty he attached himself to various relatives and
would do no work; then he was given a job as a shepherd, but he
lost the sheep or sold them for drink. He was brought before the
baron, who asserted his patrimonial right to punish him; then he
was given work around the estate. Efim won the favor of the stew
ard, whom he contrived to serve in various ways, and quickly mas
tered the secret of inconspicuously removing and returning the key
to the baron's wine cellar. Here Efim, or "Mifim" as the Estonians
called him, sampled many rare wines. He engaged in this occupa
tion as comfortably as possible: he would spend whole nights in the
cellar and emerge in the morning after having refilled the empty
bottles with whatever was at hand. He was caught in this activity
at the scene of the crime and sent off to the army. But here he feigned
insanity and, after "passing the madness exam" with flying colors,
he appeare d in Narva. Having become a free man, Mifim made his
first appearance in a certain local establishment in the capacity of
"bouncer''; but he conducted himself somewhat equivocally, and an
Australian sea captain dealt him such shattering blows that he de
veloped a limp and his career as bouncer was cut short . Then he
began making the rounds of the town, supporting himself by begging.
When the Orthodox church was established in Merikiila, Mifim
saw an opportunity to win himself "official status'' as a beggar there
and so he established his "summer residence." First he reconnoitered
the whole line; he visited the summer people in Hungerburg,
Shmetsk and Merikiila, making acquaintances and winning some
sympathy as a hero of Plevna. He would badger anyone he met, and
those of kindlier disposition would give him ten- and twenty-copeck
pieces which he immediately spent on drink. His wardrobe was al
ways most beggarly: his feet were nearly bare, he wore no under
clothes and he dressed in rags. He cared little for being known as
a humble beggar, leaving that to another Russian specialist, Seryoga.
Mifim, to the contrary, flaunted his brazenness and loved to cling
to people like a leech. To young men he offered services useful for
developing temporary acquaintanceships with young women; he car
ried messages for some; and he told fortunes and predicted the fu
ture for others. Apart from that, Mifim cured animal ailments. But
a rumor soon began that before curing the ailment he would him-
self cause it . On this account he met with a cenain unpleasantness

in the forest which caused him to limp and move to Shmetsk. Here
he rented a ruined bathhouse from the blacksmith Karl Schmetzke
for six rubles a summer and l ived there quietly, coughing in peace.
But no sooner had God aided his recovery than he inunediately made
himself a useful person once again by showing peasants where to
find horses that had strayed from their pastures. A horse would dis
appear and no one could find it, but Mifim would begin his divina
tion and say:
"I can see it; I know where it is!"
He would lead the owners through the forest into the swamp and
show them the missing animal that in fact was stuck in the marsh
waiting to be pulled out.
The beast would be pulled out and Mifim given something for
his work of sorcery. The earnings from such doings would have been
sufficient for him. But the peasants began to suspect that Mifim
was living dishonestly: that he himself would first drive the beast
into the swamp and then arrive to tell where it was. And so, apan
from not giving him the money promised for finding the animal,
they began threatening him with beatings. Four years ago, while
Mifim was living at the blacksmith Karl lvanych's in Shmetsk, the
suspicions against him became stronger. The blacksmith had a white
Wouverrnan horse with a remarkably thick, luxuriant ta.il.41 Its name
was Talka. The horse was well-fed, stately, and spirited. When the
morning dew was on the ground it would forage among the bushes
near the house together with another horse with which it was very
friendly. And then suddenly at dawn one day people rose to find the
chestnut horse foraging in the bushes and the Wouverman Talka
missing.
No one could have transported it away - that would have been
too daring. It could not have run away alone, since both horses were
friendly. It seemed most likely that someone had driven Talka away.
But where ? And where was it being kept now?
Mifim undertook to divine the location of the horse and de
manded three rubles for doing so. But he was not given the money.
Instead the owners went off into the depths of the forest to a place
where Mifim had been seen some days earlier; there they found
Talka, immersed to her very neck in the swamp . . . The animal's
strength was already quite exhausted: her head was black with mos
quitoes and her eyes swollen from their bites. But poor Talka was
still breathing, and when she heard familiar voices she answered
with a whinny. Planks were laid down and the horse pulled out. And
Mifim saw the storm clouds hanging over him and made a di
version: he left the blacksmith and turned his efforts to another
field.
Until this time he had kept to the "military line" and would say
- in strictest confidence - that through some very particular circum
stances he had become something in the nature of the French '1ron
Mask" or the Byzantine Bellysorryus.42 But after the incident with
Talka, he began piously sighing, crossing himself, and asking ir. a
semi-whisper: "Could you tell me, please, what they write in the
papers these days about Father John, and where the Senior Chap
lain of the Army, Flotov, is visiting now?"43
He was always particularly anxious to know where Senior Chap
lain Flotov was. But he did not reveal why this was such an urgent
matter.
"Well, I need to see him for just a very short minute so he could
have a look at me and I could say just a word to him. And then you'd
see that I'm not just Efim, but maybe Ephir!"
My friend the general's wife provided the pretext for Mifim to at
tach himself to the church establishment.
This lady's dog once followed her into the church. When this same
thing happened again, Mifim offered the elder his services in stand
ing by the door and "not letting in the gentlemen's dogs." For this
the elder was to pay him fifty copecks a month.
This proposal was accepted, and Mifim arrived with a long switch.
First of all he drove three old beggar women away from the church
and then he took his place by the door. Thus he gained the "official
status" of beggar.
From that time he considered himself "on strength" of the church
and began doing some large favors for the congregation.
There is a particular custom here: before the clergy set off to make
their rounds with cross and Bible, they send a "runner" round to the
ladies so as to find out in advance who is receiving and who is not,
thus avoiding being turned away.
Mifim became such a runner and, going his merry way, came to
meet my general's wife. And here he became so carried away that
he confided he was actually an Orthodox priest who had fallen on
terribly hard times because he had once been compelled to conduct
a particularly special wedding.44
The general's wife simply gasped when she heard about this wed
ding. What she learned was as yet not known to anyone else.
The mixed feelings that this disclosure aroused in the general's
wife left her breathless. Fear, joy, curiosity- together these stupefied
her completely. And so as to do something she threw herself at Mifim

with open arms, wailing:
"Bless me, Father!"
Mifim managed to give her his blessing, and she kissed his hand.
So as not to remain alone with her discovery, the good lady com-
municated the secret to another good lady and the ladies realized
that Mifim was that most remarkable "marrying priest." Such a man
ought to have special gifts for helping people. And there was a great
need for help in the marrying line.
The second general's wife had three grown-up daughters, and not
one of them was married because all the men were "scoundrels" and
none of them was the marrying kind.
The second general's wife decided that Mifim's blessing might
be beneficial. But Mifim displayed a measure of caution and chose
not to bless the young ladies in the house before the servants; he
asked that they be taken to the forest where there were haystacks.
And he gave them his blessing by the haystacks and allowed them
to kiss his hands.
And what happened? The following winter one of these gener

al's daughters was unexpectedly married! The number of those
wishing to kiss Mifim's hand multiplied; young ladies were brought
to him, and he blessed them.
But once some Estonians happened to spy from behind a haystack
on one of these benedictory occasions in the forest, and they could
not understand just what the ladies were doing there with Mifim.
They would relate:
''Ladies, dey cross demselves in front of 'im and kiss 'im, and he
stand and just larf at 'em."
When he had completed blessing the ladies of the past season,
Mifim, in the final days of August 1893, found his way into the wine
cellar of the businessman Zvonkov; having drunk his fill, he let out
a groan and took up a new residence in eternity . . .
One person who followed Mifim's spiritual exercises with curi
osity thought that he not only blessed the ladies and their daugh
ters, whose fate God tarried to resolve, but also heard their con
fessions there among the haystacks and beehives. Mifim himself
energetically denied this, and I believe him. He was a bold, even im
pudent man, yet prudent and calculating. To call himself a covert
priest "from Loris's time" and to give benedictions - this he could
do.45 And I can positively state that he did give benedictions and
never attributed much significance to them since he "was not tak-
ing away anyone else's bread." But confession is an entirely differ
ent matter: this could bring him harm. In short, although people
talked about it, I am convinced that it is untrue. But I think there
is no doubt that Mifim rendered the ladies other services that had
favorable effect on their looks.
I can remember yet another general's wife, a large, buxom woman
also hailing from the South, who had a mother's heart full of limit
less love and an unbridled imagination. She had a daughter who was
"withering," and the mother blamed the girl's husband, a man still
quite young and, apparently, very decent.
"Just imagine," she would say, "he's been married to my daughter
just four years and he's already neglecting his marital duties."
I answered that perhaps this is sometimes for the best.
The general's wife refuted this:
'1 beg your pardon," she exclaimed. "Certainly not! If you agree
with Tolstoy, then perhaps this is so. But he shouldn't speak on behalf
of all women. There may be some such as he speaks of, but they
must have been disfigured in some special way since childhood. And
my daughter, as you can see, is a living woman full of vitality, not
a Tolstoyan. Oh no, she's not a Tolstoyan! She mustn't be neglected,
because then she'll wither. See how she looks! She herself doesn't
even realize what's happening to her, but once she was a real flower!
Now I understand it, but what can I do ? Nothing! Her husband is
inattentive, and that's all! The whole problem! There are quite a lot
of these scoundrels about nowadays. They say now that there's even
something going around in nature that makes them not need any
thing, and that a certain type of man has appeared, who wears a
rough blouse, stamps his feet and puffs . . . Now those you can tell,
but when a man is dressed like everyone else there's no way of know
ing in advance! Isn't that so ?"
'1ndeed."
"And some scientists claim that it will get still worse. Educated
men soon won't be having any children at all. Fatigue. That's the
terrible thing! Do you understand ? He spends the whole week in
St. Petersburg, while we're here. And he feels nothing; and on Satur
day he comes here with a new book in his pocket, the dolt. . . What
_
a blockhead! Such people ought not marry. An acquaintance of mine

has been married several times to educated men, and they were all
trash. But now she's married to a Cossack and she says: 'Believe me,
Cossacks are the only real men! Everyone should know it!' And I
believe it, because a Cossack is a bit of a savage. He hasn't yet been
subject to fatigue in school and he always eats simply. His stomach
digests everything, even, Lord forgive me, a tallow candle, and he's
on horseback, getting exercise. He wants to live and so he treasures
a woman's company. But our sort are so depraved that they go to some
bistro-chantant straight from the office and goggle at the Spanish
girls and Gypsies . . . Why do they want wives, then?"
The general's wife struck both palms against the protuberances
of her corset and repeated:
"They forget, my dear sir, that a young wife wants to live! Do you
understand: she has the right! Yes, and whatever your Tolstoy may
say, she has the right. And so when my son-in-law takes a volume
of Zola or Bourget out of his pocket, I have to make a tremendous
effort not to give him a good slap in the face. The fool! The scoun
drel! It's not likely he spends any time reading at the Gypsies� but
he11 do it in front of his wife! The swine! He only does it to keep
his conscience from bothering him. And that's why she's pale, list
less, and anemic, and she's losing interest in life - she's lost all in
terest in fact . This must be stopped! Why do people shout adultere
at poor women ? No one used that word before Tolstoy! If divorce
is impossible, then we must have revanche."
"Take care, your daughter may hear."
'1 should like her to hear . . . In fact I even tell her that . . . But
she's stupid. Or perhaps she's worried about what 111 think . . . Or
she doesn't understand . . . She doesn't say! Oh, if only some person
could get that idea into her head . . . to reassure her that it's really
not important . . . Because it isn't important!"
And here, perhaps, Mifim did help someone . . . He was not fas
tidious and could sanction anything.
At least Mifim was able to inspire some resolve in one lady who
had faith in him and who was "withering from lack of attention."
This memory would bring roses to her cheeks, but her maman
would only gaze upon her fondly and whisper to her the word of
Deroulede:46
"Nitchevo!"
The generals' wives will no doubt soon forget about Mifim and
find themselves another thaumaturge. But the Estonians, who knew
very well what sort of a man their Merikiila Mifim was, "just larf."
Notes to "The Cattle Pen"

1 . The quotation Leskov has in mind reads: "We have the old disciplina ar·
cani among us in as full force as in the primitive church, but with an all-important
difference. The Christian fathers practised reserve for the sake of leading the aco·
lyte more surely to the fullness of truth. The modem economiser keeps back
his opinions, or dissembles the grounds of them, for the sake of leaving his neigh
bours the more at ease in the peaceful marshes of prejudice, superstition, and
low ideals" IJohn Morley, On Compromise [London: MacMillan and Co., 1928],
pp. 67-681.
2. The verses in fact read ·� . . because they received not the love of the truth
that they might be saved. And for this cause God shall send them strong delu
sions that they should believe a lie."
3. The origin of the phrase is Vladimir Dal' not Dostoevsky, as A.l. and S.l.
Gruzdev have noted [9:622-231. In his sketch "Den��ik" ["The Orderly"l Dal' says
of the title figure: "For him the whole world was broken down into two parts:
the 'we' and the 'non-we.' We' meant the orderly himself, his master, and all their
belongings; 'non-we' meant all other people, the whole visible world" [V.I. Dal;
Povesti, rasskazy. oterki. skazki [Gor'kij: Volgo-Vjatskoe kni::!noe izdatel'stvo,
1981], p. 2251.
4. Disruption of trade links with Germany in 1893 led some Russians to es
pouse isolationism. The weekly Nedelja [No. 37, Sept. 12, 1 8931 commented on
the debate Leskov mentions and quoted this same speech.
5. Johann Heinrich von Thiinen [ 1 783-18501. German economist and author
of Der isolierte Staat in Beziehung auf Landwirtschaft und NationalOkonomie,
3 vols., Rostock: G.B. Leonard, 1 842-63. Hugh McLean has noted that Thiinen's
work was reissued in the Soviet Union in 1926: "Apparently its arguments were
felt to be useful as supports for Stalin's theory of 'socialism in one country'"
[Nikolai Leskov: The Man and His Art [Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
1977], p. 7081.
6. Count L.A. Perovsky, [ 1 792- 18561. Minister of Internal Affairs and from
1852 Minister of Crown Lands. He took an energetic interest in modernizing ag
riculture. Lieutenant-General L.A. Naryshkin [ 1 785- 18461.
7. Leskov described Alexander Scott as "an Englishman by birth, but com
pletely Russianized, who had a remarkable knowledge of the Russian peopleyand
who could win the trust of the peasants he managed" [Andrey Leskov, Zizn'
Nikolaia Leskova po ego litnym, semejnym i nesemejnym zapisjam i pamjatjam,
[Moscow: Goslitizdat, 1954], p. 1211.
8. Aleksandr Ivanovich Verigin, [ 1 807-911. Adjutant-General, later editor of
Russkij invalid and Director of the Department of Military Settlements.
Dmitry Petrovich Zhuravsky, [1810-561. Writer, statistician, and proponent
of emancipation. Leskov knew and admired him.
9. Vladimir Sergeevich Solov'ev [ 1853-19001. Eminent Russian philosopher.
His article "Vrag s vostoka" ["The Enemy from the East"l expresses his concern
about the encroachment of Eastern cultural and spiritual influences and deals
specifically with the physical encroachment of the desert in the southern steppes
because of unrestricted deforestation and unsound agricultural methods.
10. James Small designed the first wholly iron plow.
1 1 . Rayskoe, now Nikol'sko-Rayskoe, is located in the Gorodi��enskij uzed,
about 20 km. northeast of the city of Penza.
12. Aleksandr Alekseevich Panchulidzev [ 1789-186 71. Governor of Penza Pro
vince from 1831 to 1859. Panchulidzev lived in grand style in Penza, kept his
own private orchestra, and was popular with many of the local gentry. He was
forced to resign in 1859 after a review of his tenure, conducted by Senator Safonov,
revealed numerous abuses including extortion and embezzlement. I.N. Zakhar'in
claims that the review was prompted by an article in Alexander Herzen's Bell
j"Belinskij i Lermontov v Cembare," lstorii:;eskii vestnik, vol. 19 [March 1898]

pp. 919-21). A Penza landowner recalled: "Penza Province was run by Governor
Panchulidzev, who was more than a scoundrel; he was a criminal who had on
his soul many villainous deeds, poisonings and several murders. He reigned in
the province for 25 years, and was considered an exemplary governor who cele
brated his silver jubilee in office and to whom the Emperor sent a silver snuff
box with his pon:rait set in diamonds. Panchulidzev, a Privy Councillor, bearer
of the Order of Alexander Nevsky, did not for the world want to leave his post
as a governor" (L.M. Zhemchuzhnikov, Moi vospominanija iz proslogo, vyp. 2,
[Moscow, 1927], p. 202).
13. According to the Primary Chronicle, the Avars (obry) enslaved the Dule
bians, a Slavic tribe, in the 6th Century, raping the Dulebian women and harness
ing them in place of horses and oxen.
14. F.I. Selivanov, Scott's neighbour in Rayskoe, first recognized Leskov's lit
erary talent in his letters describing his travels. According to Andrey Leskov,
Selivanov ran his estate on old-fashioned, Russian principles and prospered ( Zizn'
Nikolaia Leskova, p. 122) .
1 5 . Efim Fyodorovich Zarin ( 1 829-92). Minor poet, publisher and translator;
active in anti-nihilist polemics in the 1 860s. He was a close friend of Leskov
through the 1860s. Zarin had lived in Penza and had satirized Panchulidzev in
unpublished but widely circulated verses, and had exposed some of his abuses
in newspaper articles.
16. Lieutenant General Aleksandr Nikolaevich Arapov ( 1801-72). Marshal
of the Nobility of Penza Province for 18 years. Y:skov says he was a "worthy
comrade-in-arms" to Panchulidzev (Andrey Leskov, Zizn' Nikolaia Leskova, p. 396).
1 7. Vladimir Petrovich Bumashov ( 1 812-88). Agronomist and author of many
books and pamphlets on domestic science and practical agriculture. Leskov's ar
ticle about him, "Pervenec bogemy v Rossii," ("Russia's First-born Bohemian,'1
Istorii:;eskii ves tnik, No. 6, 1 888) contains Bumashov's admission that he was
employed as an editor by the Third Section, the tsarist secret police, in 1874.
The author of the work on the curative powers of soot, however, was probably
O.K. Kamenetsky (see 9:623).
1 8. Mikhail Mikhaylovich Speransky ( 1 772-1839). Statesman and reformer
under Alexander I. He was dismissed in 1812 because his reform projects threat
ened conservative interests.
1 9. I.e., General Arapov. Betrishchev is a pompous general in Part Two of
Gogol's Dead Souls.
20. Nicholas and Johann Buitenhop (Butenop). Emigres from Holstein who
founded a factory in Moscow to make agricultural implements. They introduced
the first modem agricultural machinery into Russia.
2 1 . Pyotr Sokolov ( 1821-99). First Russian painter in watercolor and a noted
portraitist.
22. Lieutenant-General Aleksandr Ivanovich Mikhaylovsky-Danilevsky
( 1 790- 1848) . Author of popular accounts of Russian campaigns under Alexan
der I.
23. Viktor Ipat'evich Askochensky (1813-79). Arch-conservative writer and
publisher, graduate and later professor at the Kiev Theological Academy until
forced to retire in 1851. From 1858 to 1877 Askochensky published the journal
Domasniaia beseda which became an ardent proponent of traditional Ortho
doxy and conducted a vociferous campaign against western influences in reli
gious and cultural life.
24. Sir Charles Napier (1 786- 1860). British admiral who commanded the fleet
in the Baltic during the Crimean War.
25. "Iznanki Krymskoj vojny." Three articles under this title were published
in Voennyi sbornik in 1858 by N.N. Obruchov, criticizing abuses in supply and
medical services in the Russian army during the Crimean war.
Ivan Yustinovich Palimpsestov ( 1 818- 1902). Agronomist and author of many
articles on agriculture. Palimpsestov was concerned with the effects of deforesta
tion on land. His ''Paralleli" appeared in Russkoe slovo, No. 6 !June 1 860) and
No. 8 (August 1 860). The articles were based on his impressions of a three-month
tour of Europe and made comparisons, almost all highly unfavorable to Russia,
between Russian and European agriculture as well as cultural and spiritual life.
A brief excerpt conveys the critical spirit of the "sixties" that Leskov writes about:
'� . . Never having been abroad, I thought that this sort of disorder was rampant
everywhere, that to drown in mud, to haul heavy loads with wretched nags, to
live in dirty, smoky hovels, to squander nature's treasures with a careless, lazy
hand, and to have no respect for human rights - that this was the lot of every
one, even civilized mankind . . . Indeed, it is easier to bear those discomforts and
sorrows which you can see are shared by all mortals than those which are borne
only by some human societies, or only by some members of a given society. And
therefore you carmot help feeling despondent and exasperated when you see that
we Russians have indeed fallen behind the life which western nationals enjoy,
and the hand cannot help point to the sores that Russian agriculture and domes
tic science bear on their bodies" (Russkoe slovo, No. 8, 1860, pp. 127-28).
26. Nikolay Ivanovich Pirogov (1810-- 8 1 ). Outstanding Russian surgeon, edu
<;_ator, and critic of many policies of the Russian government. His "Voprosy
Zizni" ("Questions of Life'1, published in Morskoi sbornik. criticized the exist
ing educational system and called for a humanitarian approach which would re
spect human dignity. His controversial ideas provoked a lively debate, and he
was attacked by the radical critic N.A. Dobrolyubov, among others. In 1861 he
was dismissed as curator of the Kiev Educational District after trying to imple
ment his ideas and was given an emotional farewell by his students. Leskov re
ported it in Russkaia rel: April 21, 1 861. A jubilee marking the fiftieth armiver
sary of Pirogov's medical career was celebrated in Moscow in May 1881.
27. Grand Duke Constantine (1827- 1 892) was nominal commander of the
Russian Navy and Minister of the Navy from 1853 to 188 1 . He was an active
supporter of many of the reform measures of the 60s and helped publicize them
through Morskoi sbornik (The Naval Anthology), official organ of Naval Ministry.
28. Aleksandr Ivanovich Georgievsky !1830-19 1 1 ) . In the late 50s and 60s
Georgievsky, as a professor at the Richelieu Lycee in Odessa, helped dissemi
nate Pirogov's liberal ideas on education. His liberalism faded in later years, when
he became an associate of the conservative Minister of Education, D.A. Tolstoy,
and a proponent of Katkov's policies. From 1873 to 1901 he was President of the
"Scholary Committee" of the Ministry of Education where Leskov also served.
He and Leskov were not on good terms.
29. Mikhail Nikiforovich Katkov (18 18-87). Journalist and publisher of sev
eral very influential journals and newspapers. In the mid-60s "he became the most
popular and the most influential representative of Russian public opinion not
only in Russia but in Europe as well" (A.A. Kornilov, "Mikhail Nikiforovich Kat
kov," in D.N. Ovsyaniko-Kulikovsky, ed., Istoriia russkoi li tera t ury XIX v., vol. 5
[Moscow: Mir, 191 1], p. 127). Katkov's chauvinism became particularly strident
in the 1880s. In 1 865 Katkov responded with great indignation to suggestions
that the city of Narva, officially a part of Petersburg Province but located on the
very border of Estland Inow Estonia), be divided and that part of the city fall un
der the jurisdiction of Estland Province. He was particularly angry at the Rus
sians who favored this move because they felt that Estland's German-language
courts and German institutions were superior to Russian ones. '1f one accepts
the logic of certain liberal gentlemen who think any manifestation of Russian
nationalism strange, then one might reach conclusions which are even more
strange. Following this logic, we would have to encourage this or that region to
unite with a foreign state whose system seems better than ours instead of con
cerning ourselves with changing and improving our own system. Be Prussians,
be Austrians, be Frenchmen; but on pain of appearing an eccentric and an ultra
patriot, do not dare to feel Russian and to wish the best for your own people and
your own state" IMoskovskie vedomosti, No. 34, 1 1 February, 1865) .
30. "povoyniki" headdress of Russian women in pre-Petrine times.
-
3 1 . Nikolay Nikolaevich Miklukho-Maklay 1 1847-88). Traveller, zoologist,

and explorer noted for his anthropological and ethnographical studies of the
peoples of South-east Asia, Australia, and the Pacific Islands.
32. Nikolay Ivanovich Ashinov 1 1856-?). Ashinov appeared in St. Petersburg
in 1883, billing himself as the ataman of a band of "free Cossacks" and trying
to interest the Russian government in sponsoring his project to settle the Black
Sea Coast. This project failed, but he did win the support of some nationalists
and pan-slavists such as Katkov and I.S. Aksakov. Ashinov claimed to have swin
dled the British government of funds used to finance a journey to Ethiopia. He
eventually did win some official support for an expedition to Ethiopia, where
he hoped to expand Russian religious and political influence. He and his Cos·
sacks were expelled from Ethiopia by the French in 1887. Leskov wrote several
newspaper articles about Ashinov suggesting that he was simply an imposter
and adventurer.
33. Vissarion Vissarionovich Komarov 11838-1908). Publisher of several con
servative newspapers and journals. His chauvinist, pan-slavist views were close
to Katkov's.
Vasily Ivanovich Aristov 11831- 1903). Pan-slavist; active member of the Slavic
Benevolent Society.
Ivan Hryhorevich Naumovich 1 1826-9 1 ) . Priest, writer, and editor of popular
scientific and literary magazines. Naumovich was an ardent defender of Russian
Orthodoxy and Russian culture in the Western Ukraine.
34. Aleksey Sergeevich Suvorin 1 1834- 1912). Writer and publisher. His con
servatism was less strident than Katkov's. His feuilleton I''Malen'kie pis'ma") ap
pearing in Novae vremja, No. 5366 15 February, 1891) expressed admiration for
"The Kreutzer Sonata," but took issue with Tolstoy's views on marriage expressed
in his "Afterword to the Kreutzer Sonata" 1not ''Foreword," as Leskov says).
35. "intermediocre books"- a pun on "The Intermediary," a series published
by V.G . Chertkov and other Tolstoyans who wished to provide inexpensive and
edifying reading for the masses. The English equivalent was borrowed from Wil
liam Edgerton, who devised it for his translation of Leskov's "A Winter Day" I Sa
tirical Stories of Nikolai Leskov [New York: Pegasus, 1968Jl.
36, Between 1861 and 1871 William Gendt owned an estate which included
the seaside village of Merikiila IHenning v. Wistinghausen, Quellen zur Ge
schichte der Rittergii ter Estlands im 18. und 1 9. Jahrhundert (1 772-1889),
[Hannover-Dohren: Harro v. Hirschhegdt, 1975), pp. 149-50).
37. Aleksandr Vasilevich Gumilevsky 11830-69). Orthodox priest and writer.
As pastor of the Nativity Church of St. Petersburg he worked actively among
the city's poor and organized a number of charitable institutions. The liberal ideas
expressed in his sermons caused him considerable difficulty with the church
hierarchy. He was transferred to Narva in 1866, and thence to St. Petersburg in
1867 (to the chapel of the Obukhovsky Hospital).
38. Prince Vladimir Petrovich Meshchersky ( 1839- 1914). Archconservative
writer and publisher; ardent defender of Russian Orthodoxy.
39. Metropolitan Isidore (Yakov Sergeevich Nikol'sky, 1799-1892). Metropoli
tan of Kiev, 1858 to 60; Metropolitan of St. Petersburg and Novgorod, 1860 to
92. He complained about Leskov's "Melofi arxierejskoj �izni" (''Little Things in
Bishops' Lives, 10:456) and was an active supporter of Ashinov.
40. Aleksandr Matveevich Bukharev (monastic name, Fyodor) ( 1824-7 1). Or
thodox priest, writer, noted preacher. As ecclesiastical censor he censored some
of Askochensky's writings; Askochensky attacked him violently in print, call
ing Bukharev's 1860 article "On Orthodoxy in Relation to Contemporary Life,"
heretical. Bukharev received no support &om the church hierarchy; his writings
were eventually banned, and he asked to be defrocked. He died in poverty. The
fullest account of this "noisiest episode in the history of clerical journalism of
the 60s" (G. Florovsky, Puti russkogo Bogoslovija, [Paris: YMCA Press, 19371,
p. 344) is in P.V. Znamensky, Pravoslavie i sovremennaja tizn' [Moscow: Svobod
naja sovest; 19061.
4 1 . Phillip Wouverman ( 1619-68). Dutch painter whose hunting scenes and
landscapes often included a large white horse.
42. "Bellysorryus"- Belisarius (505-65). Outstanding Byzantine general who
spent some years living in disgrace.
43. John of Kronstadt (Ivan Ilych Sergiev, 1829-1908). Orthodox priest and
writer whose reputed powers of prophecy and healing won him a large following
and considerable influence. He was a bitter opponent of Tolstoy. Leskov satirized
him in "Nightowls."
44. In July 1880, Emperor Alexander ll secretly married his mistress of 14
years, Princess Catherine Dolgoruky only weeks after the death of his wife, the
Empress Marie. There was widespread disapproval in society when the secret
was disclosed. Maurice Paleologue claims that the marriage was conducted "by
the Archpriest of the Grand Church of the Winter Palace, Xenophant Jakovle
vitch Nicolsky" (The Tragic Romance ofAlexander II of Russia, tr. Arthur Cham
bers [London: Hutchinson, 19251, p.169).
45. "Loris's time"- Count M.T. Loris-Melikov exerted enormous influence in
Russian political life between 1879- 1881 .
46. Paul Deroulede ( 1846-19 14). French politician and writer o f patriotic
poems; one of the earliest advocates of the Franco-Russian alliance. His "Nitchevo"
("It doesn't matter'1 was written on the occasion of the visit of a Russian fleet
to Toulon in October 1893.
B I BLIOGRA PHICAL NOTE
Although this note i s addressed t o the reader who knows

no Russian, it is necessary to mention the basic editions of Leskov's writ
ings_ The Collected Works which appeared in his lifetime and for which
he was able to make the final revisions was Sobranie socinenii, 10 vols. (St.
Petersburg: A.S. Suvorin, 1 889-90). These same texts along with other fic
tion appeared in Polnoe sobranie socinenij, 36 vols. (St. Petersburg: A.F.
Marks, 1902-03) . The most authoritative edition currently available is
Sobranie socinenij, 1 1 vols. (Moscow: Xudozestvennaja literatura, 1956-
58). Although by no means complete, its texts are those of the "canonical"
1889-90 edition; it also has a selection of Leskov's journalism, two volumes
of his letters, and a useful introduction and notes. The fullest (but still not
complete) bibliography of Leskov's writings is by PV. Bykov, Bibliografija
socinenii N.S. Leskova za tridca t ' let (1860-1889) which appears in Volume
10 of the 1 889-90 Collected Works.
English translations of Leskov have been of uneven quality, and many
are no longer in print. They include The Sen try, and Other Stories, tr. A.E.
Chamot (London: J. Lane, 1922; rpt. Westport, Conn., 1977); The Cathedral
Folk, tr. Isabel Hapgood (New York and London: A.A. Knopf, 1924; rpt. West
port, Conn., 1971); The Musk-ox and Other Tales, tr. R. Norman (London:
Routledge, 1944; rpt. Westport, Conn., 1977); The Enchanted Pilgrim and
Other Stories, tr. David Magarshack (London: Hutchinson, 1 946; rpt . West
port, Conn., 1977); The Amazon and Other Stories, tr. David Magarshack
(London: Allen & Unwin, 1 949; rpt. Westport, Conn., 1977); and Selected
Tales, tr. David Magarshack, intro. V.S. Pritchett (New York: Farrar, Strauss
& Cudahy, 1961 ) . Satirical Stories of Nikolai Leskov, tr. and ed. William B.
Edgerton (New York: Pegasus, 1968) has excellent translations as well as valu
able introductions and notes.
English-language scholarship on Leskov is comparatively recent. Read
ers are fortunate to have Hugh McLean's admirable work, Nikolai Leskov:
The Man and His Art (Cambridge : Harvard University Press, 1977) the fin
est and most comprehensive critical and biographical study in any language.
K.A. Lantz, Nikolay Leskov (Boston: Twayne, 1 979) provides a concise in
troduction to the writer and his work. Both of the above include bibliogra-
phies of other books and art-icles on Leskov in English and other languages.
James Y. Muckle, Nil<olai Leskov and the 'Spirit of Protestan tism' (Birming
ham: University of Birmingham, 1978) investigates the writer's links with
Protestant thinkers in the West and Protestant movements in Russia.
I NDEX
Ahriman, 209 n14 Ebers, Georg, 209 n 13

Aksakov, I.S., 244 n32 Edgerton, William, 244 n35
Alexander I, 73, 242 n18 Eikhenbaum, Boris, xi
Alexander II, viii, ix, 245 n44 Estland (province), 244 n29
Alexandria (Egypt), 132, 209 n9,
209 n 1 7 Filaret (Drozdov), Metropolitan, 132
Amasis II , 208 n3, 209 n 1 8 Florovsky, G., 245 n40
Arapov, A.N., 242 n16, 242 n19
Aristov, V.I., 244n33
Gendt, William, 244 n36
Ashinov, N.J., 244 n32, 245 n39
Georgievsky, A. I., 243 n28
Askochensky, V.I., 242 n23, 245 n40
Gogo!, N.V., 242 n19
Guerrero, Margarita, 70 n7
Batyuto, A.l., 130 n9 Gumilevsky, A.V., 244 n37
Belisarius, 245 n42
Belov, I. D., 86 n1 Heine, Heinrich, 8 7 n6
Bely (Bugaev), Andrey, xi Herodotus, 208n3, 208 n9, 209 n18
Borges, Jorge Luis, 70 n7 Herzen, Alexander, 241 n12
Buitenhop, Johann and Nicholas, Holweck, F.G., 71 n20
242 n20
Bukharev, A.M., 245 n40
Bumashov, V.P., 242 n 1 7 Icon painting, 3-4, 69-72
Buslaev, F.I., 7 1 n23 - history of, 69 n2, 71 n23
- symbolism, 71 n13, 7 1 n20, 71 n22,
71-72 n25
Chertkov, V.G., 244 n35 - technique of, 3-4, 71 n23
Constantine, Grand Duke, 243 n27 -types of, 70 n3
Cunaxa (town), 209 n15 Isidore (Ya.S. Nikol'sky), Metropoli·
tan, 245 n39
Dal; Vladimir, xi, 241 n3
Deroulede, Paul, 245 n46 John of Kronstadt (1.1. Sergiev),
De Vigneroles, Charles, 70 n5 245 n43
Didron, A.N., 71 n13, 71 n22 Journals
Dobrolyubov, N.A., 243 n26 - Domestic Conversation
Dolgoruky (Yurievskaya), Princess jDoma�njaja beseda), 242n23
Catherine, 245 n44 - Historical Messenger (lstoriceskii
Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 73, 241 n3 vestnik), 86 n1, 242 n12, 242 n17
Journals (cont.j Leskov, Nikolay, works (cont.j

- Military Anthology ( Voennyj -''Little Things in Bishops' Lives,"
sbornikl, 243 n25 xi, 245 n39
-Naval Anthology (Morskoi -'The Mountain," xi, 131-32
sbornikj, 243 n26 v -"Night Owls," xi, 245 n43
- Picturesque Review ( Zivopisnoe - No Way Out, ix
obozreniej, 132 -''A Robbery " xii 88-89
- Russian Archive (Russkii arxivj, g
-'The Sealed An el," xii-xiii,
208 n1 3-4, 88
- Russian Messenger (Russkii -"Unmercenary Engineers," 73
vestnikl, ix, 4 -"A Will of Iron," xi
- Russian Thought (Russkaja -"A Winter's Day," xi, 244 n35
mysJ'I, 132 Lomnovsky, Pyotr Karlovich, 73,
- Russian Word (Russkoe slovoj, 85 n3, 87 n4
243 n25 Loris-Melikov, M.T., 245 n45
Kamenetsky, O.K., 242 n1 7 McLean, Hugh, 245 n5

Kamensky, S.M., 130 n6 Marcade, Jean-Claude, xi
Katkov, Mikhail, ix, x, 4, 243 n28, Marie (Maria Alexandrovnaj, Em
243-44 n29, 244 n32, 244 n33, press, 245 n44
244 n34 Maspero, Gaston, 208 n9
Kiev, vii, 70 Mel'nikov, P.I. (Andrey Pecherskyj,
Klintsy (townj, 71 n14 70 n3
Kobeko, Dmitry, 86 n1 Memnon, 209 n10
Komarov, V.V., 244 n33 Merikiila (villagej, 244n36
Kornilov, A.A., 243 n29 Meshchersky, V.P., 245 n38
Mikhailovsky-Danilevsky, A.l.,
Leskov, Andrey, ix, 241 n7, 242 n14, 242n22
242 n16 Miklukho-Maklay, N.N., 244 n31
Leskov, Nikolay Mohyla, Peter, 71 n 1 1
- censorship, and, x, 131-32 Moleschott, Jacob, 87 n5
- Christmas stories, 3, 73, 88 Morley, John, 240-41 n1
- family of, vii Moscow, 243 n26
- journalism of, viii-ix, x
- language, vii, xi, xii-xiii, 4 Napier, Sir Charles, 243 n24
- religion, views on, x, 88, 131-3 2, Narva (cityj, 244 n29, 245 n37
21 1 Naryshkin, L.A., 241 n6
- satire of, x, xi, xii, 88-89, 131, Naumovich, I.H., 244n33
210- 1 1 Newspapers
- skaz technique, xi, xii, 4 , 88 - The Bell (Kolokolj, 241 n12
- social criticism of, ix, xi, 210- 1 1 - Moscow News (Moskovskie
-works vedomostil, 244 n29
-"An Apparition in the Engineers' - New Time (Novae vremjaj,
Castle," xii, 73 244 n34
- Cathedral Folk. ix, x - News and Stock Exchange Gazette
-'The Cattle Pen," 210- 1 1 (Novosti i bir!.evaja gazetaj, 73
- Christmas Stories, 73 - Russian Speech (Russkaia rec'l,
- Collected Words, x, 73, 88, 1 32 243 n26
-''Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk - The Week (Nedeliaj, 88, 1 30 n1,
District," 88 241 n4
-''Laughter and Grief," xi Nicholas I, viii
INDEX 25 1
Obruchov, N.N., 243 n25 Saint Petersburg, viii, ix, 73, 245 n37
Odessa, 243 n28 Scott, Alexander, vii, viii, 241 n7
Old Believers, 3, 4, 70 n3, 130 n5 Selivanov, F.I., 242 n14
Orthodox Church, x, 3, 130 n5, 131, Small, James, 241 nlO
244 n33, 245 n40, 244-45 n37, Sokolof, D., 72 n26
245 n38 Sokolov, Pyotr, 242 n21
- music and liturgy, 70 n6, 72 n26, Solov'ev, V.S., 241 n9
72 n27, 88, 130 n7, 130 nl0 Speransky, M.M., 242 n18
Oryol (cityj, vii, 71 n14, 88-89, 130 n1, Strabo, 208 n9, 209 n17
130 n3, 130 n4, 130 n5, 130n6 Suvorin, A.S., 244 n34
Paleologue, Maurice, 245 n44 Theocritus, 209 n 1 1

Palimpsestov, I.Yu., 243 n25 Theodorus o f Samos, 208 n3
Panchulidzev, A.A., 241-42 n12, Tolstoy, D.A., 243 n28
242 n15 Tolstoy, Leo, x, 2 1 1, 244 n34, 245 n43
Paramshin, 7 1 n12 Trubetskoy, P.I., 130 n4
Paul I, 73, 86 n1
Penza (cityj, 241 n11, 241 n 12, 242 n15 Ushakov, Simon, 71 n12
Penza (provincej, 24 1-42 n12, 242 n16
Perovsky, L.A., 241 n6 Verigin, A.I., 241 n8
Peter I (Peter the Greatj, xiii, 130 n 14 Von Thiinen, Johann Heinrich,
Pirogov, N.I., 243 n26, 243 n28 241 n5
Pisarev, Dmitry, ix
Primary Chronicle, 242 n13 Weltmann, Alexander, xi
Prolog, 13 1-32 Wouverman, Phillip, 245 n41
Pushkin, Alexander, 208 n1
Zakhar'in, I.N., 241 n12
Racheyskov, Nikita, 3 Zaporozhsky, I.S., 73
Rasputin, Grigory, 2 1 1 Zarin, E.F., 242 n15
Rayskoe (villagej, 2 4 1 n 1 1 , 242 n 14 Zhemchuzhnikov, L.M., 242 n12
Remizov, Alexey, xi Zhuravsky, D.P., 241 n8
Rovinsky, D. A., 69 n2 Zlynka (townj, 71 n14
Rublev, Andrey, 71 n12 Znamensky, P.V., 245 n40

Leskov, Nikolai - Sealed Angel and Other Stories (Tennessee, 1984)

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Leskov, Nikolai - Sealed Angel and Other Stories (Tennessee, 1984)

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T his book introduces to Nonh

American readers five excep­

(Continued on back flap)

Ma!garet Groff Agner

THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE PRESS I KNOXVILLE

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Leskov, N. S. (Nikolai Semenovich), 1 83 1 - 1 895.

The Sealed Angel 3

The Mountain 131

The Cattle Pen 210

Bibliographical Note 247

Readers who insist on labelling

Alexander Scott, a transplanted Briton and Leskov's uncle by mar­

stepping on the toes of the conservatives. He broke with Katkov in

Lady Macbeth au village, L.:Ange scelle et autres nouvelles [Paris:

"The Sealed Angel" was written in 1872 and published

brief description of that technique should clarify several sections

happy at that sort of vanity and he had gotten up a sizeable

When we had shown our guest out our Pimen, as a man of

"Last night, my child, our guardian angel came down to us."

And even though Luka was a proud man, he restrained him­

over many years and costing many thousands was swallowed up

"Well then, I shall say that I want to make a rich gold

Mstyora painting is clumsy and drab, while the Palekh painters

paintings might be we consider them as obscene barbarity and

picture of heavenly glory, then he contemplates life's higher

After doing that kindly thing, this Englishwoman starts in

embossings and lay on enamel in the Old Testament style. They

Levontius is singing it and he himself is weeping and sobbing

thirsts for experience, while I cast aside what I do not know.

me over that, but about the countryside we were passing

comrade, just as if he had caught the scent of someone there.

"Enough of sleep, Mark; it is time to do your task."

morning, I had a powerful longing to see him even for a mo­

prophet Isaiah: "The spirit of God is in the nostrils of this

The Englishman's face beamed and he said jokingly to his

Englishman's sleigh is rushing across the ice from the city

will uncover a treasure and a man going to market will come

it seems to me that hours and hours have gone by already. The

"Begin the Katabasis!"27

you, my son. Prepare to accept the holy body of Christ on the

I really cannot explain is the disappearance of the seal the English­

Notes to "The Sealed Angel"

3. Deeisis jdeisus) - a triptych showing Christ enthroned and flanked by the

gin declared heretical in the 16th century.

'lin Apparition in the Engineers' Castle," another

(From the Memoirs of an Ex-Cadet)

Nowadays officer trainees of the Engineer Corps are quartered in

Thus playing the role of an apparition, the cadet in fact managed

The majority of cadets were in just such a state of mind, particu­

. . . when crows the cock

Notes to ':4.n Apparition in the Engineers' Castle

':4. Robbery" first appeared as a Christ­

would set them out on Kromy Square. Sergeant Bogdanov's

and Mamma on this account, because Mamma had departed

here he is, suddenly turning up at Christmas. Hurry, get the key

business I can't get along without him. H e and I came t o make

''It's more proper for me to go with my nephew."

American readers five excep

Alexander Scott, a transplanted Briton and Leskov's uncle by mar

And even though Luka was a proud man, he restrained him

morning, I had a powerful longing to see him even for a mo

I really cannot explain is the disappearance of the seal the English

The majority of cadets were in just such a state of mind, particu

':4. Robbery" first appeared as a Christ

''Very well, very well," he says, "now take me to the Boris-and

The stranger is saying that he has already been at the Epiph

Well, things went on in the same fashion, with demonstra

This was something new, something savage, something passion

whipbearers at my disposal. They are scarcely able to maintain or

to summon up courage in his soul, to stand in view of the assem

floated about; at the foot of the mountain a horde of human crea

up goodness knows what sort of stupid and utterly ludicrous proj

extracts of which appeared in the Historical Messenger. In his words, he some

by the Ukrainians to work the treadwheel and be fed on the distil