Birds of Heaven, and Other Stories. Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko
were about to speak, but he bowed and said:
“Thank you, fathers. …”
And he wearily went from the door.
The lay brother looked at me questioningly. I knew that he was about to shut the gate and so I went to the outer court. This was already empty. The young man who sold kalaches (cakes) for the monastery was behind his stand, but no one came to it.
The porter closed one gate behind me and then, pressing with his feet, he started to close the second. Just then a scuffle was heard within the gate, the tramping of several pairs of feet; the opening again widened and in it appeared an ill-favored figure in a pilgrim’s costume, reddish and faded. A rough, hairy hand held it by the collar and directed its involuntary movements. A vigorous push. … The stranger flew off several paces and fell. One wallet and then another sailed after him. … A small book in a worn leather binding fell out in the mud and its leaves commenced to blow in the wind.
“Look here, …” said a deep, bass voice behind the gate. “Don’t quarrel. …”
“What’s the matter?” asked the porter.
“Why, this,” answered the bass voice. “Because of him the guest-master sinned … turned a man away. … And he’s a good man. Oh! Oh! … a real sin. …”
The speaker went away. The porter shut the gate, but not quite completely; curiosity mastered him and his little eyes, his fat nose, and his light mustache could be seen through the crack. He was following with manifest interest the further actions of the rejected wanderer.
The latter quickly rose, gathered up his wallets, put one on his back, and threw the other over his shoulder. Then, picking up the book, he carefully began to clean the mud off of it. Looking around the court, he caught sight of me and of the kalach-seller. A group of peasants were watching the little drama from the outer gates of the square. Deliberately the stranger assumed an air of dignity, and, with the most demonstrative devotion, he kissed the binding of the book and made a sarcastic bow toward the inner gates.
“I thank you, holy fathers. As ye have received the stranger and fed the hungry. …”
Suddenly noticing in the crack of the gate the mustache and nose of the porter, he said in a different tone:
“What are you looking at? Did you recognize me?”
“I thought … yes … I thought you were familiar,” said the porter.
“Of course, of course! … We’re old friends! We ran off together to the Mordvin women of Sviridov. … Do you remember now?”
The porter spat loudly and angrily, closed the gate, and threw the bolt. But his feet, with their rough boots, could still be seen beneath the gate.
“Don’t you remember Fenka, father?”
The feet disappeared as if ashamed.
The stranger straightened his muddy cloak and again looked around. Attracted by the unusual conversation, some six peasants had strolled towards the gate. They were the nearest neighbors to the monastery, Old Believers from the villages in the vicinity, who had come to the bazaar with an air of indifferent and even hostile curiosity. Despite its influence at a distance, the monastery was surrounded by a ring of the “most venomous” sectarians, as the monks expressed it. The inhabitants of the region were positive that in the near future the monastery would be threatened with the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. But still it continued and attracted thousands of people to its festivals. On such days the figures of the Old Believers furnished a grim contrast to the rejoicing multitudes and their faces reflected their hostility and disgust. Like the Prophet Jonah, they murmured because the Lord delayed in inflicting the promised doom upon the accursed Nineveh.
They were now watching with malevolent curiosity the scene which was being enacted at the door of the dishonorable habitation.
“What’s the matter? They won’t let him in, I see, …” one said jokingly. “It’s crowded … with Mordvin women. …”
The wanderer turned and threw a keen glance at the speaker. Suddenly his face took on a humble expression and he walked back to the gate—and three times he crossed himself reverently and ostentatiously.
The peasants looked at one another in surprise; the stranger had made the sign of the cross not with three fingers, but in the old way with only two.
“The Lord, Who seest all things, will reward the monks according to their mercy,” he said with a sigh. “We, brothers, will shake off the dust from our feet, and listen here, in the temple not made with hands (he pointed gracefully and calmly to the evening sky), to an instructive sermon on repentance. …”
The peasants crowded together; their faces expressed their delighted and also credulous surprise. The change was too unexpected. … The idea of holding their own meeting on the alien festival and of listening at the very gate of the monastery to a wandering preacher, who made the sign of the cross in the old way, clearly pleased the adherents of the old faith. The preacher took his stand at the base of the bell-tower. The wind ruffled his dusty, light hair.
It was hard to tell the man’s precise age, but he was clearly not old. His face was heavily tanned and his hair and eyes seemed faded from the action of sun and storm.
At each movement of his head, however slight, the cords of his neck stood out prominently and trembled. The man gave you, involuntarily, the impression of something unfortunate, wonderfully self-controlled and, perchance, evil.
He began to read aloud. He read well, simply, and convincingly, and, stopping now and then, he commented in his own way on what he had read. Once he glanced at me, but he quickly shifted his eyes. I thought he did not care for my presence. After that he turned more often to one of his auditors.
This was a broad-shouldered, undersized peasant, whose shape might have been fashioned by two or three blows of an axe. In spite of the squareness of his figure, he seemed very communicative. He paid the utmost attention to every word of the preacher and added some remarks of his own, which expressed his almost childish joy.
“Oh, brothers … my friends,” he said, looking around. … “It’s so true, what he told us about repentance. … The end might come. … You know … and we’re such sinners … just one little sin more and another. Yes, yes. …”
“And that means another and another, …” broke in a second.
“Yes. … You see. … Oh! …”
With delighted eyes, he looked around the gathering. …
His noisy interruption and his joy apparently did not please the preacher. The latter suddenly stopped, turned his head quickly, and the cords of his neck tightened like ropes. … He wanted to say something, but he checked himself and turned a page.
The congregation had rejoiced too early. At the very time when they were most highly exalted—pride and excessive hope pressed hard on the ladder. It trembled; the listeners seemed frightened; the ladder crashed down. …
“He’s through!” were the sad words of the deep-voiced peasant.
“Yes, brother!” chimed in the first. And a strange thing: he turned his sparkling eyes on all and the same joy sounded in his voice. … “Now we have no excuse. … We mustn’t do that first little sin.”
The stranger closed his book and for a few seconds he watched the speaker obstinately. But the peasant met his gaze with the same joy and trusting good nature.
“Do you think so?” asked the preacher.
“Yes,” answered the man. “Judge yourself, my friend. … How long will He suffer us?”
“Do you think so?” the preacher asked again with some emphasis, and his voice caused signs of uneasiness to appear on the other’s face.
“You know there