The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“We have no one to maintain it, my good sir,” I reply, “because in the new art schools everywhere a corruption of the senses is developed and the mind is given over to vanity. The model of lofty inspiration is lost, and everything is taken from the earth and breathes of earthly passion. Our newest artists started by portraying the warrior-angel Michael as Prince Potemkin of Taurida, and now they’ve gone so far that Christ the Savior is depicted as a Jew.²⁰ What can be expected from such people? Their uncircumcised hearts may portray something even worse and worship it as a deity: in Egypt, after all, they worshipped a bull and a red onion; but we’re not going to bow down before strange gods, or take a Jewish face for the image of our Savior, and we even consider these portrayals, however artful they may be, as shameful ignorance, and we turn away from them, because our fathers said that ‘distraction of the eyes destroys the purity of reason, as a broken water pump spoils the water.’ ”

I finished with that and fell silent, but the Englishman says:

“Go on: I like the way you reason.”

“I’ve already said everything,” I reply, but he says:

“No, tell me what you mean by your notion of inspired representation.”

The question, my dear sirs, was quite difficult for a simple man, but, no help for it, I went ahead and told him how the starry sky is painted in Novgorod, and then I began to describe the decoration of St. Sophia in Kiev, where seven winged warrior-angels, who naturally do not resemble Potemkin, stand to the sides of the God of Sabaoth; and just below are the prophets and forefathers; on a lower level, Moses with the tables; still lower, Aaron in a miter and with a sprouting rod; then come King David in a crown, the prophet Isaiah with a scroll, Ezekiel with a shut gate, Daniel with a stone; and around all these who stand before God, showing us the way to heaven, are depicted the gifts through which man can reach that glorious path, namely: a book with seven seals—the gift of wisdom; a seven-branched candelabra—the gift of reason; seven eyes—the gift of counsel; seven trumpets—the gift of fortitude; a right hand amidst seven stars—the gift of vision; seven censers—the gift of piety; seven lightning bolts—the gift of the fear of God. “There,” I say, “is an uplifting picture!”

And the Englishman replies:

“Forgive me, my good man, but I don’t understand you. Why do you consider it uplifting?”

“Because this picture says clearly to the soul what a Christian ought to pray and yearn for, in order to ascend from earth to the unutterable glory of God.”

“But,” he says, “anyone can comprehend that from the Scriptures and prayers.”

“By no means, sir,” I reply. “It is not given to everyone to comprehend the Scriptures, and the uncomprehending mind can be darkened even in prayer: a man hears the exclamation, ‘Awaiting Thy great and rich mercies,’ and immediately thinks it’s about money and starts bowing greedily. But when he sees the picture of heavenly glory before him, then he thinks on the lofty prospects of life and understands how that goal is to be reached, because here everything is simple and reasonable: a man should first pray that his soul be given the gift of the fear of God, and then it will proceed lightly from step to step, assimilating at each step the superabundance of higher gifts, and in those moments of prayer, money and all earthly glory will seem to a man no more than an abomination before the Lord.”

Here the Englishman stands up and says merrily:

“And what do you odd birds pray for?”

“We,” I reply, “pray for a Christian ending to our life and a good defense before the dread judgment seat.”

He smiled and suddenly pulled a green curtain open by a golden cord, and behind that curtain his English wife was sitting in an armchair, knitting on long needles by a candle. She was a fine, affable lady, and though she didn’t speak much of our language, she understood everything and had probably wanted to hear our conversation about religion.

And what do you think? When the curtain that hid her was pulled aside, she stood up at once, seemed to shudder, and came, the dear woman, to me and Luka, offered both hands to us muzhiks, and there were tears glistening in her eyes, and she pressed our hands and said:

“Goot people, goot Russian people!”

Luka and I kissed both her hands for those kind words, and she put her lips to our muzhik heads.

The storyteller stopped and, covering his eyes with his sleeve, wiped them discreetly, and murmured in a whisper: “A touching woman!” and with that he straightened up and went on again.