The Englishman listened to all that and chased Sevastian out, as he had us, and there were no further decisions from him, and so, my dear sirs, we sat over the river like crows on a ruin, and didn’t know whether to be in total despair, or to expect something more, but we no longer dared go to the Englishman; moreover, the weather was again of like character to us: a terrible thaw set in, and it poured rain, the sky at midday was like a smokehouse, and the nights were so dark that even Hesperus, which never leaves the heavenly firmament in December, hid and refused to come out … A prison for the soul, that’s what! And so Christmas came, and right on the eve there was thunder, a downpour, and it poured and poured without stopping for two or three days: the snow was all washed away into the river, and the ice on the river began to turn blue and swell, and suddenly, two days before the New Year, it burst and was carried away … Block upon block shot up and hurtled over the turbid waves, clogging the whole river around our constructions: mountains of ice arose chunk upon chunk, and whirled and crashed, God forgive me, like demons. How the constructions stood and endured such inconceivable pressure was even astonishing. Frightful millions might have been destroyed, but we were past worrying, because our icon painter Sevastian, seeing that there was nothing for him to do, rose up—he started packing his bags and wanted to go to other parts, and there was no way we could hold him back.
The Englishman was also past worrying, because something happened to him during this foul weather, so that he nearly went out of his mind. He kept going about, they say, asking everybody: “What am I to do? What am I going to do?” And then he suddenly mastered himself, called Luka, and said:
“You know what, my muzhik? Why don’t we go and steal your angel?”
“Agreed,” says Luka.
Luka’s observation was that the Englishman apparently wished to experience danger and had decided to go the next day to the bishop in the monastery, to take the icon painter with him in the guise of a goldsmith, and ask to be shown the icon of the angel, so that he could make a detailed outline of it, as if for a casing; and meanwhile the man would examine it the best he could and paint an imitation of it at home. Then, when the real goldsmith had the casing ready for us, he would bring it to us across the river, and Yakov Yakovlevich would go to the monastery again and say that he wanted to see the festal episcopal service, and would go into the sanctuary and stand in his overcoat in the darkness by the altar, where our icon was kept on the windowsill, and would hide it under the skirt of his coat, and, giving the coat to his servant, as if from the heat, would take it away. And in the yard behind the church, our man would at once take the icon out of the overcoat and fly to our side with it, and there, during the time that the vigil lasted, the icon painter would have to remove the old icon from its old board, replace it with the copy, cover it with the casing, and send it back, so that Yakov Yakovlevich could return it to the windowsill as if nothing had happened.
“Why not, sir?” we say. “We agree to everything!”
“Only watch out,” he says. “Remember that I’ll be standing there in the role of the thief, and I want to have faith in you, that you won’t give me away.”
Luka Kirilovich says:
“We’re not the sort of people who deceive their benefactors, Yakov Yakovlevich. I’ll take the icon and bring both back to you, the real one and the copy.”
“Well, and if something prevents you?”
“What can prevent me?”
“Well, if you suddenly die or drown?”
Luka thinks: why should there be such a hindrance? But then he figures that it does sometimes happen that while digging a well you discover treasure, or you go to the market and meet a rabid dog, so he replies:
“In that case, sir, I’ll leave a man with you, one of ours, who will take all the blame on himself in case I fail you, and will suffer death rather than give you away.”
“And who is this man you rely on so much?”
“The blacksmith Maroy,” replies Luka.
“That old man?”
“True, he’s not young.”
“But it seems he’s stupid?”
“His mind we don’t need, but the man has a worthy spirit.”
“What kind of spirit can a stupid man have?” he says.
“The spirit, sir,” Luka answers, “does not go according to reason: the spirit bloweth where it listeth,29 the same as one person has long and luxuriant hair and another scarcely any.”
The Englishman ponders and says:
“Very well, very well: these are all interesting sensations. But how will he bail me out if I get caught?”
“Here’s how,” Luka replies. “You’ll stand in the church by the window, and Maroy will stand outside under the window, and if I don’t come with the icons before the end of the service, he’ll break the glass, climb through the window, and take all the blame on himself.”
The Englishman liked that very much.
“Curious,” he said, “very curious! And why should I trust that your stupid man with spirit won’t just run away?”
“Well, that is a matter of mutual trust.”
“Mutual trust,” he repeats. “Hm, hm, mutual trust! Either I go to hard labor for a stupid muzhik, or he goes under the knout for me? Hm, hm! If he keeps his word … it’s under the knout … That’s interesting.”
We sent for Maroy and explained to him what it was about, and he says:
“Well, what of it?”
“And you won’t run away?” says the Englishman.
And Maroy replies:
“Why should I?”
“So as not to be flogged and sent to Siberia.” And Maroy says:
“Oh, that!”—and wouldn’t talk anymore.
The Englishman was overjoyed: he got all livened up.
“Delightful,” he says. “How interesting!”
XIV
Right after this discussion, the action began. We hung oars on the Englishman’s big longboat the next morning and transported him to the city side. There he and the icon painter Sevastian got into a carriage and drove to the monastery, and after a little more than an hour, we see our icon painter come running, and in his hand there’s a sheet of paper with the tracing of our icon.
We ask:
“Did you see it, dear man, and can you now copy it nicely for us?”
“Yes, I saw it,” he replies, “and I can do it, except that it may come out a bit more vivid. But that doesn’t matter. When the icon gets here, I can then tone down the brightness in a minute.”
“Dear heart,” we beg him, “do your best.”
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “I will!”
And as soon as we brought him back, he immediately sat down to work and by the end of the day had an angel ripe on the canvas, as like our sealed one as two drops of water, except that the colors seemed a bit fresher.
By evening the goldsmith had also sent the new casing, because it had been commissioned earlier on the model of the old silver one.
The most dangerous time of our thievery was coming.
We were all prepared, naturally, and had prayed before evening, and were waiting for the right moment; and as soon as the first bell rang for vigil in the monastery on the other side, the three of us—myself, old Maroy, and Uncle Luka—got into a small boat. Old Maroy brought along an axe, a chisel, a crowbar, and a rope, so as to look more like a thief, and we headed straight for the monastery wall.
At that time of year, naturally, twilight came early, and the night, despite the full moon, was pitch-dark, really thievish.
Having crossed, Maroy and Luka left me at the bank in the boat and went sneaking into the monastery themselves. I shipped the oars, caught hold of the end of the rope, and waited impatiently, so as to cast off as soon as Luka set foot in the boat. The time seemed terribly long to me, out of anxiety for how it was all going to turn out and whether we would succeed in covering up our thievery while the vespers and vigil were still going on. And it seemed to me that God kno
ws how much time had already passed; it was frightfully dark, the wind was fierce, and instead of rain wet snow began to pour down, the boat rocked slightly in the wind, and I, the wicked servant, gradually warming up in my coat, began to doze off. But suddenly there came a shove to the boat, and it began to pitch about. I roused myself and saw Uncle Luka standing in it, and he says in a stifled voice, not his own:
“Row!”
I took the oars, but couldn’t get them into the oarlocks from fear. I managed with great effort and pushed off from the shore, and then asked:
“Did you get the angel, uncle?”
“He’s with me. Row harder!”
“Tell me,” I persist, “how did you get him?”
“Just the way we said.”
“And we’ll have time to bring him back?”
“We should. They’ve just sung the great prokeimenon.30 Row! Where are you rowing to?”
I turned around. Oh, Lord! True enough, I was rowing in the wrong direction: it seemed I kept steering across the current, as I ought to, but our settlement wasn’t there—it was because there was such snow and wind, it was awful, and it blinded your eyes, and all around there was roaring and heaving, and the surface of the river seemed to breathe ice.
Well, anyway, by God’s mercy we made it, jumped out of the boat, and ran. The icon painter was ready: he acted coolly, but firmly. He took the icon in his hands, and once the people had fallen down and venerated it, he let them all cross themselves before the sealed face, while he looked at it and at his forgery and said:
“Fine work! Only it has to be toned down a bit with dirt and saffron!” And then he clamped the icon by the edges, tuned up his saw, which he had put into the tight bow, and … the saw went into a flutter. We all stood there seeing if he’d damage it! Awful, sirs! Can you picture him to yourselves, with his enormous hands, sawing a layer from the board no thicker than a sheet of the finest writing paper? … It’s a short step to sin: if the saw goes off by a hair, it will tear through the image and come out the other side! But the icon painter Sevastian performed the whole action with such coolness and artistry that, looking at him, we felt more at peace in our souls every minute. And indeed, he sawed off the image on its paper-thin layer, then in one minute he cut the image out, leaving a border, and glued the border back onto the same board. Then he took his copy and crumpled it, crumpled it in his fists, scraped it on the edge of the table, and rubbed it between his palms, tearing at it as if he wanted to destroy it, and finally held it up to the light, and the whole of this new copy was full of cracks like a sieve … Then Sevastian took it at once and glued it onto the old board inside the border, filled his palm with some sort of dark pigment, he knew which, added old varnish and saffron, mixed it with his fingers into a sort of paste, and rubbed it hard into the crumpled copy … He did it all very briskly, and the newly painted icon became quite old and looked just like the real one. In a moment, this copy was varnished, and our people were putting the casing on it, while the icon painter put the real icon he had sawed out onto the prepared board and quickly demanded a scrap of an old felt hat.
This was the beginning of the most difficult action—the unsealing.
They gave the icon painter a hat, he immediately tore it in half on his knee and, covering the sealed icon with it, shouted:
“Give me the hot iron!”
On the stove, at his orders, a heavy tailor’s iron had been heated burning hot.
Mikhailitsa picked it up with tongs and gave it to him, and Sevastian wrapped the handle with a cloth, spat on the iron, and passed it quickly over the scrap of hat! … An evil stench arose from the felt at once, and the icon painter did it again, and pressed, and snatched it away. His hand flew like lightning, and a column of smoke already rose from the felt, but Sevastian went on scorching: with one hand he turned the felt a little, with the other he worked the iron, and each time more slowly and pressing harder, and suddenly he set both the iron and the felt aside and held the icon up to the light, and it was as if the seal had never been: the strong Stroganov varnish had held out, and the sealing wax was all gone, only a sort of fiery red dew was left on the image, but the whole brightly divine face was visible …
Here some of us prayed, some wept, some tried to kiss the painter’s hands, but Luka Kirilovich did not forget what he was about and, treasuring every minute, handed the painter his forged icon and said:
“Well, finish quickly!”
The man replies:
“My action is finished, I’ve done everything I promised.”
“What about placing the seal?”
“Where?”
“Why, here on the face of this new angel, like on the other one.”
Sevastian shook his head and replied:
“Oh, no, I’m no official, I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.”
“Then what are we to do now?”
“That I don’t know,” he says. “You ought to have had an official or some German on hand, but since you failed to supply them, you’ll have to do it yourselves.”
Luka says:
“What? We wouldn’t dare do that!”
And the icon painter replies:
“I don’t dare either.”
And in those brief moments of great turmoil, Yakov Yakovlevich’s wife suddenly comes flying into the cottage, all pale as death, and says:
“Aren’t you ready yet?”
“Ready and not ready,” we say. “The most important thing is done, but the paltry one we can’t do.”
And she babbles in her language:
“What are you waiting for? Don’t you hear what’s going on outside?”
We listened and turned paler than she was: amidst our cares, we had paid no attention to the weather, but now we heard the noise: the ice was moving!
I sprang outside and saw it had already covered the whole river—block heaving upon block like rabid beasts, whirling into each other, and crashing, and breaking up.
Forgetting myself, I rushed to the boats, but there wasn’t a single one left: they had all been swept away … My tongue went stiff in my mouth, I couldn’t move it, and my ribs sank one after another, as if I was going down into the earth … I stand there, and don’t move, and don’t give voice.
But while we were rushing around in the dark, the Englishwoman stayed in the cottage alone with Mikhailitsa, found out what had caused the delay, snatched up the icon and … a moment later rushed out to the porch with it, holding a lantern, and cried:
“Here, it’s ready!”
We looked: the new angel had a seal on his face!
Luka immediately put both icons in his bosom and shouted:
“A boat!”
I let on that there were no boats, they’d been swept away.
And the ice, I tell you, came thronging like a herd, smashing against the icebreakers and shaking the bridge, so that even the chains, for all that they were thick as good floorboards, could be heard rattling.
The Englishwoman, when she understood that, clasped her hands, shrieked “James!” in an inhuman voice, and fell as if dead.
And we stand there, all feeling the same thing:
“What of our word? What will happen to the Englishman now? What will happen to old Maroy?”
Just then the bells in the monastery bell tower rang for the third time.
Uncle Luka suddenly roused himself and exclaimed to the Englishwoman:
“Come to your senses, lady, your husband will be safe, and maybe our old Maroy will just have his decrepit hide torn by the executioner and his honest face dishonored by a brand, but that will happen only after my death!” And with those words he crossed himself, stepped out, and left.
I cried out:
“Uncle Luka, where are you going? Levonty perished, and you’re going to perish!”—and I rushed after him to hold him back, but he picked up an oar that I thrown down when we came and, brandishing it at me, cried:
“Away, or I’ll strike you dead!”
Gen
tlemen, I have rather openly confessed my faintheartedness to you in my story, how I abandoned the late youth Levonty on the ground that time and climbed a tree, but really and truly I say to you, this time I would not have feared the oar and retreated before Uncle Luka, but—believe it or not, as you like—at that moment, just as I remembered Levonty’s name, the youth Levonty appeared in the darkness between me and him and shook his hand at me. This terror I couldn’t bear, and I drew back. Meanwhile, Luka was already standing at the end of the chain and, having set his foot firmly on it, suddenly said through the storm:
“Start singing!”
Our choir director, Arefa, was standing right there and obeyed at once and struck up “I will open my mouth,” the others joined in, and we shouted out the hymn, fighting against the howling of the storm, and Luka, fearless of this deadly terror, walked along the chain of the bridge. In one minute he had walked the first span and descended into the next … And further on? Further on the darkness enveloped him, and we couldn’t see whether he was still walking or had already fallen and the cursed blocks of ice had whirled him into the abyss, and we didn’t know whether to pray for his safety or weep for the repose of his firm and honor-loving soul.
XV
Now, sirs, what was happening on the other bank? His grace the bishop, according to his rule, was celebrating the vigil in the main church, knowing nothing about the robbery being carried out at the same time in the side chapel. With his permission, our Englishman, Yakov Yakovlevich, stood in the chapel sanctuary, and, having stolen our angel, sent it out of the church, as he had intended, in his overcoat, and Luka raced off with it. Meanwhile old Maroy, keeping his word, remained outside by the same window, waiting till the last moment, so that, in case Luka did not come back, the Englishman could retreat, and Maroy would break the window and get into the church with a crowbar and a chisel, like a real villain. The Englishman didn’t take his eyes off him, and he saw that old Maroy was standing strictly by his duty, and the moment he saw the Englishman press his face to the window so as to see him, he nodded at once, meaning, “I’m here to answer for the theft—I’m here!”
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 15
