Since then, it is said that the houses of God have stood in Arzamas. Since then the clergy sing the requiem over the nameless graves and the icons which have been brought hither do not perish unnoticed. …
IV
It was a clear, calm morning when I went out to the remains of the Village of God. A tired woman who was driving a lost cow crossed herself, when she saw the cross of the chapel. A gang of workmen, “panniers” of Arzamas, were going to their work. A very old peasant, gray as an owl and with faded but still living eyes, was sitting on the threshold of the chapel and binding the flaps of his rough boots. The sun had just risen above the distant forests.
“Greetings, grandsir,” I said to the old man.
“Good morning, son. … Where’re you going?”
“To Sarov.”
“You’re on the wrong road. There’s the proper way. … To the bridge and then the village there.”
“I know, grandsir. I left the road on purpose, so as to see the houses of God.”
“Look, son, look. … And pray here too. … It’s a holy place, you know. …”
“Don’t you know who’s buried here?”
“Yes, son, yes! People of every class. … Violence! … A Saltykov, a landowner from the Vyyezdnaya Sloboda, who oppressed the people—God forbid.”
The old man sadly shook his gray beard.
“You know, old people say—a merchant was going from Makary to Arzamas—and offered thanksgiving for arriving safely. Glory to God—he was at home! At dawn he went out of the city peacefully and met the lord and his retainers on the bridge. There was no justice. … They hurled him from the bridge into the Tesha and in a day or two his body floated to the city. … It was picked up and buried here, on the mountain. And here it lies till the Day of Judgment. …”
I was already familiar with the name of this Saltykov: the old records in the archives of Nizhny Novgorod preserve the dark memories of the acts of this noble family, and one is well known from the revolt of Pugachev: his retainers collected the taxes by robbery. When the glad tidings spread among the people that Petr Fedorovich had made himself known and was marching to recover his throne, the serfs of Saltykov thought that there would be an end to their master’s outrages and their necessarily sinful lives. The mir assembled, seized and bound their lord, put him in a cart and took him to the “tsar’s camp” for trial. “But,” said one landowner who described the incident, “the Lord heard the prayers of the innocent victim and the rascals instead of going to the camp of the pretender, carried him to the troops of Mikhelson.”
It goes without saying that the kindly nobleman was quickly released and the wicked peasants received just punishment. Their bones perhaps joined those of the followers of Bulavin, the Stryeltsi and the victims of this same Saltykov. They all lie there together awaiting “the judgment of God” over all earthly actions. …
“Yes, there’s the Sloboda,” said the old man, rising to his feet and pointing to the village with its columns of smoke and with the morning fog across the river Tesha. “And there, higher up, were the gardens of Saltykov. …”
“Do you think these houses of God were built since, grandsir?” I asked.
“N-no, friend! Since! N-no. … Much earlier. … Perhaps since Pugachev.”
“Who was Pugachev?”
“Who knows, we are dark people. We heard from our fathers and grandfathers nothing but Pugachev and Pugachev. … You know the old story. My father died forty years ago and he was ninety years old when he died. … And he was still a boy when Pugachev appeared. Count now, how long ago it was.”
“A hundred and twenty years, grandsir.”
“Yes, a hundred and twenty—and more! … Pugachev was a stern man. Oh, so stern. You know, he didn’t love the landowners. He’d go into a village. ‘Give me your lords!’ If the peasants hid them—God forbid! Cruel. … My father, God bless him, once told me there were two villages side by side. The people of one guessed right. They took the icon and went to meet him, ringing the bells. He pardoned them, rewarded them, gave them a charter of his favor. … Ours didn’t; the fools didn’t meet him and he burned the whole village.”
The old man suddenly looked at me, saw my watchchain and the notebook in which I began to jot down the main points of his story—and he suddenly took off his cap and said:
“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake!”
“What’s the matter, grandsir?”
“That wasn’t so, perhaps. … We’re dark people; how should we know? … Perhaps he never said it. … But it is true that he was stern. … He loved order. …”
The old man seemed to be afraid that the gentleman would condemn him for familiar stories about the high qualities of Pugachev, who “loved order” and issued “charters of his favor”. …
I succeeded in calming his anxiety, and we continued to talk. The old man proved communicative. His memory kept much curious lore and his simple answers revealed that same vague atmosphere which filled the place: a feeling of pardoning and timid lack of comprehension, of vague questioning and of prayer for those who lie here, under the earth, and perchance had been executed as punishment for crime or perchance had laid down their lives for a cause punishable here on earth but counted holy and righteous there.
The group of workmen stopped along with me to hear the almost forgotten traditions connected with this spot.
V
We went together into the little chapel. Its walls were covered with regiments of icons, and at the eastern end was a crucifix also surrounded by icons. Gloomy faces, dark boards, bereft of
