The Faraway Bride

of God⁠—I reveal myself to you⁠—not as myself, Wilfred Chew (an imperfect and ignoble person), but as a work of God⁠—a messenger of God. I have been sent in answer to the prayers of good people⁠—yourselves. People that sin are enemies to their own life. Saggay Saggayitch (remember to translate all this). Tell your father that I am sent as the reward of goodness. He was good, leaving his dinner that day, as your mother told me, to go and do his duty by his dead friend, yet for a time only misfortune seemed to result. Blindness⁠—poverty⁠—the difficulty of getting his lawful money from Mr. Isaev at Seoul⁠ ⁠… all these things afflicted him, yet still he was good⁠—he prayed. The same with your wife; she was afflicted by a devil⁠—and she prayed. And, in answer to these prayers, I was sent by God to you⁠—or rather, not I, but an angel in this poor body of mine. It is as if you had seen a vision all these days, Saggay Saggayitch⁠—you thought you walked with a man called Wilfred Chew⁠—a mere barrister, of the Middle Temple, London⁠—but really you walked with an angel. Often, during these weeks, I have felt quite strikingly not myself; something guided my hand even when I did not know it, something saved me from sinning.⁠ ⁠… And when my outward man fell from grace (on one occasion at least you were a witness of it), eating and drinking far too much, I am ashamed to say⁠—even then, something within me sat apart⁠—the angel in me sat apart⁠—neither eating nor drinking, simply occupied in fulfilling the divine commission. Translate all this now, please, Saggay Saggayitch.”

Poor Seryozha was staggered. He stammered in Russian to his father, “He says that he has been God’s angel to us.”

“I am surprised that he should say so himself, but it is perfectly true,” said Old Sergei, bowing to Wilfred. “One can see God’s hand in all that he has done. But surely he said more than that.”

“He said that a great many times,” said Seryozha, guiltily. “It was all I understood.”

“Have you translated it all properly, Saggay Saggayitch?” asked Wilfred, a little surprised at the condensing tendency of the Russian language. He was so anxious that the point of his remarks should reach the old man⁠—that this stream of inspiration that he felt flowing through his heart and lips should not be dammed by misunderstanding. “Does he understand, Saggay Saggayitch, that I am not praising myself⁠—that I am not an angel, though an angel traveled inside me? Does he understand that I am myself a great sinner?” He was very anxious to have his meaning made clear⁠—not only the fact of his possession by an angelic spirit, but also his new idea of himself as a great sinner used as a divine mouthpiece⁠—a Chinese Saint Paul. “Does he understand all that? Tell him how I sinned. Tell him I was drunk.”

“He was drunk,” said Saryozha to his father.

Old Sergei started. “Well, well!” he murmured, feebly. “I dare say the temptation was strong.”

“Does he understand everything now?” asked poor Wilfred, anxiously.

“Everything indeed,” replied Saryozha.

Wilfred, however, was determined to take no risks. He leaned over Old Sergei and seized his hand. Old Sergei’s straining, peering face was turned upward, like the beak of a fledgeling about to be fed.

“Listen, Mr. Malinin. Ya plokhoi chelovyek⁠ ⁠…”

“Nyet nyet,” murmured Old Sergei, politely.

“Da da⁠—plokhoi chelovyek. But at the same time, Bokh’s chelovyek⁠ ⁠… Horosho⁠—ah?”

“Horosho, horosho.”

“Horosho?”

“Horosho, horosho, horosho.”

“Then all is now understood,” said Wilfred, radiantly.

“I will now leave you.”

“Won’t you stay to dinner?” asked Anna, who, as they now saw, was standing in the doorway, peeling a potato on to the floor.

“Ah, Mrs. Malinin, have you heard all that I have been saying?”

“Indeed yes,” said Anna, with vague warmth. “Most interesting indeed.”

“Ah, then you can talk it all over with your husband.⁠ ⁠… Tell him I think it would make an interesting and helpful book⁠—he should write such a book, Mrs. Malinin. I want everyone to know about it all. I want this,” added Wilfred, standing in the doorway, “because these feelings are the largest feelings I have ever had in my life.⁠ ⁠…” His lips twitched. “I think now that this is a good adventure that we have had.⁠ ⁠… I want people to know about it so as to be helped to be good. I feel that in going I leave goodness with you.⁠ ⁠…”

But as he walked away, tense with excitement, goodness went with him down the street. The ghost of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett held his hand.

“Yes, indeed,” said Old Sergei, after a moment’s silence. “He is right. It is as if God had sent His angel to help us. Do you remember, Annitchka, you once said you wished that God would send His angel to take care of our Seryozha on his dangerous journey to Seoul, and I said that God had forgotten poor Russians. I was wrong. I believe now that I was wrong. God will remember us⁠—give us happiness again. God will remember poor Russia again, poor Russia now being scourged for her sins⁠—and bring not us, Annitchka, but our children and our grandchildren back out of exile. Yes, Russia is passing through the fire, and will be desolate for a time, but God will have mercy and bring her children again into the land, where they shall build a Russia, not like the first, a new Russia. They shall return from all the places of their exile, and build up Russia gloriously. Ai, Annitchka, we shall not see it, but Seryozha’s children will see it.”

But Anna’s voice came from the kitchen, whither she had retreated. “Seryozha, draw up that bench to the table, and your father’s big chair.” She reappeared, panting, in the doorway. “You and Tanya⁠—bride and bridegroom⁠—shall sit on the bench at the head of the table.”

Seryozha sat on it to see how it would feel. If Sonia Matvievna were