Gurov

Russia, c. 1813.

The train walked midnight and snow was falling, falling like… oh, dear reader, it fell like a sentiment, gently rising until it became impressive, heavy. Gurov, a legal clerk with the government, had been watching the snow and though he could not keep his eyes open, still he could not sleep. His heart was hurting; he was desperately sad.

And the way she stood there on the platform, not turning even when she thought I had stopped watching her through the window. And what I did! And what she said… men kill themselves over things like this… and will I see her again?

Such were his thoughts. He placed his head on the table in front of him, and so pushed them nearer to his eyes, soul. He marvelled at the fact of all the things one can own in this world, it is thoughts- and especially sadness- which we hold nearer than anything else; which are truly ‘ours’, because we cannot give them away. A high voice pricked his ear.
“Sir, this gentleman- Mr Burchyts- has asked to be seated in your cabin.”
Gurov looked up, his eyes somewhat red from tiredness. And in general, he looked tired; there was a yellow tinge to his cheeks, a sadness to the way his lips hung slightly parted. He was handsome, but his was one of those faces which somehow communicate too much of the interior self. Such men are good monks or good actors, or sometimes good for not much.
“er… yes, of course,” he stammered, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Please,” he said, managing a weak smile. His sadness was not such that inconveniences like these had ceased to upset him.

****

What is a church, dear reader? Or a woman?

She believed in love; not the sort purchased with condolences, with flesh, with loneliness. No, she believed in real love; the holy communion of souls, a tender and loving kindness like that which God holds us in. And then she met him, and not suddenly, but slowly, like all profound revelations, her belief was confirmed.  

***

Man would look to the stars and call them bright, as if they shine for him alone. And they do.

***

Lord, my God, blessed be this tender sadness which doth cover my soul in a city of strangers. Blessed be this longing for the Churches of Latvia, the stones or Rome. Blessed be this love for a woman who sleeps as I stammer, and who loves me, despite me.

***

Later Gurov was sitting alone in the large house on his estate in L-. It was snowing, and it was night-time. He felt wretched. It seemed to him that his life had amounted to nothing. It seemed to him that even when he had experienced happiness, it had only been for a moment, and so had been an exception. He was drinking wine. The study, where he was sitting, had been his father’s room, and everything in it- the oak cabinet, the European writing table, the pens and expensive inks and the icons resting in the far corner- had been purchased by his father after thirty years’ service.  He often considered his father at moments like this; that his father had, in his own way, by working himself into the grave, provided for his son’s torment and that in all of this there was an ethic or at least a logic secretly at play. Gurov picked up his glass and walked to the mirror. He saw a man of no more than twenty-four; handsome, of average height with a strong neck and a thick set of hair. He saw a stranger, and, sighing, something of him wished that his appearance reflected his sadness.
There was a knock at the door.
“Sir,” the manservant, Grigory, whispered. “The priest. He’s here.”
“What priest!?” Gurov cried. “No one’s told me anything about a priest.”
“He said you yourself asked him to come, sir.”
“What? Ah, yes. Yes! Of course. Send him through.”
Grigory withdrew quietly and a few minutes later reappeared with a young man dressed in a habit.
“Please, come, come…” Gurov smiled, moving a chair a little further from the fire for the young priest.” “Thank you,” the priest said, lowering himself into the armchair
For perhaps four whole minutes neither said anything. To Gurov’s bewilderment, the priest appeared even anxious at this fact, whereas he should, Gurov reasoned, be calm. Gurov, for his part, was also somewhat uncomfortable and did not know how to begin with his new companion. What’s more, he could not quite remember why he had summoned the priest in the first place.
Naturally, the two of them started at the same moment.
“Please excuse me!” Gurov said hurriedly, “Go on, go on with what you had to say…”
“Oh no, I was just… I just noticed the icons you have here, sir.”
“What? Oh, yes. My fathers. My fathers.”
“And do you pray to them?”
“Ha!” Gurov cried somewhat too suddenly. “Pray? No… I don’t move them because of my father, you see. His legacy, if you understand me.”
“But of course, I understand you completely.”
Another four minutes’ silence ensued. The air was stiff. The men, or at least so Gurov imagined, had taken a disliking to each other.
“Well then, you’re probably curious,” Gurov began again, evidently cautious of his companion’s blazing eyes. “You’re probably curious why it is I’ve asked you here, yes?”
“I…”
“I’ll tell you without pretence: it is true, I’ve lost my faith!” Saying this with visible strain, Gurov downed the half glass of wine. “I’ve lost my faith, and quite recently, in fact. Even just yesterday, I think it happened. But it’s gone, priest, all of it; this is not a fluctuation, but a real change. Now… What’s the best way to proceed here? Should I tell you, that is, explain to you why this has happened? Or would you prefer to ask questions?”
“It’s much better that you explain things, and afterwards perhaps I will ask you some questions,” the priest said, smiling slyly.
“Very well. Only… listen, and not as a priest, but as a man. And… look… it’s also true that you’re seated here before me, which must mean I haven’t completely lost my faith.”
“An astute observation.”
“Yes, yes! Take note: I am observant. But as for astuteness, please don’t hazard to guess. I may yet be deceiving you; my intentions might be wicked.”
“I’m certain that you are deceiving one of us,” the priest muttered, lowering his eyes.
“Ha! Brilliant! You brilliant little smock, or hermit, or whatever I might use as an affectionate term for you, my new friend. Yes, I cannot be trusted, it is true. But hear my testimony, would you.
“It began yesterday, or perhaps even this morning. I was at work, as usual, in the department of I-, performing some mundane task for someone or other. I’ve been doing this for ten years, perhaps, and it’s always bothered me, but not really… that is, not fundamentally. It’s bearable. I was given this post purely on the merit of my father’s reputation; they read the last name, asked if we were related, and then, what do you know, on the spot was this ‘prestigious’ position given to me, a graduate from a lowly university, a man who cannot spell. I took up the position greedily; I remember there was even a period of time where I packed my lunch, ironed my own shirts, and promised people in positions more important than mine that I would exceed all of them within the year. That was a long time ago. Well, as I was saying, I was sitting there yesterday, filing something away, when I was struck by a sudden memory. Really, I’ve never before experienced anything like it, for nothing in my mind and certainly no event around me could explain why this particular memory occurred to me, and occurred with such vivacity and power.”
Gurov paused and looked to the face of his companion. The monk was sitting with his eyes closed, almost as if asleep.
“Maybe,” Gurov ventured quietly, “I can continue without telling you exactly what this memory was…”
“It is most important,” the monk answered, “that you tell me about this memory in as much detail as possible.”
“Very well!” Gurov exclaimed, evidently anxious to unburden himself.
“This must have been five years ago, when I was still fresh with enthusiasm for this posting, when my father was still alive and well. I lied just now when I said I’ve been doing this for ten years- it’s been only five, perhaps. I was a man still young, very young, and I knew nothing of the world. Perhaps you’re thinking I know nothing of the world still, but I maintain to you, dear priest, that a man can understand everything of this world if he experiences true sadness often, for sorrow and torment is all that a world can teach us, and I have managed to instruct myself on these matters quite thoroughly.”
The priest nodded thoughtfully, though his eyes were still closed.
“Well, as I was saying, I was young. It was early evening, and it was summer; the train station, where I was waiting, was basked in an almost impossibly thick blanket of orange hue, and the faces of strangers were bright like stars to me. Everything, it seemed, if it was not only good, was still filled with potential, and my young soul understood that everything could change by one conversation, even by one glance. It seemed to me then that everything in the world was vibrating and in movement; that the birds flew for me, or at least for us- for all of us, that is, on the station that evening. I was so happy, my dear priest! And even though every evening I spent alone, or with my mother arguing, still life seemed to abound in every direction, and I was sure (though perhaps I would not have expressed it this way back then) that some future happiness of immense quantity was in store for me. Love, perhaps… Yes, I was sure that I was soon to fall in love.
“Well, and so it happened, that standing there on that platform something miraculous appeared to me, in the shape of a young woman. Her hair was long, dark, and from where I was standing, I could hardly see her face. She was tall, and she stood with one leg in front of the other, like a statue almost…. You’re a man of the frock, so I don’t expect you’ve experienced this before- though you’re married, so perhaps I am wrong- but everything in that moment became clear to me. Beauty, you see, for a religious man, has an apex; something around which it orbits. Beauty has a source, is what I mean to say, and for a Christian that is Christ and the church, and for me… for me, it was this woman. I can’t quite explain it to you, but it was as if everything good in my life had been moving toward or emanating from this stranger; that I had known her and had forgotten her, though not completely. Can you understand that? Beauty, perhaps, is a mirror or a doorway, and it’s terminus, in the case of my life, was this stranger; she was the rose, the library. I loved her. Yes! I swear it to you, dear priest (oh you are a dear man!); I loved her.”
“But the train- my train- thundered into the station and, with a screech and the echo of steam, the doors opened…”
Gurov paused. As he spoke he had been pacing the room. He was sweating, and his eyes constantly sought out the young priest, anxious lest he lose interest. Gurov sighed. His companion had, by all appearances, let himself go, and whereas before he had maintained a posture of calm detachment, now he was leaning almost at a right angle, and listening intently.  
“And?” the priest yelped, “What happened?”
“I boarded the train. Wait. Don’t say anything. Let me explain. I boarded the train, but I swear to you that I decided nothing. I did not stand there and say, ‘let me leave this woman, whom I love because x, y, z’… no… nor was there some particularly compelling reason for me to board that train as opposed to the subsequent one. What I mean to say is before I knew it- before any thinking had yet happened- there I was, on the train.
The priest remained still.
“The worst part,” Gurov continued, “was that as we passed each other- I, on the inside of the carriage; her, through the stained and moulded glass- she looked to me, dear priest, and her face was as a child’s. It’s a great mystery that the most beautiful women in this world look like perfect children when they smile, don’t you agree? And what’s more, or so I’ve always thought, they look this way only to one man- to you- whereas to every other man, brute creatures they are, they are somehow invisible, or attractive only when they are frowning. Really, it’s one of life’s great mysteries.
Gurov again paused, catching his breath.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
“This was your memory?”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday, that is… well, what happened yesterday?”
“You see that same evening five years ago, having seen this woman, this angel in womanly form, I returned home a shell of a man, trembling and full of regret. Oh yes, I understood that I had made an error, though perhaps not to the same extent that I understood this yesterday. I cried to my mother; I did not sleep. I did not pace the room, as you see me doing now, but I lay there with my eyes upon the ceiling, and it felt as if I and the ceiling alone were rising, or perhaps better put that the floor and the entire world were falling away…”
Gurov went over to his desk and picked up a book. The priest frowned, having noticed a layer of dust over the cover.
“Don’t distract yourself,” he smiled, “Continue. What happened yesterday?”
“It’s simple,” Gurov said, placing the book on the table, “Man is happy only when he struggles for something which he believes to be worthwhile. Christ is the perfect image of this, and because he is inexhaustible, he is believed in. But I no longer believe. I no longer believe.”
“But if man’s essential nature is suffering, then is not Christ explicatory, even, I dare say, in this ontological sense? Isn’t our suffering also evidence of him?”
“Ha! Just imagine; I even knew you would say something like that. I take your point; it’s a good one, to be sure. Yes; I admit, suffering is good evidence for Him, but then I didn’t say that suffering was what destroyed my faith. No. What destroyed my faith is something far simpler.”
“What could be simpler?”
“Ha! The devil take you, that was good. But forgive me,” Gurov said hastily, “I use words lightly. Yes, perhaps there is nothing simpler than suffering, but then what do you say to this; I am convinced- and not merely as a matter of intellect, but with my entire being- that this woman, this stranger, was my wife. Yes: we were already married, in theory, that is, and something went wrong, some fatal miscalculation, perhaps even on behalf of your man upstairs. Can he make mistakes? Wherever lieth the error, I find an error here, my good man, and if there are errors of this order- that is to say, errors which might ruin a man and cast him out from the kingdom of God- then what sort of kingdom is that? I feel that I am not expressing myself too accurately, and perhaps you don’t even understand me, but that’s the way I feel… no, the devil take it, that’s what I know to be true.”
“It is indeed possible to feel despair of this order. I have seen it before.”
The window shuddered in a gentle breeze, and outside, perhaps for only two meters, one could make out faintly luminescent flakes of snow. It was now midnight. The room smelt of lavender from a nearly extinguished candle, and Gurov, having unburdened himself, sat down opposite the priest, resting his head in his hands.
“You have?” he said, looking up, “You’ve seen a case like this before?”
“Yes, well… not exactly, not on the facts, but in theme yes, I’ve seen something like this before.”
“What can you mean, similar in theme? What kind of expression is that?”
“I’ve met a man who imagined happiness was for everyone other than himself, is what I mean to say.”
Gurov chuckled. It was a dry, weak, laughter. He fixed his gaze on his companion.
“Well, in the first place,” he hissed, “happiness is not for anybody; look close enough and I am sure you yourself will agree. And secondly, you’ve mischaracterised me. I did not say that I desired happiness, or that I believed happiness to be any sought of indication of divine favour.”
“Indeed, happiness is possible on earth…”
“And did I say that it wasn’t?” Gurov cried. “But you will observe that many of your saints were unhappy, even deeply so.”
“That is true, but then those who maintain faith in the face of unhappiness are usually marked by God for their unusual spiritual strength.”
The priest hesitated. In fact, he was somewhat annoyed. He was thinking of his wife, and how much he would rather be with her at this time of night, and in this weather.
“That is to say nothing of your circumstance,” he ventured, “of course.”
“But why did you say that?”
“I merely wish to observe, sir, that you do not appear to suffer unhappiness on account of an excess of faith, but rather for of an absence of faith altogether.”

For a long time after this comment (a comment which the priest soon began to question, and then regret), the two sat in complete silence, almost without movement.

Vasili Vasilievich Vereshchagin. A Russian Priest. 1925