the breath of God

c. 1870, Russia. 

I must relate a most interesting story to you, dear reader, concerning two close friends; Khatia and Maxim Samsonov. They are now happily living down the road from me, and I visit them often.

It was a month ago, and they were aboard a train, heading for the seaside town of T— for a holiday. They had been married two years, and were by all appearances happy, or at least no more unhappy than is to be expected. They had decided that they were overworked, and that a week together in relaxation was needed; a week eating, bathing, and yes, perhaps loving.

But you see unbeknownst at the time, Maxim, a timid yet stubborn man; a man short and fragile in stature, though possessing remarkable intelligence, had come to a terrible realisation; far from loving his wife, he was beginning to positively despise her. 

“What is wrong with her?”

As they flew along in their first class cabin, the great countryside of their holy Rus rushing by like Kandinsky’s smudge, he began to itemise his grievances.
”Firstly,” he noted to himself, “her movements are too indelicate; she is loud, disruptive, and clumsy… how is it, for example, that even sitting down she manages to make such a noise as to disturb me?” He puffed, straining his thick and unruly eyebrows. “And moreover,” he grumbled, “Why does she move so much, generally speaking? What I mean to say is, why can’t she sit still like the rest of us? Why must she move this way and that like worm?” This was terribly vexing for poor Maxim.

“Secondly,” he continued some thirty minutes later, neither of them having spoken a word in the interim, “why does she eat so much and never clean up after herself? I note, for example, this banana peel which has laid there since the beginning of the trip, and which is now already browning.” And this, at least, was true; I confirmed it with other passengers and the officials after all of this transpired. Khatia had even been spotted by a certain bystander boarding the train with the peel between her thumb and her index finger…

Well, another thirty minutes rolled by, the minutes bathing themselves in this man’s fermenting temper, before Maxim arrived at yet a third distinct grievance. “And why,” he cried out internally, “is she so beastly to look at when she isn’t smiling!?” He pinched himself having said- or thought this- but he refused to redact his statement. It was truly the case that this tormented him above all else; that when he looked at her… that is, when she did not know he was watching her, when he managed to overcome his fear of her and to look beyond the various jewels and adornments; the lavish dresses, the various products applied to the face and scalp… beneath it all, in terms of structure and base elements, he fancied he had not seen a more ugly thing in the entire world than the face of this woman, his wife. “If she’s to look like that,” he puffed, “she had better possess at least profound religiosity and meekness, if not positive holiness, but far from possessing something of that sort, she laughs at me and never prays, not even when our boy died did I see her pray.” 

A word, if I may, dear reader. Maxim’s grievances may present as reasonable, or they may seem unreasonable, all that I can tell you with certainty is that they hold absolutely no water. I myself, having known Khatia since childhood, am simply unable to square any of these comments with her person; I have always admired her, and known her to be a most gentle and dare I say exquisite woman… a woman, in short, of strong character, gently spoken but harbouring convictions, and woman, moreover, even considered a beauty among us. And yet I have known Maxim; a man of fairness and, as I have said, a man of intelligence. Who’s to say? Perhaps, extracted from the various balls and shenanigans forced upon us, Khatia does prove herself clumsy and all the rest, but I find it impossible to believe…

Anyway, as I was saying, onwards they trundled to their paradise by the sea, where love would be rekindled, children formulated, and conversations about various important and urgent topics had. What merriment! Life is short, dear reader, impossibly so; declare yourself, do not wait, for how often it is in this human life that two strangers or two lovers sit opposite each other and poison each other with their silence, when paradise would be unleashed upon the world, with ‘hello’, or, ‘goodbye’ (in fact, as I read through this, I’m not so sure any paradise has been announced with ‘goodbye’, but perhaps, ‘goodbye for now’, or ‘excuse me.’… but then again, maybe one or two goodbye’s have announced paradise in this world).  And yet it shall not come to pass! The step is so impossibly small, so immediate, but we refuse to take it! We consider it, and we consider it until we have destroyed it with our consideration, for the soul is a gentle fragment, but the mind is a proud thunder, and it obscures everything. Lord, why have you willed it to be so? 

“But for goodness sake, would you stop chewing like that!” They had been two hours on the train when it escaped from him, a mere gap of air, a mere pinch. He instantly reddened but, tucking his shirt further down his trousers and thrusting his chest out, he quickly gathered himself. No, was his decision; he would not apologise. 

“What do you mean, darling?” Khatia smiled, her face full of good humour and love. 

“I mean, you… well, your chewing, it positively disturbs me!”
She was startled. She pulled in a pocket of air. 

“I had no idea,” she muttered, “two years and I’ve disturbed you with my chewing the whole time? But why didn’t you say something?” 

“It wasn’t…. It’s…. well, yes, two years I’ve endured!” 

“Goodness!” 

“Goodness!” Maxim cried, throwing his hands to the air. I pause to note this gesture, effected spontaneously, nonetheless perplexes both parties to this day, perhaps more so than anything else. Maxim later tried to explain to me that he had began the motion somewhat consciously, assuming that his hands would rest somewhere under his chin or upon his disbelieving eyes, but no sooner than his hands had began to fly upward like doves from a (…) than they had simply began to so travel, as if toward infinity, until reaching their natural terminus high above his head, where these hands of his simply remained in a state of suspension. I have heard of similar gestures manifesting themselves on holy revelation, and I merely note here that when Maxim was later trying to explain this to me he abruptly stopped speaking, as if he were afraid of this gesture more than anything else. 

“But really, darling, I think it quite unfair of you,” Khatia ventured shyly, covering her mouth with her hand. Maxim was silent, not in reflection, but silent because he had never in his life experienced an emotion like the one that was at this moment coursing through his veins. Was it anger? No, what beset this little man as he flew through his native land in his first class carriage was not anger, but perhaps was nearer to despair. You see it was a simple- the question which had tormented him all his life, in various ways, here and there exerting its power over him, causing him to hurt people and to suffer himself. 

There are men, to be sure, like our Maxim, who suffer under the light of a question such as this for many years. Perhaps they have not yet articulated it, but they suffer nonetheless, for there appears before them something at once entirely irreconcilable and of vital importance. The question is this: “What am I to do with other people, if I am told my happiness should be secured in God alone?” Oh dear reader! Do not worry if such a question means nothing to you, and it probably does mean nothing to you. But you see, it means something to me; I can understand it. And yet at the same time I do not think understanding a question such as this is something to boast of… in fact, I’m quite sure that questions of this order are necessary only for exceedingly fickle persons… that is, persons without any spine, so to speak, but who nonetheless demand certain and well-reasoned answers; a person whose only conviction is that a man ought to have convictions.

But as I was saying, dear reader, Maxim, sat there opposite his charming wife, a man of good education and modest wealth, with all the accoutrements of prosperity and happiness- in short, all of that which makes a man unworthy of comment in this world (or comments, but comments of the usual sort)- felt very quickly all which had previously underpinned his personhood fall away. Yes; he realised quite quickly that he was much smaller than he previously imagined; that when torment advanced beyond the threshold at which it had faltered his whole life, declaring war on the soul, the other elements- thoughts both distinct and those which had attached themselves amorphously to the impression that he walked around with- these other elements promptly retreated, leaving him small and weak. 

“But what’s all this?” Was the only coherent thought his mind could sustain in that moment, for the retreating ‘elements’ included not only those peripheral and inarticulate thoughts one harbours, for example one’s understanding that his ears are unusually delicate and pleasing to the eye, or one’s memory of the heart of certain young woman he managed to conquer, but also intelligence herself. Yes, the faculties too beat a retreat, so that all which remained was a timid and long-neglected voice. This was the voice of God. 

“Witch!” He hissed, viciously. “I hate you!” 

“Goodness me, what are you saying?”
“Hate, hate, hate!” Maxim squealed, (he had by now allowed his hands to resume their proper station by his side.

“You frustrate me endlessly! You are… you are not a beauty, and far from it, you are even positively…. Positively… not a beauty!” 

And like a pound of flesh did his fist fall to the table; spoons and forks ashudder like stars. He looked to his wife- to her face, her despair- and time not so much slowed or stopped as became lighter, less imposing. In this momentary repose they faced each other as they had faced each other many times throughout Maxim’s life. Mind. Soul. 

Man. God. 

And she, crying. Crying the gentle tears which attend injustices. 

He crawled out from his booth and flew headfirst down the corridor, past the kitchen, through the empty restaurant and into the fresh air (this being one of those trains with a smoking deck). Before him the sun was just setting, covering everything- the low mountains, the fields where horses and cows were grazing, here and there men interspersed, the faint fog off yonder and two or three tremulous stars of yesterday- yes, this radiant setting sun bathed it all in a warm glow, a glittering tenderness. And it struck him too, on the left cheek, and its warmth made him suffer. A bird moved in the distance, setting herself in a tree. He could not hear or see it, but he thought there must be a nest within this tree; that while he and a hundred others on this train and thousands of others in the cities tormented themselves with all sorts of fabricated questions, this nest and mother continued to exist, finding instruction in their own nature. But to what end? 

That the birds of the world might proliferate; that this fledgling might herself grow into a mother, and yet… More than this; that a bird might traverse the glory of the setting sun, not even so that man might see it, but because it was good that the earth has birds and setting suns and hidden away nests. 

His focus was cast back to that which he had just escaped from. How unnecessary it seemed! How… for heavens sake, how bad it appeared to him, that while the bird paid homage to our sun he was arguing over the manner of his wife’s chewing. 

“Surely, that is not mans calling!” He cried. Surely, he reflected, there was evil in men. 

And the sun poured through him like a season through a forest. The churches of Europe. 

We are here, dear reader, and we have been allotted a considerable amount of work to do. And others have been put here with us, and they also have work to do, and yet all our ongoing projects count for this; that we will have happiness on earth if we love each other, recognise each other’s suffering, though suffer nonetheless, silently. Silence born not of timidity, not of shaken faith, but silence born of love, dear reader, for we each of must invite God in, and he will see it necessary to sever so much of us to make plain what was our beginning, when we did so love one another, cherish the sticky autumn leaf, the tremulous breath of winter morning, the embrace that is always; for life herself embraces us, dear reader, though we have forgotten. Love one another, dear readers, love with your silent suffering, love even when you are most alone. Love, dear reader, and God will breath through you. That is the good life, dear reader; to become the breath of God. 

So to her warmth, he turned his cheek.  

Ilya Repin. What Freedom!. 1903