On the eve of Holy Pascha, the
bolsheviks burnt the village church. To inspire terror, they began shooting
the people. All the peasant-men [muzhiki] ran home to their huts
[izby], while all the peasant-women [ba’by] set to wailing
their lament. O, woe! What woe! But yet a greater woe was this: that
they hid all the ikons in their huts, and hung up [pictures of] that bearded
Karlie Marxie, in their stead.
An elderly, infirm batiushka dwelt next to that church. The
bolsheviks dragged him out into the courtyard, as ailing as he was, and
began to drive him along the road with a knout. And, driving him
along, they would clamour: "Deny God!" They exposed him to public
mockery, they beat him with the knout, they threw stones at him. But
God sees, who to whom doeth wrong.
And so, batiushka went along his way, a-praying, desponding
not, but all his hopes on God a-pinning. Tears – tears, most-pure – streamed
from his eyes. He wept for the faith that had been cast down; for the
church, he wept. 'Twas not himself he pitied, but all the Orthodox folk.
People hid themselves away in their huts, in their fright. And none
would so much as open their doors to batiushka. None would so
much as bring out bread and water to him. There had been people in that
village who had not been at all cowardly, but the bolsheviks had executed
them beforehand, or had immured them in prison. And, as for the rest,
the sinful folk, O Lord, forgive them!
Batiushka left the village. Without a cross, you are not Christ's.
There was no longer anything good left in that village. Batiushka
settled down in the woods. God will provide the day; God will provide
the meal. The rain from the heavens provided him drink, the forest berries
fed him. He would pray from the dawning of the day to the setting of the
sun, repeating, time and time again, "Fear none, save God alone."
Of Holy Pascha did the day arrive. Mighty is the hand of God; the
hand of God is master. Clouds, black as black could be, gathered o'er
the village. Thunder and lightning, there was. The heavenly fire struck
straight at the village council [sel'soviet], right where the red
flag was a-hanging. The bolsheviks, they ran about, a-shouting: "Fire!"
But none hastened to their aid. The people realized that God, the Lord,
sans faith, shall not deliver thee; nor, sans righteousness,
reform thee.
The little children were the first to scurry to batiushka in
the woods. Falling to their knees, they clamoured: "Batiushka,
forgive! Batiushka, bless!" And he kissed them all so, and blessed
the little tykes, each and every one. Following after their little ones,
the peasant-men and peasant-women also hastened off to the forest. They
realized that to encroach upon that which belongs to God, is to lose what
is one's own. They became ashamed of their fear and faintheartedness.
Their sin was in forgetting their folk-wisdom, forgetting that "If you
walk about under God, you bear God's will."
All the doors flew open. The masters of the houses all invited batiushka
into their huts. All were glad to see him. All wanted to treat him
to a pie [pirog] or to a spicy gingerbread [priannik]. And
the portrait of the bearded Karlie Marxie was no longer dear and precious
to them. All flocked, instead, to the ikons, to implore forgiveness
for their sins. Pray to the ikon, and be at peace.
Batiushka neither reproached nor scolded anyone. Only, from
that time on, he was never again seen in the village. 'Twas said of him
that he had made his way to a far-distant region, where the people had managed
to preserve their church, even during the bolshevik period. He was old;
but, for him, to live was to serve God. And there, for yet another five
years, did he honourably serve the Lord, up until the very hour of his death.
And, as for that village, it came to be called Sinful. Literally
curs'd, it was. In the summer, there was drought; in the autumn – flooding.
Each year meant another failed crop. Truly did our elders say to our
grandsires, and our grandsires say to us: a city without a Saint doth
not stand, nor a village without a righteous one.
(as recorded, in
Russian, by Natalia Dyachenko)
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Batiushka – a Russian term for "Father," which
is expressive of both endearment and veneration, at one and the same time.
The Tsar' was Batiushka, for he was the beloved Sire of his people.
Likewise, the same word is also commonly used in addressing a priest,
who is the spiritual father of all good Orthodox folk. And, in Russia of
old, in Holy Rus', it was also used in addressing one's natural father.
As far as making a choice between translating the word, in this case,
or simply transliterating it, the only extra-Russian term with which I
am familiar that perhaps most closely conveys the sense of batiushka
is the Aramaic abba (or avva) which Christ used in addressing
His Father in Heaven; but to translate the word thusly would simply compound
the problem, without resolving it. Far better were it simply to transliterate
the word, and have done with the matter.
Now, it is true, of course, that there have been some who have attempted
to translate the latter term (abba) as "daddy," but I could not,
in good conscience, do so – be it with abba or with batiushka.
For while that particular word could, conceivably, be expressive of some
degree of endearment, it certainly is lacking in the proper degree of
reverence; hence, it is an unsuitable term to employ, in either instance.
On the other hand, to resort to the simple use of "father," tends to suffer
from the other extreme. Hence, I have simply transliterated the
word, and the reader has expanded his or her vocabulary. Thus, «i volki
syty, i ovtsy tsely» ("both the wolves are fed and the sheep are safe"),
as the Russian saying goes.
Furthermore, much of the original Russian text of this tale consists
of so-called "peasant-speech," rich in poetically-rendered Russian proverbs
and folk-sayings, the originals of which, obviously, are in rhymed verse.
As I am sorely lacking in any gift for poetic expression, however (my
Muse, I must suppose, is off somewhere, a-fishing, for someone with a tongue
more golden), I have been compelled, of necessity, to resort, almost entirely,
either to blank verse or to simple prose, for which I humbly beg the reader's
indulgence and forgiveness. (O, the difficulties of pretending to be
a translator! – gs) Return
to Main Text
Translated
into English by G. Spruksts, from the Russian text entitled «Íå
áîéñÿ íèêàãî, òîêìî Áîãà îäíàãî» ["Nye boisya nikago, tokmo Boga
odnago" ("Fear None, Save God Alone")], appearing in
a section
devoted to «Âåðà, Ðîäèíà, Ñåìüÿ» [“Vera, Rodina, Sem’ya” ("The
Faith, The Motherland, The Family")] in «Ïðàâîñëàâíàÿ Æèçíü»
["Pravoslavnaya Zhizn'" (the Russian edition of "Orthodox Life")]
– A Supplement to «Ïðàâîñëàâíàÿ Ðóñü» ["Pravoslavnaya Rus'"
(“Orthodox Rus'")]. Vol. 49, No. 3 (567), March 1997, pp. 22-24. English-language
translation copyright © 1998 by The St. Stefan Of
Perm' Guild, The Russian Cultural Heritage
Society, and the Translator. All rights reserved.
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