THE REAL SIBERIA
John Foster Fraser
In the Cathedral - Orthodoxy and Dissent - A famous Monastery - The Apostle of Siberia - St. Innokente
You find paradox in Irkutsk as elsewhere.
Being the wildest, the most wicked city in East Siberia, it is also the most saintly, devout, sabbatarian place within the realms of the Great White Czar.
Sunday is as strictly observed there as it is north of the Tweed. In all other towns there is trade on the Sunday. The Government, however, is the Lord's Day Observance Society in Irkutsk, and inflicts fine and imprisonment if you sell a pennyworth of anything. There are two cathedrals, one new and one old, also 25 Greek churches, two synagogues for the Jews, and other places for other people.
There is religious liberty in Siberia - Christians, Jews, Mohammedans, Buddhists, Sunnites, and pagans live in peace - except that perversion from the State Greek Church is forbidden and punishable if done.
The tinsel Byzantine decorations of many churches you see in European Russia make the eye ache with their gilt gaudiness. But in Siberia the churches have mostly a quiet quaintness, a simplicity that is effective, nothing more than Doric walls whitewashed, a long, slightly sloping roof, green painted, and a needle of a spire, green painted also.
At sundown on the Saturday night -the air soft, fragrant, and full of pellucid blueness - all Irkutsk seemed to clang with bells calling the faithful to prayers. It was a mellow, vibrant sound, for the bells, many toned, were struck with wooden hammers.
With a friend I drove to the cathedral - a distance from the town, as everything is in Siberia. It, however, has not the Slavonic demure prettiness of the other churches. It is new. It is a huge domed structure, a sort of miniature St. Peter's, stucco-faced and drab-coloured. It stands on a sandy waste and has a cramped appearance.
A long, covered colonnade with steps leads up to he church, and on them squat wrinkle-faced, sore-eyed, and twisted-limbed old men stretching palsied arms for charity.
At the top of the steps as we push open the glass door, the thick aroma of incense fills the nostrils. Dusk has fallen, and a weird gloom, broken by a hundred taper lights, pervades the church. The cup of the dome is blue, sprinkled with golden stars. There are no pews or seats. A purple carpet covers the floor, and on it are kneeling men and women.
In front is a great screen of gold, and the candle lights catch cornices and make them glow like shafts from the sun. Possibly all this massed gold would be ostentatious in the light of day. But now, in the softness of the evening, ostentation fades away. Everywhere are pictures of saints, and before them stand heavy candelabra with a hundred sockets. It is for the devout to bring their tapers, fix them, and do reverence.
But something better than incense fills the air. It is the sound of men's voices. There is no organ; there are no stringed instruments. There is a choir of men, and their throats have deep richness. With the majesty of a Gregorian chant, they sing their Slavonic adoration, but tinged with pity, like the low melody of wind on the plains.
A door in the middle of the screen swings open. There are priests, long-haired and long-whiskered, in heavy canonical robes, silver-twined. One, a tall man, sallow-faced, lustre-eyed, his black beard that of a young man, his hair falling over his shoulders, comes forward swaying a censer. He stands on the step, and in a voice of sweetness and strength cries, "Gospodi pomilui" - "Lord, have mercy!"
His face is like that of Christ - not an unusual type among Russian priests.
"Gospodi pomilui," responded the worshippers, kneeling and touching the ground with their foreheads.
Beyond the screen, within the Holy of Holies, where lights flicker on a cross, is an older priest, elevating his hands and praying.
Upon his prayer like a wave breaks the billow of sound from the choristers. And the people who have come to pray cry, "Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!" many times.
The light is dim. The tapers blink before the gold-encompassed saints. The cathedral is full of music and incense.
There are worshippers continually coming. They carry tapers, some only one, some many, and as they bow before the altar they make the sign of the cross. Far more than half those present are women.
Here comes a lady, dark-featured, well-dressed, with fashionable cape upon her shoulders, and on her head a bonnet that might have come from Regent Street. She goes to the picture of a saint, makes obeisance, and then she lights a taper from another taper. To make it grip she puts the end of her taper in the flame for a second, and presses it tight in the gilt socket, Then she goes to the picture, kisses the foot of the saint, and, kneeling, crosses herself, and prays with her forehead on the ground. She moves to another picture.
There is a peasant, heavily bearded, his sunburnt face rugged and furrowed. He wears a red shirt, velvet trousers, and big boots. He has no taper, but he stands taut, like a soldier, and he crosses himself and bows and cries, "Lord, have mercy."
The big voice of the singers soars over all, repeating the liturgy in Slavonic.
A gentleman in frock-coat, begloved, and carrying a cane, comes forward, takes his candle, bows, and goes away.
A couple of slim boys, in the dull grey uniform of the Gymnasium, hurry along. They stand, heel-clapped, and with dexterous wrist make the cross signs. They light their tapers. But the tapers won't stick upright in their sockets. They are well-behaved little fellows, but as the tapers will persist in toppling over, the boyish sense of humour asserts itself and they grin. At last they are fixed, and the lads stand watching the candles with a half-amused glance, wondering if there are to be any more tricks. No; they hold. Then the boys swing round, make their bows, and hasten away.
Here comes tottering an old lady - a very old woman, short and bent, and with a black shawl round her head. From the rim of black shawl peers a worn face, the upper lip fallen in, the eyes sunken and dull and yet with that beautiful resignation, shining through the countenance, you often see on the faces of old women whose thoughts are not of this world.
There is a picture of the Madonna and Child - the young Mother with eyes all love looking upon her new-born Son. Many, many tapers are before this icon, which glows with a special radiance.
To this the old woman comes with clasped and knotted hands. Her face is upturned, and the full gleam of the tapers falls upon it. There is a yearning in the sunken eyes. The dried, yellow lips quiver. The bones of the old woman ache, for she groans as she kneels. She lowers her face to the ground, and there she stays long, a dark, crouching figure of adoration before the picture.
When she looks up there are no tears; only, I think, there is a brighter light in the eyes than before.
She rises. With faltering steps she goes to the picture and reverently kisses the feet of the Child. Then she kisses the arm that holds Him.
The old woman finds peace and comfort to her soul. Maybe she sees the lifting of the curtain. It is not for one of another faith to say aught in disparagement. It is a pathetic sight. So I nudge my companion and we come away.
Night is closing in - night with a blue sky glittering with stars -and we walk back to town. On the way is a real old-fashioned Siberian church, white and green - three churches, it seems, with individual towers, but the first and second making a staircased passage way to the main building. We go in.
The service in the cathedral has much in it akin to the ceremony of Rome. But here it is wholly Slavonic.
Imagine this picture. A low, curved ceiling, like a cellar way, so you can touch the roof with your hand, painted with clouds and angels looking over them. The way is blocked with worshippers. Over their heads, through an atmosphere hazy and choking with incense, is a square apartment, stunted and cramped, but with the walls covered with gilt icons, and hundreds of candles making the place shimmer with fire. Everybody is praying and crossing - moudjiks, ladies, soldiers, students, peasant women.
A procession of priests, preceded by the swinging incense burner and flanked by bearers of big candles, marches from the Holy of Holies. The priests are in stiff robes of gold and silver and purple, and their black hair tumbles about the collars.
A choir of treble-tongued boys is singing shrill.
A grey-haired priest carries before him a silver-backed volume - the Bible. He lays it on a small lectern in the middle of the congregation. There is a fresh burst of devotional song as the choir moves in front of all the gold, but like shadows, as the place is misty with incense. The elder of the priests kisses the volume and moves away. Then the congregation, in the bedizened strangest of low-roofed chapels, press forward and put their lips to the edges of the book. The Saturday evening service is over. It is quite dark when we come out. There is a lamp gleam in some huts not far away, and in the still night comes the barking of a dog far off.
All over Siberia priests of the Orthodox Greek Church are to be met - in the towns, on the prairie, in the trains. They wear long gowns, sometimes brown, but generally black, and they all have big, black, soft felt hats. Though there are to be seen faces intellectual and refined - facial likeness to the accepted idea of Christ is striven after - the majority look slothful, and every one without exception that I came across was greasy and dirty. Grease and the dirt are hidden away under the gorgeous vestments of high Church ceremonial, but they are repellently apparent when a priest sits opposite while you are having tea in a buffet.
There are two orders of these clergy, the white and the black, or the parochial and the monastic. If he marries, the priest must remain a simple priest. But if celibate, he may rise to be a bishop.
The best paid of the clergy in Siberia gets about £120 a year, whilst the poorer clergy often have to beg for their bread. They have much to do. There is always a service between four and five in the morning. There are two other services in the day. There must be service on the birth of a child and at the death of any one in the parish. All new buildings, school-houses, and bridges and boats must be blessed; children beginning a school term are blessed, and in time of pestilence or peril there must be a continuous prayer. All priests must fast 226 days in the year, and monastic priests are never to eat meat. A priest cannot indulge in theatre-going, drinking, card-playing, or dancing.
Churches are kept in repair by parochial committees. These personally visit and determine what tithe shall be paid by each house. All the vestments are provided at parish expense, and are often jewelled and very costly.
The method of administering communion is peculiar. Priests receive the bread and wine separately; the laity receive them mixed, and given with a spoon, whilst to the children only wine is given.
I have mentioned religious liberty in Siberia. This does not exist in Russia proper. From there, sects objectionable to the Orthodox Church are driven beyond the Urals. But once in Siberia they can do much as they like. It is the same in politics. Politics are tabooed in Russia, but in Siberia more freedom is exercised.
Strange faiths appeal to the untutored mind. So among the Siberian peasantry flourish fantastic beliefs. There are many of them, and a narration of some of their tenets would raise a smile.
The principal body of dissenters really worth mentioning call themselves Raskolniks, or Old Believers. There are quite a hundred thousand of these in Siberia. They are the descendants of people who were exiled from Russia in the 18th century. Their chief peculiarity is their strict temperance and horror of innovation. They take neither tea nor coffee. They never smoke nor will allow anyone to smoke in or near their dwellings. The women have a disease called equarter brought on immediately by the smell of tobacco. They give short, frequent cries whilst suffering. The Raskolniks won't look at potatoes, and they won't cat or drink from any dish or cup used by another.
Yet, despite their oddities, the Raskolniks are much esteemed. They are always sober, and always industrious - two qualities that cannot be applied to Russians generally.
Sunday morning!
There is a special aroma about Sunday morning no other morning has. It isn't the cessation of labour in the grimy cities. I have breathed it in the far hills of Western China, and on the alkali blistered plains at the back of Nevada.
And this Sunday morning, September 8th, when I push open my window and stand on the balcony and hear the chiming bells in Irkutsk city, why, I might be in England. It is beautiful, genial, and the air is like crystal.
We are going to a famous monastery. We bargain with a droshki driver, who declares it is seven versts (five miles) away, but we find it is not more than four versts. The horse is fresh and away we rattle humpity-bumpity over the track of a road, raising clouds of dust.
A pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Innokente is a favourite Sunday outing with Irkutsk folk, and owners of private droshkies are hieing, like ourselves, along the wide road, which, if followed for a sufficient number of thousands of miles, would land us back in Moscow.
There is the racing, frothy Angara river to be crossed by a ferry. A hundred yards more up the river an anchor has been dropped. The ferry boat - which will carry a dozen horses and droshkies - is attached by a stout rope, and the force of the current playing on the rudder drives the boat from side to side of the stream, as broad as the Thames at Westminster.
The monastery stands on a heave of land beneath the shelter of a hill. It is long and gaunt, and shows pink in the warmth of the sun.
There are many pedestrians out, doing the pilgrimage on foot, and the peasants in their bright garbs - no half tones nor dirty greens, but honest red and green and yellow - look freshly picturesque. There is the Irkutsk young married man pushing the perambulator, while the wife is in the adjoining meadow picking flowers. Here and there are stalls where the dusty walker may buy bright pink kvass, an innocuous cool beverage made from crushed fruit.
Every now and then I have a chuckle. Maybe it is the loveliness of the day. More likely it is the reiterating thought: "This Siberia! It's not like Siberia at all. If I tell folk at home what it is really like they won't believe."
We run through a village with the quaintest, tiniest little log huts imaginable. There is a fine old fellow sitting outside the door reading a newspaper. I jump trom the droshki to take a snapshot. He understands, and is delighted, but apologises that he is so deaf. "Never mind," I tell him in English, tapping the camera, "that won't interfere with making a good picture." He smiles, and raises his hat as though he knows.
The doorway to the monastery is packed with beggars, such a gathering of lame and blind with open sockets staring at you, and limbs festering with disease, I never saw.
There is an open space about the church, and in the cool of the trees Siberians are sitting. About the door is a jostling ebb and flow of humanity We - that is the Britisher I had rubbed up against yesterday and myself - gently elbow our way in.
What an uproar! There is none of the "dim religious light" that was so impressive last evening. It is cruel glaring daylight, and as the eye skips from the golden icons to the gilt screen and from the screen to the gilt candelabra, all aflame with tapers, and then to the ornate, vestments of the priests, the description "tawdry" slips from the tongue.
The church is packed to suffocation. Everybody is standing and every woman seems to have brought at least one child, which is crying. And a fretful Siberian child has good lungs, and it kicks.
To the right of the doorway is a sallow priest wearing a purple skull-cap and doing a thriving trade in the sale of candles. On the left is a podgy man with a pair of scales having bickerings with the women folk, who are buying priest-blessed bread and trying to stuff their youngsters into quietness with it. From the noise, they must be accusing the man of giving short weight.
The day is stuffy, and the congregation perspire freely, and the fumes of incense irritate the throat.
I don't know whether the chattering of the women or the crying of the youngsters or the singing of the choir - a poor choir compared with Irkutsk cathedral - has first place in the sound. To be devout in such a throng is impossible. Nobody is devout, though there is kneeling and loud responses.
In the middle of the church, on a slightly raised throne, sits the bishop in gorgeous apparel, grey silk decorated with gold, and on his head a bulbous crown of gilt. The priests up by the altar walk to and fro chanting. He bows low with them, and the grease from the candles he is holding trickles on the carpet. He sweeps the candles to the right, to the left, behind, and the congregation bow the head to receive the blessing.
To the right centre is a bier canopied with crimson silk and festooned with artificial flowers, and flanked with giant candles all aflame. Here lies the apostle of Siberia, St. Innokente. He was a missionary who went out to China in the opening of the 18th century. The Celestials, however, declined the privilege. He founded this monastery not far from Irkutsk and died. And his body is as fresh as the hour the breath left it! That is what the priests say. So it is a very holy shrine.
The crush round the bier is tremendous. There is an old priest standing by the coffin, and he regulates the pressure of the worshippers who desire to give the homage of a kiss. There is a stream of people up the steps, old and young, and they lower their heads in reverence. There is a mother with her child, and she bends the head of the child so it may kiss also.
In time I get near enough to see, half expecting to find a corpse.
No! there is something in the shape of a human figure, but it is all shrouded. An ebony cross inlet with silver lies on the breast, and it is this that is kissed.
Still the crowd presses forward. Still the children cry and the women talk. Still the fumes of incense rise. And more unbearable becomes the atmosphere.
"Let us leave," I pant.
How sweet is the open air, and how delicious to sit under the trees!
The dormitories of the monks run round the church. A monk is standing in a doorway, and we go up and introduce ourselves. He is courteous. He shows us the bare cells, and tells us there are eighty priests living there. He also shows us the bakery, and the workshops, for every priest in this monastery follows a handicraft. We take a walk under the trees, and he asks what nation we belong to. When we tell him we are Angleski, he inquires if the people in England are Christians? We say some of them are.
He tells us the story of St. Innokente and what a holy man he was. Then incautiously we remark that if the body is fresh it should be uncovered for the people to see. He tells us of the doubting of Thomas!
We drive back to Irkutsk, and the sultry afternoon is drowsed away in easy chairs. The ringing of the Sabbath bells never ends. In the evening we join the rest of Irkutsk in making the promenade up and down the Bolshoiskaia, the big street. Everybody is in their Sunday best.
But with sundown the Sabbath ends. The restaurants fill up; gaiety and mirth bursts forth, and Irkutsk is its wicked self once more.
Chapter XI: Trade and Some Trifles
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