Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

beginning with Arius, all followers of the teachings of Italus, the pseudo-monk Nile, Constantine and Irinika, Varlaam and Akindina, Herontius and Isaac Argira, all Mohammedans, Jews, those who mock the Holy Church, those who blaspheme the Day of Annunciation, tavern-keepers who rob widows and orphans, Old Believers, the traitors and rebels Gregory Otrepiev, Timoshka Akundinov, Stenka Razin, Ivashka Mazepa, Emelka Pugachev, and also all who profess faith contrary to the Holy Orthodox faith.

Then followed categorical anathemas against those who refuse the blessing of redemption, who deny the holy sacraments, who do not recognize the councils of the Fathers of the Church and their traditions.

“All those who dare to presume that the Orthodox rulers are not seated on their thrones by the special grace of God, and that at their anointing and their elevation to that high station the blessings of the Holy Ghost do not descend upon them, and who dare, therefore, to rise in rebellion against them and to betray them.⁠ ⁠… All those who blaspheme and mock the holy images.⁠ ⁠…”

And after each exclamation the choir answered him sadly, the gentle, angelic voices groaning the word, “Anathema.”

Hysterics began among the women.

The archdeacon had already finished the “Long Life!” service to all the deceased zealots of the church, when the psalm-reader mounted the platform and handed him a short note from the archpriest, in which he was instructed, by the order of the archbishop, to anathematize the “boyard Leo Tolstoy.”⁠—“See Chapt. L of the mass-book,” was added in the note.

The archdeacon’s throat was already tired after its long exertions. Yet he cleared it again and began: “Bless me, your most gracious Eminence.” He scarcely heard the low whisper of the old archbishop:

“May our Lord God bless you, O archdeacon, to anathematize the blasphemer and the apostate from the faith of Christ, rejecting its holy sacraments, the boyard Leo Tolstoy. In the name of Father, and Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

“Amen,” came from the choir.

Suddenly, Father Olympy felt his hair standing erect on his head, becoming hard and heavy, like steel wire. And at the same moment the beautiful words of the story he had read the night before came to him, clear and distinct:

“… awaking, Eroshka raised his head and began to watch intently the night-butterflies, which were flying around the trembling flame of the candle, and falling into it.

“ ‘You fool,’ said he. ‘Where are you flying? Fool, fool!’ And, sitting up, he began to chase the butterflies away from the flame with his thick fingers.

“ ‘Why, you’ll get burned, you little fools. Fly over there, there’s lots of room,’ he was saying gently, catching butterflies by the wings, holding them carefully in his thick fingers, and then letting them go.

“ ‘You’re hurting yourself, and I’m trying to save you.’

“My God! Whom am I anathematizing?” thought the archdeacon in terror. “Him? Is it possible? Didn’t I weep all night in joy, and rapture, and admiration?”

But, obedient to the traditions of centuries, he continued to hurl those awful, stupefying words of anathema and excommunication, which fell into the crowd like the peals of a huge brass bell.

“… The former priest Nikita, and the monks Sergius, Sabbatius, Dorothius, and Gabriel⁠ ⁠… blaspheme the holy sacraments of the church, and will not repent and accept the true church; may they be cursed for such impious doings.⁠ ⁠…”

He waited a few moments. His face was now red, streaming with perspiration. The arteries of his neck swelled until they were as thick as a finger.⁠ ⁠…

“Once I was sitting by the river and saw a cradle floating down. A perfectly good cradle it was, only one side broken off a little. And then all sorts of thoughts came into my head. Whose cradle is it? Those devils of soldiers of yours must have come to the village, taken the women with them, and some one of them, maybe, killed the child. Just swung him by the feet and dashed him against the corner of the house. As though such things were not done! There is no soul in men! And such thoughts came to me, such thoughts.⁠ ⁠… They must have taken the woman with them, I thought, thrown the cradle away, burned the house. And the man, I guess, took his gun and went over to our side to be a robber.

“… And though he tempt the Holy Spirit, like Simon the Magician, or like Ananias and Saphira, returning like a dog to the matter he has vomited, may his days be short and hard, may his prayer lead to sin, may the devil dwell in his mouth, may he be condemned forever, may his line perish in one generation, may the memory of his name be effaced from the earth. And may double, and triple, and numerous curses and anathemas fall upon him. May he be struck with Cain’s trembling, Giezius’s leprosy, Judas’s strangulation, Simon’s destruction, Arius’s bursting, the sudden end of Ananias and Saphira.⁠ ⁠… Be he excommunicated and anathematized, and forgiven not even unto death, may his body fall to dust and the earth refuse to accept it, and may a part of it descend into eternal Gehenna, and be tortured there day and night.⁠ ⁠…”

And his vivid memory brought to his thought more and more of the beautiful words:

“Everything that God has made is for man’s joy. There is no sin in anything.⁠ ⁠… Take a beast, for example. He lives in the Tartar rushes, and in ours.⁠ ⁠… Wherever he comes, there is his home. He eats whatever God gives him. And our people say that for such doings you will lick hot irons in Hell. Only, I think that it is not true.”

Suddenly the archdeacon stopped and closed the ancient mass-book with a snap. The words that followed on its pages were even more terrible than those that he had spoken. They were words that could have been conceived only by the narrow minds of the monks who lived in the first centuries of our era.

The archdeacon’s face became blue, almost black; his hands clutched convulsively the railing of