Anathema Page #3

"Anathema" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant exploration of love, sacrifice, and moral dilemmas set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Russia. The story revolves around the passionate and tumultuous relationship between the protagonist, an artist, and a beautiful woman, highlighting the conflicts between personal desires and societal expectations. Kuprin masterfully delves into themes of obsession, idealism, and the human condition, offering readers a deep and reflective narrative that captures the essence of the era. The book is notable for its rich character development and Kuprin's lyrical prose, making it a significant work in Russian literature.

• Novel

								


But Tolstoy had said:

    "God has made the world to be a joy to man. There is no sin
    anywhere, not even in the life of a beast. He lives in one
    place, lives in another. Where he is there is his home. What
    God gives he takes. But we say that for such things we shall
    have to suffer. I think that is all one big falsehood...."

The deacon stopped suddenly, and let his ancient missal fall with a
bang. Still more dreadful curses were to come, words which could only
have been imagined by the narrow minds of monks in the early centuries
of Christianity.

His face had become purple, almost black; his lingers convulsively
grasped the rail of the desk. For a moment he felt that he must swoon.
But he recovered, and straining the whole might of his tremendous
voice, he burst forth triumphantly with new words, wrong words:

"The joy of our earth, the ornament and the flower of life, the true
servant and fellow-soldier of Christ, Count Leo...."

He was silent for a second. In the crowded church there was not a
cough, not a whisper nor a shuffle of the foot. There was a terrible
silence, the silence of hundreds of people dominated by one will,
overcome by one feeling. The eyes of the deacon were burning and
brimming over with tears, his face became suddenly beautiful as the
face of a man in an ecstasy of inspiration. He cleared his throat once
more, tried an octave, and then suddenly filling the enormous cathedral
with the tones of his terrible voice, he roared out:

"Mno-ga-ya lye-e-e-ta-a-a. Ma-any ye-e-ears." And instead of turning
the candle upside down, according to the rite of anathema, he raised it
high in the air.

It was in vain that the leader of the choir whispered to his boys,
to knock the deacon's head with the tuning-fork, or to put their
hands over his mouth. Joyfully, as if an archangel were blowing a
trumpet with silver tones, the deacon lifted his voice over the whole
congregation: "Mnogaya, mnogaya, mnogaya lyeta."

The prior, a monk, an official, the psalm-reader and the deaconess
rushed up to him.

"Leave me alone ... leave me alone," said Father Olympus in an angry
whisper, roughly pushing away the monk's arm. "I've spoilt my voice,
but it has been for the glory of God. Go away!..."

He took off his brocaded vestment at the altar, kissed his stole with
emotion, crossed himself before the altar ikon, and went out of the
church. He went out, a whole head taller than the people round him,
immense, majestic, solemn. And the people involuntarily made way for
him, looking at him with a strange timorousness. His look was adamant
as he passed the bishop's chair, and without turning his eyes that way
he strode out into the vestibule.

In the open space before the church his little wife caught him up, and
weeping and pulling his cassock by the sleeve, she gasped:

"What have you gone and done, idiot, cursed one! Been guzzling vodka
all the morning, disgraceful drunkard! You'll be in luck's way if you
only get sent to a monastery for this, and given a scavenger's job.
Booh! You, Cossack of Cherkask! How many people's doorsteps shall I
have to wear out to get you out of this? Herod! Oh, you stupid bungler!"

"It doesn't matter," whispered the deacon to himself, with his eyes on
the ground. "I will go and carry bricks or be a signalman or a sledge
driver or a house porter; but, anyhow, I shall give up my post. Yes,
to-morrow--I don't want to go on; I can't any longer. My soul won't
stand it. I firmly believe in the Creed and in Christ, and in the
Apostolic Church. But I can't assent to malice. 'God has made the world
to be a joy to man,'" he quoted suddenly the beautiful, familiar words.

"You're a fool, a blockhead," cried his wife. "I'll have to put you in
an asylum. I'll go to the governor--to the Tsar himself. You've drunk
yourself into a fever, you wooden-head!"

Father Olympus stood still, turned to her, and opening wide his
wrathful eyes, said impressively and harshly:

"Well?!"

At that the deaconess became timidly silent, walked a little way from
her husband, covered her face with her handkerchief, and began to weep.

And the deacon continued his way, an immense figure, dark, majestical,
like a man carved out of stone.
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