A Master Craftsman
In Chebrovka village there was a fellow called Syomka Rys, a terrible boozer, but the finest carpenter for miles around. Tall and thin, with a big nose, he wasn't much of a he-man to look at. But when he took off his shirt and stood there in his sun-bleached vest, playing with his axe and sniping cheerfully at the foreman, you could see that all his strength and power was in his arms. Syomka's arms weren't knotted or bumpy. They ran smoothly from shoulder to wrist like burnished steel. They were beautiful arms and made an axe look like a toy. Arms like those never got tired, so Syornka was just trying it on when he yelled:
"Think we run by clockwork, do you? Come and wind me up then. I've run down. But watch it, or I might kick out from behind!"
Syomka was not a tad-fellow. But he was "fed up to the-teeth" and squandered his "horse-power" on brawling, wrangling and kicking up a rumpus. Now and then he would get blind drink. Once he didn't touch the stuff for over a year, but then he got so down in the dumps that he started again.
"Why d'ye do it, Syomka?" folk asked him.
"It gives a kind of meaning to life, see? So I get sloshed, see? And I go round for a week feeling sort of guilty when I see you lot. I don't want to play any dirty tricks on you, and I think better of you. I think you're better than me. But when I gave it up that time, < got sick of the sight of you... Dammit! Anyway I don't get plastered every day, do I?"
When he was drunk, he never misbehaved and never mistreated the missus, just didn't notice her.
"You wait, Syomka, you'll get hooked good and proper," they warned him. "Boozers are all the same. Go two or three months without it, then drink themselves silly. You'll see."
"Okay, okay," Syowka would say. "I drink and you don't. But who says you're any better than me? What've you done that's so special? I work the same as you do. My kids are dressed as well as yours, and I don't thieve and fiddle like some..."
"But a carpenter like you could make a packet. You'd be living on the fat of the land, if it weren't for the drink."
"Well, living on the fat of the land is too slippery."
He always gave his wages to his wife. And paid for his drink with money he got from doing odd jobs. He could make a cupboard that fair took your breath way. People came from all over and offered him plenty of cash to make them things. A writer who spent a holiday in Chebrovka one summer even took Syomka back to town with him to decorate his study... They derided to make it look like the inside of a log cabin (the writer had been born in the country and used to get homesick for his roots).
"What a waste of money!" his fellow-villagers exclaimed, when Syomka told them how they'd decorated a modern town apartment to make it look like the inside of a sixteenth-century log cabin.
"We made the floor from wooden blocks, gee. Just planed them, nothing else, didn't even paint them. And the desk was of planks too. We put benches round the walls and a bed in the comer. No mattresses or blankets on it, just a piece of felt and a sheepskin coat. Then we blacked the ceiling with a blow-lamp to make it look like a cabin without a chimney. And covered the walls with planks..."
The villagers shook their heads.
"Some folk got money to bum."
"Sixteenth century," Syomka would say dreamily. "He showed me some drawings, and I did it from them."
While Syomka was at the writer's place in the town he didn't drink at all. Just read books about the old days, looked at icons and admired distaffs. The writer had piles of things like that.
The same summer that Syomka had been to the town, he began noticing the little church in Talitsa village, about three miles from Chebrovka. Once there had been twenty families living in Talitsa, but now there were only eight. The church had been closed down ages ago. Small and made of stone, it came into sight suddenly behind the hillside at a bend in the road to Talitsa. For some reason the builders of long ago had decided to place it not on top of the
hid, where churches usually stood, but at the bottom of the hillside. Syomka could still remember as a child, you'd be walking to Talitsa and thinking about something or ether, then you'd suddenly come to at the bend in the road, when the lovely white church appeared amid the dense green of the poplar trees.
There was a church-in Chebrovka too, only it must have been built-later, a big one with tall bell-tower. It had been closed for ages too, and now there was a-big crack in one wall. If you compared the two churches, the big one high up and the other one tucked behind the hill, which would you say looked the nicest? The little one behind the hill. Everything about it was just right: the way it came into sight all of a sudden, and its airy gracefulness... You could see the Chebrovca one for miles around. That's why they'd built it up there. But the Talitsa church seemed to have been tucked away on purpose and only showed itself to you suddenly if you were walking towards it...
On one of his days off Syomka went over to take a look at the Talitsa church. He sat down on the hillside and gazed at it carefully. There was peace and quiet all around. It was quiet in the village too. There she stood, the white beauty, amid the green of the trees. How many years the church had stood on that spot and taw much it must have seen. The sun had risen and set over it, the rain had washed its walls and the snow almost buried them. Yet there it still stood. Who cared about it now? The builders had long since rotted away in the ground. The clever brain that planned it had turned to ashes, and the heart that thrilled with joy was now a handful of dust. What had that unknown craftsman thought as he left this fairy-tale in stone behind him? Had he erected it to the glory of God or to prove himself? People who want to prove themselves don't stray so far from the beaten track. They stick to the high-roads or simply march straight into the busy town square where they're sure to attract attention. This one had been concerned with something else. Beauty, perhaps? Ho had sung his long and sung 'it well. Then gone away. Why was that? He hadn't known himself.. His heart had bade him to. Dear departed brother! I don't know what to say to you. You won't it anyway where you are, in your terrible black nothingness. And what can I say anyway? That it's good, beautiful, moving, pleasing... What's the point of saying that? He himself was pleased and moved by it and knew that it was beautiful. So what? So nothing. Be pleased if you can, and please others if you can. And if you can't- go off and fight or order other folk to fight or to do something else, like blowing up this fairy-tale here; put a couple of kilos of dynamite under it and blow it sky high. To each his own.
Then Syomka noticed that four slabs of stone at the top, just under the cornice, were different from the rest. They shone. He went closer to have a good look. Yes, the builder must have wanted to polish the whole wall. It was the east wall, and if he had finished the job, at sunrise on clear days (the sun rose up from behind the slope) the church would have slowly started shining from the top dome and the whole wall would gradually have been covered with a gloaming sheet of light from the cross to the foundations. He, had begun the job, but stopped it for some reason. Perhaps the person who commissioned the
church and provided the money had said: "Never mind, it's good enough like that."
Syomka got excited. He wanted to find out how to polish stone. You probably used coarse sand first, then finer sand, then a piece of cloth or leather. It was a long job.
He could get into the church through the crypt. Syomka had known that as a child and often climbed in with the other kids. The entrance to the crypt, which once had a double door (removed long ago), had partly collapsed and was overgrown with weeds... Syomka managed to squeeze through a crack between a slab and some stepping stones and then, by crawling on all fours or bending almost double, he made his way into the narthex. The church seemed very spacious inside... A light breeze stirred a loose piece of iron on the dome, and the sound, barely audible outside, echoed loudly and anxiously in there. Beams of light from the windows pierced the shadowy emptiness like broad golden swords.
Only now, disturbed by the beauty and mystery, did Syomka look round and discover that instead of a right angle between the walls and the floor, there was an even line of masonry curving inwards. Along the foot of each wall was a stone addition about a metre from the wait by the foundations and the height of a man. It diminished gradually, merging into the walls at the top. At first Syomka couldn't think what 'it was for. He only noticed that the slabs of stone were well polished and neatly laid. They were dark at the bottom and grew tight the further up they went, until they blended into the white wall. The inside of the dome right at the top was made of some special stone and probably polished too, because it looked so bright and festive up there. And there were only four small narrow windows...
Syomka sat down on the step leading up to the sanctuary and wondered what that extra section was for. He explained it to himself like this: the builder had wanted to do away with right angles and get rid of the square. Nothing is so constricting and cramped as a square interior. That was why he had put the dark stabs of stone at the bottom and gradually made them blend with the wall higher up, sort of pushing the walls back a bit.
Syomka sat in the church until the patch of light on the stone floor almost crept up to his feet. Then he clambered out and went home.
Next day Syomka reported sick and didn't go to work. Instead he went to the district centre where there was a church still used for services. He found the priest in his house nearby. The priest sent his son out of the room and said simply:
"Yes."
The dark alert eyes of the priest who was still quite young looked at Syomka with an almost mischievous twinkle. He waited.
"You know the Talitsa church?" For some reason Syomka had decided that you could adopt a fairly casual tone when talking to writers and priests. "Talitsa, in Chebrovka district."
"The Talitsa church? In Chebrovka district... The little one?"
"That's it."
"Yes, I know it."
"How old is it?"
The priest thought for a moment.
"How old? I'm afraid I can't be absolutely sure... But I think it dates back to Tsar Alexei... His son didn't build that many churches, you know. Second half of the seventeenth century. What about it?"
"It's a lovely job!" Syomka exclaimed. "Don't you think?"
The priest smiled.
"Thank the Lord it's still there. Yes, it's lovely alright. I haven't seen it for a long time, but I remember it. At the foot of the hill, isn't it?"
"Who built it?"
"You'd have to ask the metropolitan that. I'm afraid I can't tell you."
"But you've got enough money! Haven't you?"
"Well, suppose we have."
"No supposing. You have got it. You're separate from the state now..."
"What's the point of all this?"
"It's such a beauty, why don't you repair it? I'd do the job for you. Finish it in a summer. I'd just need a couple of helpers and we'd have it ready before winter. If you could pay us say..."
"I can't decide matters like that, my friend. I have superiors too. Go and see the metropolitan." The priest had got quite excited too. "Talk to him about it, why not? Are you a believer?"
"That's not the point. I'm the same as everyone else, sometimes a bit worse, 'cos I drink. It's just that I don't like seeing such a lovely bit of work go to rack and ruin. They've started restoring churches now..."
"It's the state that does the restoring."
"But you've got money too."
"The state does the restoring. For reasons of its own. Go and see the metropolitan."
"Where can I find him? Here?"
"No, it's quite a journey."
"In the regional centre?"
"That's right."
"But I haven't got enough money with me. I thought I was only coming to see you."
"I'll give you some. Where are you from?"
"Chebrovka. Name's Semyon Rys. I'm a carpenter."
"Well, you go and see him, Semyon. He's a clever man. Tell him all about it. Have you come by yourself?"
"What do you mean-by myself?" Syomka didn't understand him.
"Have you come by yourself, or did anyone send you?"
"I came by myself."
"Never mind, go and see him all the same! In the meantime I'll give him a ring and tell him what it's all about, so he'll see you."
Semyon thought for a moment.
"Alright then. I'll pay you back later."
"We'll talk about that afterwards. Come and see me on the way back and tell me what happened."
The metropolitan, a large, grey-haired, very sober old man with an unexpectedly high voice, greeted Syomka warmly.
"I had a call from Father Gerasim... Now tell me what made you think of repairing the church."
Syomka took a sip of hot tea from the dainty cup.
"How I thought of it? Well, I just saw what a lovely job it was. And nobody gives a damn about it!"
The metropolitan smiled.
"Yes, it is a lovely church. I know it. Dates back to Tsar Alexei. I don't know yet who the architect was. We can find that out. But the land belonged to the Boryatinsky family. Why do you want to know the name of the builder?"
"I'm just interested. He knew what he was doing."
"Yes, he was talented alright. We'll find out later who it was. He was obviously familiar with Vladimir and Moscow churches...."
"You'll never guess what he thought up!" Syomka started telling the metropolitan how he'd puzzled out the builder's secret.
The metropolitan listened, nodding and uttering the occasional: "Well, I never!" At the same time Syomka outlined his own ideas, about polishing the east wall as the builder has intended, sheathing and gilding the domes and putting stained glass in the upper windows - that would make the light under the dome to look really wonderful! The builder has used a special sort of stone for the bit under the dome, probably with a mixture of mica... If you put orange-coloured glass in as well, think what it would look like...
"That's all very well, my boy," the metropolitan interrupted him. "If they were to tell me: 'Very well, we give you the permission to repair the Talitsa church. Who do you recommend for the job?' I would say without batting an eyelid: 'Semyon Rys, the carpenter in Chebrovka.' Only... they won't give me permission to repair it, so there, lad. Sad to say."
"Why not?"
"I'll ask them that too: 'Why not?' And then they'll ask me: What's the point?' How many families are there in Talitsa? I'm asking you."
"In Talitsa ... not many..."
"But that's not the main reason. What sort of fight against religion would it be, if they started opening up new parishes? You just think about that!"
"The church doesn't have to be used for praying. They use them as museums these days..."
"Ah, but museums come under the state. They've nothing to do with us."
"So what's the answer then?"
"This is what I suggest. You all get together and write a letter. Say there's a church in Talitsa which is falling to pieces, and you think it's of value, only not from the point o'f view of religion..."
"We'll never be able to write a letter like that. You write it yourself."
"I can't. Find someone who knows how to write. Or do it yourself, in your own words ... that'll be even better..."
"I know just the person!" Syomka had remembered the writer.
"Then take the petition to the authorities. The regional executive committee. And they'll decide. If they say no, write to Moscow... But don't write to Moscow first. Wait until you get a refusal here. They might send a commission..."
"It would be nice for folk to just see it standing there..."
"That's my advice. And don't say a word about our talk. Don't mention in your letter that you've been here. Don't mention it anywhere. It'll only spoil everything. Goodbye, my son. May the Lord grant you success."
As he was going out, Syomka noticed that the metropolitan seemed to live pretty well. The big house must have had about eight rooms, and there was a Volga in the yard. This came as an unpleasant surprise to Syomka, and he decided that perhaps it was better to have dealings with the good old Soviet authorities after all. Those priests were a funny lot. All crazy to help you, if only nanny would let them.
But Syomka decided to go and see the writer first. He found the house, but the writer wasn't at home.
"He's not in," a plump young woman told Syomka somewhat sharply and slammed the door. No, he hadn't seen her there when he was decorating the "sixteenth-century log cabin". He suddenly had an urge to see the "cabin" again. So he rang the bell a second time.
"I'll go," he heard the woman say inside. The door opened again...
"Well, what is it now?"
"It was me that did up Nikolai Yefimich's study... Could I just have a look at it, please?"
"Well, I never!" the woman exclaimed not very loudly. And shut the door.
"I bet he really is at home," Syomka thought. "And I bet they're in the middle of an almight row."
He hung around for a bit hoping the woman would forget herself and shout angrily: "There's some idiot outside who says he did up your study", and the writer would come to the door himself. But the writer did not come. Perhaps he really wasn't at home after all.
Syomka went to the regional executive committee offices.
He got in to see the chairman straightaway due to a misunderstanding. As he walked into the reception room, the secretary snapped at him:
"Why are you so late? They complain that he does not receive them when he is busy, and when he invites them they take their time. Where are the others?"
"Out there," said Syomka. "They're just coming."
"They're just coming." The secretary went into the office for a moment, then came out and said angrily:
"You can go in now."
Syomka went into the office. The chairman came over to shake hands.
"What a fuss you made, eh, my goodness, what a fuss!" he sad with a smile, but a hint of reproach. "Making a fuss are we, friends? Hello there!"
"I've come about the church," said Syomka, shaking the chairman's hand. "She mistook me for someone else, your secretary. I've just come by myself ... about the church..."
"What church?"
"At our place, well, not our place, in Talitsa. There's a seventeenth-century church in Talitsa. A lovely job. If it was repaired... Not for praying in, I mean! It's valuable, but not from the point of view of religion. If you gave me three lads, I'd do it before the cold season sets in." Syomka was speaking hurriedly, because he couldn't stand it when people looked at him in bewilderment. It made him feel on edge. "I say, there's this church in Talitsa village," he began again, talking slowly this time, but already feeling irritated. "It's in a bad state and needs repairing. It's something the Russian people should be proud of, but no one's looking after it. If it was repaired, it would stand there another three hundred years and be a joy to folk."
"Hmm," said the chairman. "We'll soon sort this one out." He pressed a button on his desk. The secretary put her head round the door.
"Ask Zavadsky to come in, will you? So there's an old church in your village and you thought it was of interest as an architectural monument of the seventeenth century. Is that it?"
"That's right. The point is that it don't need all that much doing to it: just repair the domes, support the masonry here and there and maybe put in a wooden frame."
"Yes, yes... We have someone who deals with precisely that sort of thing. Here he is."
Into the office came a good-looking youngish man with wavy black hair and a dimple in his chin.
"Would you mind seeing to this, Igor Alexandrovich. It's just up your street."
"This way, please," said Igor Alexandrovich.
They set off down a long corridor with Igor Alexandrovich in front and Syomka half a pace behind him.
"I'm not from Talitsa myself. I'm from Chebrovka. Talitsa'snotfar..."
"Yes, yes, just a moment." Igor Alexandrovich nodded without turning round. "We'll sort that all out in a minute."
"People don't waste much time here," Syomka thought to himself. They went into another office, not as grand as the chairman's. Just a room with a desk, a chair, some blueprints on the walls and a shelf of books.
"Here we are," said Igor Alexandrovich. "Now just sit down and tell me all about it. Take your time."
Syomka began to tell him all the details. While he was listening, Igor Alexandrovich took a file from the shelf, leafed through it, found what he wanted, held it open at that page, and began to exhibit clear signs of impatience which Syomka noticed.
"Is that all?" asked Igor Alexandrovich.
"For the time being."
"Well, listen to this. 'Talitsa church. N- Region. Chebrovka district."' Igor Alexandrovich began to read. "'On-the-Blood, so-called. Thought to belong to the latter third of the seventeenth century. One of the Boryatinsky princes met his death in Talitsa at the hand of an enemy...' " Igor Alexandrovich looked up from the paper to voice his own hypothesis. "It may have been a quarrel between two drunken brothers or friends. So... 'lost his life at the hand of an enemy, and the church was built on the same spot. The architect is not known. Of no value as an architectural monument, since the architect did not achieve anything new for his day, any unexpected treatment or search for the same. A more or less exact copy of the Vladimir churches. The dimensions warrant attention, but were evidently dictated by the financial possibilities of the person who commissioned it, and not by architectural considerations. Closed down in nineteen hundred and twenty five.' "
"Have you seen it?" asked Syomka.
"Yes, I have. This here," Igor Alexandrovich pointed to the sheet with the official report in his file, "is a reply to my enquiry. I was misled by it, like you were..."
"Have you been inside?"
"Yes, of course. I even took some of our specialists there..."
"Wait a minute!" Syomka growled ominously. "What did the specialists say? About the section that was added on..."
"Along the walls? Oh, I can tell you what that is. The Boryatinskys used their church as a family burial place, so they dug into the foundations quite a bit. You may have noticed that the church tilts slightly to one side. Later on one of them decided to put a stop to this. So they added that extra section. You probably saw the inscriptions on the stones over the places where the graves are."
Syomka felt disheartened.
"But it's such a lovely job!" he tried to object.
"Yes, it is." Igor Alexandrovich got lightly to his feet, took a book off the shelf and showed Syomka a photograph of a church. "Does it look like that?"
"Yes, it does."
"That's the Church of the Intercession near Vladimir. Twelfth century. Ever been to Vladimir?"
"I don't believe it..." Syomka nodded at the official report. "I think they're having you on, those specialists of yours. I'm going to write to Moscow."
"This report is a reply from Moscow. I thought it was twelfth century too, that was my mistake. Thought someone had invented the same things as the Vladimir builders, on his own, independently or perhaps from something he'd been told. But miracles don't happen. Did the village council send you?"
"No, I came by myself..."
Syomka left the same day. He arrived at the district centre before it got dark and went to Father Gerasim's home.
Father Gerasim was in church taking a service. Syomka handed back the rest of the money, leaving himself enough for his ticket home and a bottle of red wine, and said he would send the rest by post. Then he set off home.
After that he never said another word about the Talitsa church or went to see it, and if he happened to drive along the road to Talitsa, he would turn his back on it at the bend, look at the river and meadows on the other side, and smoke a cigarette in silence. People noticed that and no one dared to speak to him at such a moment. And no one asked him why he had gone to the regional centre and what he had done there. If he hadn't told them himself, that meant he didn't want to talk about it, so what was the point of asking him?
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