David Dickinson - Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

Sarov was the goal, Sarov, home to one of the most famous holy men in Russia whose remains were to be removed from his grave in the convent cemetery and transferred to a new cathedral that was to be consecrated in his name. Serafim was the name of the holy man. He had already been declared a saint on the orders of the Tsar. Everyone, even the babies in the handcarts, knew the story of St Serafim. Many of the pilgrims had shouted out the best known of his prayers to encourage themselves on the road. He had gone as a monk to live alone in a cottage in the forest to be close to nature and closer to his God. For many years he lived the simple life there, alone with his prayers and his Creator. Then three robbers came to his hut one day and demanded money. When Serafim told them he had no money, they beat him senseless and left him for dead. Serafim returned to the monastery near Sarov and refused to let the robbers be punished. Now began his late career as mystic and healer. People believed he could make the blind see and the deaf hear and cure any number of ailments that oppressed the peasants. The numbers of the sick he had cured ran into thousands. That was why the people of Russia marched in such numbers to the consecration of his cathedral.

All of the pilgrims had their own special reason for their journey: a child to be healed, a parent brought back to health, a husband or wife restored to sight or to sanity. But one woman had a very special cause very close to her heart. In spite of the humiliation of her false pregnancy, in spite of the fact that the Foreign Service had reported that Philippe Vachot was a butcher from Lyons who had been arrested for fraud in France, the Empress Alexandra still believed in him. She persuaded Nicholas to have the offending civil servant who had imparted the news of Vachot’s disgrace in his native land stripped of his position and sent to Siberia. She still believed. The candles and the incense still burned in the Montenegrins’ apartment, the icons still shimmered on the walls as the mystic work went on. In some ways Alexandra was a practical woman. She bought most of the furniture for her palace from that Mecca of the English middle class, Maples department store in London’s Tottenham Court Road. But she seemed to need spiritualism the way other people in St Petersburg needed love affairs or yachts or fine horses. And she carried two messages from Philippe along the dusty roads to Sarov. Among his many powers the saint was said to be able to cure the barren, to give the infertile children. Surely a man who could do that could make her bring forth a son? She was to pray to the saint for a son and she was to bathe in the holy waters of the spring that bore his name. The second message was more cryptic and Alexandra was not sure of its meaning. Philippe had told the imperial couple that he had been sent on a mission and that his mission was almost over. But after his death, he assured them, another man would take over his spirit and his work, a greater man than he, a true holy man who would bring great glory to Russia.

The first couple of days were spent consecrating the cathedral. The Metropolitan of St Petersburg, an enormous man well over six feet six inches tall, led the prayers. Some of the pilgrims went to the services, standing patiently while the choir and the priests worked their way through the special liturgy for the consecration of a cathedral, crossing themselves with the three-fingered cross of the Russian Orthodox, kissing the icons. But most of them waited. They had not travelled these enormous distances for the blessing of a new church. They were waiting for the moment when the bones of the saint would be moved in their new coffin and installed in front of the chancel. Then the proper business of the pilgrimage could begin. Meanwhile they slept in the fields. The police reported that they were one of the best behaved crowds they had ever seen. Drunkenness, that curse of all Russian gatherings from two to twenty thousand people, had not appeared. The pilgrims rapidly emptied the shops of Sarov of all available food and waited, uncomplaining, for fresh supplies to arrive.

Shortly after ten o’clock on the fourth day the most dramatic part of the service began. Under the great golden dome the choir and the priests sang one of the opening sections of Matins.

Choir:

Lord, have mercy.

Deacon:

For the peace from on high and for the salvation of our souls, let us pray to the Lord.

Choir:

Lord, have mercy.

Deacon:

For the peace of the whole world, for the stability of the holy Churches of God, and for the union of all, let us pray to the Lord.

Choir:

Lord, have mercy.

Deacon:

For this holy house, and for those who enter it with faith, reverence and the fear of God, let us pray to the Lord.

Choir:

Lord, have mercy.

Outside, the Tsar, his uncle Grand Duke Serge and various members of the imperial family carried the gold coffin with the relics of St Serafim on their shoulders right round the exterior of the cathedral. The peasants who had been leaning against the walls or making pathetic encampments with their few belongings parted before the coffin like the waters of the Red Sea. Then the coffin was carried round the inside of the building before being placed in front of the chancel.

Slowly at first, then in a trickle, then in a steady stream, came the pilgrims. They limped, they shuffled, they came with their crutches, some of them crawled, one or two ran to kiss the coffin of the dead saint. They knew, these faithful – had not their own priests lectured them about this before they set off on their pilgrimage? – that they were not to expect God’s grace to make itself manifest immediately. It might be days or weeks or even years before the Holy Spirit revealed itself. There was so much hope in the building, irrational hope, unreasonable hope that illnesses, which must of themselves be the work of God, could be halted or reversed by one of his saints. The choir sang on. The Metropolitan Antony blessed the pilgrims in the chancel. Gradually the atmosphere became very tense, as if the entire congregation and those denied entry standing outside were all desperate for a miracle. Some of the pilgrims were praying for one. The anthems and responses of the choir grew ever more hypnotic. Then there was a sign. A madman was brought up, his arms waving wildly, his eyes staring intently at some private reality of his own, two friends or relations guiding him forwards. As he kissed the coffin and received the blessing of the Metropolitan, a peace seemed to descend on him. His limbs returned to normal. His eyes stopped the staring of the deranged and looked about him intelligently. Whether it was the work of the saint or the atmosphere or a fluke did not matter to the congregation. ‘He is healed!’ ‘Thank the Lord!’ ‘St Serafim be praised!’ rang round the cathedral until the Metropolitan himself had to look sternly down the nave for the noise to stop. Later on a dumb child seemed to be cured. After four hours the pilgrims were convinced that their journey was worthwhile, that God and his saint had indeed come to Sarov to cast his blessings on his people and work miracles on their afflictions.

Late in the evening of the last day of the ceremonies Nicholas and Alexandra and some of their party went very quietly to bathe in St Serafim’s pool. A group of Cossacks were on duty, facing outwards, in case of assassins. Staff had brought towels and dry clothes. The cathedral was outlined faintly against a crescent moon. A pair of owls could be heard hooting in the distance. The waters in the pool were very cold. As Alix slipped in and lowered herself until she was almost completely covered, she prayed to St Serafim. She prayed that he would take pity on a poor sinner whose dearest wishes had been denied. She prayed that he would take heed of her husband, a good man denied the one thing he most needed, a son and heir. She prayed that St Serafim would take heed of his own country, that he would ensure that Russia was not left to lawlessness and crime and anarchy and depravity because there was no proper heir to the throne of the Romanovs. This time, shivering slightly now in the evening chill, she knew her prayers would be answered. She knew now that she would have a son. In the end Philippe had not failed her.