Four: At the Pier

Myyriäinen was not sure that the girl did not hear every word Lampinen said.

He could not see her face as he went along, but he knew that her eyes were wide open and that she was not asleep. She had not slept the whole time. She had not closed her eyes since she had returned to consciousness. She stared out into the air with an oddly stiff and unblinking gaze, and one did not know if she could notice things or if her soul took recourse to its last stores of strength for the single purpose of keeping her burning eyes from falling shut.

Myyriäinen was glad he could not see her eyes. Lampinen was boasting about his erotic achievements. He became absorbed by the intimate details of intercourse, and could not get his fill of describing Palaga's lush charms. He was immeasurably proud of having such a wife. He spat to the right and the left as he walked, taking long and powerful steps to show what a remarkable fellow he was, although he was short of stature and quite a mild kind of person in other respects.

"Palaga won't put up with any scamping in these matters, you see," he chuckled delightedly. "Somebody else would probably be a little careful now and then, because the cottage is full of children, but she won't stand for it. She   [p. 46]   wants to have hers, and there's nothing that can be done about it."

Myyriäinen thought of the depths of obscure indignation and too-great knowledge which must have lain underneath little Sanni's womanly gaze. For her, Palaga's constant pregnancies meant that her serfdom never came to an end, and that she could never go to school like other girls and boys. How cunningly she must have examined her mother, teaching herself to discover the first repulsive signs of pregnancy in this tireless bearer of children.

Such considerations did not bother Lampinen. He did not see them, they simply did not exist for him. He had put them aside once and for all, like everything else which was not the way it should be in his life. Things were the way they were because God wanted to have them that way, and Iivana Lampinen was a poor sinful creature. Otherwise, he was not a callous man, and he was as proud of his children as if he had made each and every one of them with his own hands. He even treated little Sanni with a tender care which was all the more heart-warming because it was completely simple and sincere. Myyriäinen could not get enough of the little encounters which took place between father and daughter during the journey. Lampinen entertained the girl with small talk while she urinated, and then he let her rest for a while against his chest, touching his lips quite lightly on her cheek, so that their life-spirits might commune with one another. It was like looking at a pious legend. The bond between the two had a sensual intensity and spiritual absorption which contrasted in a strange way to the obvious casualness they otherwise demonstrated in their relationship. There was a great deal about them which captivated Myyriäinen precisely because it was so incalculable and self-contradictory and seemed not at all to function in the way one expected. The filth and the smell inside the girl's rags   [p. 47]   revolted him as a sign of incomprehensible indolence and thoughtlessness, but in the next moment he was deeply touched by the refined sensitivity of Lampinen's movements as he raised the girl up and supported her head against his hand; it was as though his hand had never had to do with anything save delicate and fragile things. Only Lampinen, too, by means of his cheerful face and the twinkle in his eyes, could bring forth a smile on the girl's stiffened features, and yet at bottom she had much more trust in the stranger than in Lampinen, who was her own father.

Myyriäinen decided that the girl would never have come to believe in a miracle if she had not had the sort of father she did, and if she had not imbibed a feeling with her very mother's milk that one could not be sure of anything and could not know what this or that event would entail. Observing Lampinen and his general manner of life, one was simply forced to give up preconceived opinions, and to prepare for the unforeseen. The part of Lampinen that was so infinitely undependable and ran along by chance was simultaneously that side of his character which was vital and full of imagination, and which imparted itself to others as a kind of stimulant. This thought filled Myyriäinen with a sense of cheerful recklessness, as if he had unexpectedly come into possession of a fortune. Secret reservoirs existed, despite everything, and men were perhaps not as destitute, after all, as one sometimes tended to think.

He was surprised that he had not grasped the charm of Lampinen's chatter---a little capricious and disconnected, but always picturesque and shrewd---from the very beginning. He had let it go past his ear the way he did when he wanted to pursue his own thoughts in peace. But once he had discovered its melody, he did not want to lose a single word. It was not just because Lampinen entertained him with unvarnished depictions of his marital and domestic life   [p. 48]   and, using comical turns of phrase and lightning-quick notions and drastic comparisons, described both the life and the general philosophy of the village where he lived, an Orthodox village, small and backward, a sort of last fortress of old-fashionedness in an otherwise Lutheran parish which was exemplary in every respect. More than anything else, it was the spirit of what Lampinen said that won his heart. It was his trustfulness, his captivating frankness and lack of suspicion toward a stranger, which made an impression on the melancholy Myyriäinen. Like the elusive melody in an unpretentious little folksong, this spirit was woven through the whole vivid composition of whims and gaudily painted pictures which Lampinen conjured up on the spot from his inexhaustible supply of observations and wisdom.

Later on, when Myyriäinen got to know the people in our village and the curious recluses who had found sanctuary there, it was this same spirit which captured his heart.

Reaching the top of the last ridge, he caught sight of the lake. He had sensed its nearness for a good while. Even though the waters of the great lake were not salt like those of the sea, they were strong enough to fill the air which passed through the pines with a special aroma, and although there was no breeze in particular, the sighing of the forest took on a kind of heavy roar it had not had before. The sight of the lake made an overwhelming impression on Myyriäinen. It seemed to him that these waters were unlike any others he had seen. Perhaps it was because he knew how dangerous the lake was, for a freak of its capricious spirit could cost even experienced sailors their lives; perhaps, too, because he thought of the secluded spiritual life which the mighty well-spring had protected and preserved, and of the pious hermits who century after century had gazed at the waters in silent meditation. This restless lake lay quite still now in the shine of the evening sun, and not a sound was   [p. 49]   heard over the endless surface, which seemed to tremble, echoing the final notes of the hymn of the Mother of God.

How quiet and removed from time the atmosphere of the lonely landing was, with the fog-gray boards and the graying bark-roof of the ramshackle shed! In the middle of the space before the shed a lone wagon stood sleeping. The rapt serenity which lay upon the scene made one think that these things had long ago ceased to hear the tolling strokes of time. The monks' motorboat, painted blue, lay lost in slumber, and was very like some timeless bird which had settled down here to rest. The eternal sentries looked out with their dark faces over a forgotten land.

Myyriäinen shoved Sanni's cart up to the water's edge so that she would feel herself encompassed by the spirit of the lake. Then he laid himself down at full length on the sand, stretching his stiffened legs. The sand, baked in the sun, exuded warmth; he sank into it as if into a nest, listening to the water which splashed gently against the stones on the shore. Life closed around him, familiar and secure. A light evening breeze arose and passed across his face and his hair like a caress. Lampinen hovered around him on his cat-feet; the sweetish, pungent smell from his stubby pipe spread through the air. Myyriäinen lay with his eyes closed, pretending that he slept. Lampinen felt a mighty desire to talk, but if there was any human right which he regarded as inviolable, it was the right to sleep, when one wished and where one wished, and just as long as one wanted to. Resigned to his fate, he settled down beside his comrade; he pulled his knees up under his chin and turned his thin, tanned Indian's face, seamed with a thousand meaningful wrinkles, toward the water and the evening sun. Myyriäinen could hear the faint thump as Lampinen sat down, and a smile passed over his face.

He felt that he and the man who sat there, thinking to himself, somehow belonged together. He shared something with him, a kind of brotherhood. The two of them partook equally of this little pilgrimage and the small and intimate tasks to which it gave rise. And they had a great deal else in common too, the whole Lampinen family and that funny village of theirs, somewhere in the distance, and all those good saints who were not taken so terribly seriously but whom one liked to have around just the same. After a single day of being together with Lampinen, he felt like a member of the family. He thought that he in fact knew all of them, not just Lampinen himself and little Sanni, but the seven other children too, all the way down to the newborn infant which had not even been baptized yet, and Palaga, rosy-cheeked and lush, the mother, whom he pictured for himself as a kind of rustic goddess of fertility. He was also familiar with Natalia Ivanovna, the teacher of religion, who would not leave Lampinen in peace because Sanni did not get to go to school, and the one-eyed postman, Tommi, the village oracle, and the incomparable Assendorff, and the frightful, sharp-nosed old witch-woman Olsbom, at whose place Assendorff lived, and of course he was also acquainted with Matvej Olkkonen, the fat and genial merchant, who knew everything and was the village's Don Juan. He saw them before him in clear colors, as one sees the pictures in a storybook, and he had a vivid impression that all these people were actually children, big, clumsy, good-natured children who had built a village of their own somewhere in a quiet corner.

This was why he felt such a longing to join them. He thought that if an oasis where living waters rippled still existed anywhere in the world, then it must be there, where these people lived in the midst of their saints and their dead as if nothing had happened which could cut them off from   [p. 51]   the light of heaven. A community must exist there, for there dwelt a childlike spirit. Even if the old-fashioned religion had grown weak in the people's conscious mind, it had still protected and preserved their emotions and the most sensitive organs of their souls from the desolation which too much loneliness can cause.

He was filled with gratitude toward the little pilgrim company of two which had met him on his journey and had made him one of them.

While he lay listening to the wind's gentle sighing and the water's murmur, he thought he detected something like a rush of lament within the air. It seemed to be a cry of woe from tormented hearts, an ancient lament which rang beneath the vaults of the centuries and reverberated in this place, where endless trains of pilgrims had gone past, bearing their immeasurable cares. Shadows pressed around him, then glided away in the twilight of the ages; he thought that even though the pilgrims had vanished, their cares had stayed behind on this lonely shore. A thousand years had vanished like a day, and mankind was still bent beneath the burden of its cross, and could not save itself from evil, nor even send the weakest beam of light into the night of death.

Altogether confused, he sat up; he did not know where he was. Sometimes, when he had been lost in thoughts, it was impossible for him to find his way back to reality at once. He had heard a noise which awakened him from his dreams. His glance fell on the old jetty, gray as the fog, and the blue boat beside it. He looked at it as if he had never seen it before, and it occurred to him that the soul perhaps descended down from just such a landing into Charon's boat on the black river.

As though by magic, the shore was filled with life and movement. The monks and their followers arrived with a   [p. 52]   tremendous hullaballoo. In the Carelian way, the peasants drove as fast as they could until they stopped; the handsome horses were brought up with a jerk, snorting and panting in their impatience and overexcitement. The drivers threw down their reins carelessly, as if they wanted to show how complete their control over their horses was. They were all in high spirits: they took out bundles and greasy packages, they yelled, they ran back and forth, they gesticulated and chattered. An unmistakable atmosphere of worldly good-humoredness and geniality lay upon the group; the good food and the successful business deals could be smelled from far away. The hosts had not been sparing with refreshments, and the monks on their side had partaken enthusiastically of the gifts of God. The smell, affirming life by its very existence, tickled Myyriäinen's nose like the odor of fresh-baked bread. He felt immensely cheerful himself. Whatever objection could be made to these monks, they did not have the air of being some fading remnant from the past. Their heavy bodies and bearded faces gave the impression of a peasant's solid vitality. One could easily see that physical labor was their pious exercise and that in their reverence they had retained their contact with the earth. A childlike simplicity and gladness shone out of their clear eyes, and a winning benevolence characterized their whole manner.

Iivana Lampinen was completely at home here. Jumping up quickly, he mixed into the crowd in order to take part in everything that occurred. He went from one person to the next, telling them with an important expression that he was on the way to the Mother of God in search of a cure for his sick child. The short, thickset worker-monks listened to him with touching earnestness, although most of them did not understand a word of what he said. In their long kaftans and heavy oiled-leather boots, they darted back and forth between the carts and the boat as nimbly as weasels; but as   [p. 53]   soon as they discovered that a sick child lay on the handcart and that succor was being sought from the Madonna, they all gathered around the girl, chattering like magpies. Standing with their heads on one side, they looked at her with expressions of sympathy and wonderment in their bright and guileless eyes.

The monks rejoiced in their hearts at the arrival of the little band of pilgrims. It had been a long time since the song of pilgrim-flocks had resounded beneath the vaults of their cloister. Gone were those rich and mighty folk who once had knelt in the cloister's church, gone too the poor people, the little people who had come in unending streams out of the vastnesses of holy Russia. Now and then, of course, some secretly burdened soul came to pray beside the silver sarcophagus and to light his candle before the wonder-working icon; now and then a little flock came from the district's scattered congregations in order to see the sights of the venerable place and to perform its divine service there; but for the most part the mighty cloister church stood empty. Within her covering of silver and precious stones, weakly illuminated by the prayer-lamp's glow, the Virgin Mother awaited those believing hearts which knew no aid save recourse to her gentle intercession.

When the monks had returned to their labor, Myyriäinen went up to Sanni. She lay as she had before, her eyes wide open and staring, and one cheek was red as fire. There was something terrible about her face now. He could not stand to look at her, knowing how she must suffer. He turned his glance away. Then he caught sight of the priest-monk, who was walking in their direction. The monk had a solemn, measured tread which made one immediately set him apart from the other monks. He stopped still for a moment, gazing at the girl. Then he raised three fingers, blessed her, and included her in his prayer. He grew noticeably paler   [p. 54]   when he was absorbed in his devotions, and, as at their first meeting, Myyriäinen had the same overwhelming sensation of a force which emanated from the monk. Even before he had finished his prayer and blessed her once again, with movements which were simple, yet somehow strong and intense, the girl lay submerged in sleep.

That man had the power to bless.

He gave Myyriäinen a friendly glance in passing and walked on with the same stately tread as before. Shortly thereafter he took part in the cheerful hubbub at the water's edge, to all appearances completely calm and natural in his manner. From one side, Myyriäinen stood watching it all as if in a dream.

He could not free himself from the impression that he had been here before, a long time ago, perhaps in some other existence. These solemn scenes of parting, these kisses, these movements of the hands---it seemed as though he groped through his all too limited memory for motifs from Christianity's first days and from Greece and the Orient, it seemed as though he saw them preserved here by some mysterious process, in the soft earth of the Finnish folksong. He easily recognized these peasants and merchants, they were blood of his blood, lively, voluble, with the genuine Carelian glint in their eye, yet there was something in their expressive gestures and in the abrupt transitions from earnestness to naive hilarity which appeared foreign to him. A whole world of strange traditions and symbols lay behind their hearts' most intimate expressions. A more ancient and gentler faith had exercised its influence upon their character, their vital sense had received another color and another tone, a melody from the beginning of time, unfathomable and yet so simple that one could have grasped it if one had been a child.

And they seemed to shy away from the final departure,   [p. 55]   forgetting it, as it were, for moments on end, as is the practice of children and old people. There was always something that was missing or something that was wrong or whatever else could provide an excuse for delay. They looked at one another, they cast their glances out over the waters. They asked questions without getting answers, they waited without knowing what they were waiting for. Obviously, no one wanted to take the trouble to find out what it was. They were satisfied anyway. They were alive. They had more time than anything else. In short, they were immortal. Myyriäinen was struck by the rightness of their thought. After all, time simply glided out of man's hands, and the more he hurried, the more inexorably and swiftly it slipped away. Then why should a man fetter his existence to time? He should make himself independent of it. That is what children did, that is what old people did, and that is what these people did too. They were at home in existence as in their father's house. No matter what they undertook, there was nothing which had be done in a rush. Life stayed with them in any case "Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a child does, will never enter into it," Myyriäinen thought as he stood looking at them.

Finally the neglectful leader of the monks came running down the bank to the shore, his hat askew and the folds of his habit fluttering around his legs, the very picture of the most obliging sort of officiousness. There was a new saying of farewells, there were new blessings and embraces and final admonitions. Myyriäinen carefully took Sanni in his arms, and Lampinen put her little cart beside the peaceful old wagon, whose purpose here no one knew. All of a sudden there was a great rush, and people crowded onto the narrow jetty, cheerfully shoving themselves forward in order to get some relief from the excitement which a journey   [p. 56]   over the water always causes in the world's children, no matter who they are. A hum like a beehive's arose from the overloaded boat, the motor spluttered and whined, but the girl slept on.

During the trip the monks grew grave and silent. No one said a word. They sat quietly and solemnly, their rough laborer's hands in their laps, and looked straight ahead, as if they did not want to allow their bright eyes to get lost somewhere on the horizon. Even Lampinen seemed to be gripped by the seriousness of the occasion and did not make a sound. The lake's expanse lay smooth as a mirror in the sunset, and on the horizon the cloister's flaming cupola rose up like a vision from the past.

In the light haze of gold above the waters, the memory of Him Who had rebuked the waves and the wind upon the Lake of Gennesaret shone like a figure in a dream.