The Russian Church is a daughter of the Byzantine Church—the youngest daughter—and only dates from the close of the tenth century, when monks came to Kieff from Constantinople during the reign of Vladimir. There would be little “preaching of the Cross of Christ,” I should fancy, as the great means of conversion for that great mass of servile population. We are told, indeed, that Vladimir gave the word and they were baptized by hundreds at a time in the River Dnieper, and that no opposition was offered to the new religion as the old Nature worship had only very lightly held them, and had no definite priesthood.

The new religion, however, soon acquired a very strong hold upon the people of all classes, and the power and influence of the Church grew just as the State gained ever-new importance; the power of the Patriarch increasing as that of the Tsar increased, until in a comparatively short time the Orthodox Church stood alone, and owned no Eastern supremacy on the one hand, nor yielded to the approaches of the Roman Papacy on the other. By the end of the sixteenth century the other Eastern Patriarchs recognized and accepted the Patriarchate of Moscow as being an independent one, and fifth of the Patriarchates of the East.

This absolute independence only lasted about a hundred years, and the masterful Peter the Great laid his hands upon the Church as upon other parts of the national life, for he certainly had little cause to love the clergy, and appointed no successor to the Patriarch of Moscow when he died in 1700. It was very interesting to hear, from the Procurator of the Holy Synod himself, M. Sabloff, when I first went to Petrograd, what great importance Peter attached to this office when he constituted the Holy Synod in 1721 to take the place of the Patriarchate.

“He used to say,” he mused, looking down upon the ground, “that the Procurator of the Holy Synod was the oculus imperatoris (the Emperor’s right hand, literally ‘the Emperor’s eye’),” and as he said so one could not but remember how his predecessor, M. Pobonodonietzeff had upheld that tradition, and, next to the Emperor, had himself been the most prominent and autocratic figure in the whole empire.

The Procurator, however, is not the President of the Holy Synod, as the Metropolitan of Petrograd fills that office, but he is present as the Emperor’s representative, and though all the other members of the Synod are the highest ecclesiastical dignitaries of the Russian Church, yet as they are summoned by the Emperor, and his special lay representative is there always to represent and state his opinion and wishes, the Emperor himself must have an infinitely greater influence than our own sovereigns possess, though theoretically they fill the same office of “Defender of the Faith.” He is described in one of the fundamental laws as “the supreme defender and preserver of the dogmas of the dominant faith,” while immediately afterwards it is added “the autocratic power acts in the ecclesiastical administration of the most Holy Governing Synod created by it.” The Emperor must have unlimited power, typified by his crowning himself at his coronation, in ecclesiastical administration, and the bishops and other clergy, who are intensely loyal, would probably not wish it otherwise; but he could not affect or change, even by a hair’s breadth, any of the doctrines of the Church nor one of the ceremonies of its Liturgy.

Should the reader wish to know more about Church and State in Russia he will find a most admirable chapter (XIX) with that heading in Sir Donald M. Wallace’s book. Interesting and important as the position of the Russian Church—in many ways so like our own—is for us to-day, it is only possible now to glance briefly at its constitution.

The clergy are divided into two classes, the black and the white, the black being the monastic and the white the secular and married clergy. All the patriarchs or archbishops, bishops, abbots, and higher dignitaries are taken from the ranks of the celibate and monastic clergy and have attained a high standard of education. All the parochial clergy, on the other hand, are educated in seminaries, or training colleges, but only those who show special ability go on to the academy, an institution which occupies the same position for the clergy as the university fills in civil education. They do not reach a very high standard as a rule, and before being appointed to a parish must be married. No unmarried priest can be in charge of a parish, and should he become a widower he must resign his parish, and either enter a monastery or retire into private life; but, in either case, he must not marry again.

Many years ago (1890) there appeared an interesting story of Russian life in the chief Russian literary magazine, and it was translated for the “Pseudonym Library” in a cheap form under the title of A Russian Priest.[6] It is still to be obtained, and it is most refreshing to read again this brief story of a brilliant young seminarist going on to the academy and attaining such distinctions, that he might have aspired to any high office in the Church, yet impelled by his ideals, and full of the Christ-like spirit, choosing the lowest grade of humble and village life, and “touching bottom,” so as to speak, in his Church’s work. As far as I can judge it describes still quite faithfully and clearly the relations of clergy and people in Russian villages and hamlets.

Let me now, however, speak briefly of some of the clergy I have met, taking such as I consider fairly representative of the different classes. I have felt myself that I have learnt a great deal more about the spirit and aims of the Russian Church, and what we may regard as its present and future attitude to ourselves, from knowing its clergy and devout laity than ever I could have hoped to do by reading books about them, or from lectures, addresses, or letters written by them.

I will speak first of the Archbishop of Warsaw, who received me at Petrograd on my first visit, in place of the Metropolitan Antonius who had sent a very brotherly message of welcome from his sick-room, where shortly afterwards he died. The Archbishop Nicolai—Russians speak of their bishops and archbishops in this way, using the Christian name and not that of the See—is a most imposing and fatherly figure, and received me attired, just as his portrait shows him, wearing a very rich-looking satin robe, decorated with orders, and with a large cross of magnificent diamonds in the centre of his black cap or mitre. He had been in the United States, in charge of the Russian work there, and also in England, and spoke a little English, but it was so little that I was glad to have Mr. Feild, a churchwarden of the English Church, who has lived in Russia all his life, to be my interpreter.

His Grace was full of interest, sympathetic and intelligent, in all that I could tell him about our own Church at home, in Russia, and on the Continent generally, very keen to know of my impressions, and of my reception by the Procurator of the Holy Synod, and by the official at the Ministry of the Interior, who is responsible for religious administration. I shall have to speak later of the status of our Anglican Church in Russia, and so here I will only say that it led me to speak of the work of our Anglican Chaplain (the Rev. H. C. Zimmerman) at Warsaw, whereupon the archbishop said at once, “Ask him to come and see me when I am at Warsaw three months from now.” I did so, and Mr. Zimmerman wrote to tell me afterwards that he had had the kindest reception, with quite a long conversation, had been presented with souvenirs, and dismissed with a blessing, his Grace saying to him as he left:—

“Now, regard me as your bishop, when your own is not here, and come to me whenever you are in need of advice or information.”

The archbishop loves to think of his pleasant recollections of England and its Church life.

“Ah,” he said, “your English Sunday! How beautiful it is to walk along Piccadilly on Sunday morning, with all the shops closed, and no one in the streets except quiet-looking people, all on their way to Church!”

London is very different in that respect on Sunday mornings, whatever it is later in the day, from every capital in the world. All is quiet, and Church and worship are in the air. Then the archbishop told me of his going to S. Paul’s Cathedral, sitting in the congregation, and enjoying it all, until it had gradually come home to him during the Second Lesson that something was being read from one of the Gospels. On finding by inquiry that this was so, he rose at once to his feet, and looked with amazement upon the people sitting all round him while the Holy Gospel was being read. I’m afraid my telling him that we always stand for it in the Liturgy only added to his surprise, for he murmured to himself in a puzzled way, “Why in one place and not in another?”

Dear old man, he presented me with his portrait, here given, and all his published works, and hoped, as I do, that it would not be long before I went to see him again.

When at length the Metropolitan Antonius, after a long illness, passed away, he was succeeded by the Archbishop of Moscow who, in his turn, was succeeded by Archbishop Macarius, and it is of the last-named that I will next give briefly my experience. It was on January 10, 1914, according to our calendar, and on December 28, 1913, according to the Russian, when I had the feeling of being in two years at the same time, and of spending the same Christmas first in London and then in Russia, that he received me in his palace at Moscow. Palace it certainly is in the character and spaciousness of its rooms, but the furniture is what we should consider, in our own country, simple and rather conventional. The salon, or drawing-room, was very large, with the usual polished floor and rugs laid upon it. At one side two rows of chairs, facing each other, stood out from the wall, against which a sofa was placed, and in front of that a table. It was exactly the same at the Archiepiscopal Palace at Riga, where I had been a few months before, and the same procedure was followed on both occasions.

First the archbishop warmly embraced me, kissing me on either cheek and then upon the lips, and then courteously waved me to the seat of honour upon the sofa. At Riga when the archbishop took his seat upon the sofa he indicated the place beside him which I did not notice, and took the chair. But just as I was about to sit down, Madame Alexaieff, who had most kindly come to interpret, said hurriedly and in rather a shocked tone, “Take the seat beside him, he wishes it,” and, remembering the etiquette of the sofa as observed still by old-fashioned people in Germany, I did as I was told.

At Moscow, however, I was more observant, and when the archbishop courteously waved his hand to the sofa I bowed to him and at once sat down, but only to find that he himself took a chair next me and left me alone in the place of dignity. It was quite in keeping with his whole bearing and conversation throughout, for he is evidently one of the most humble and unassuming of men. Yet he has covered himself with distinction in the course of his long life spent chiefly far away in the Altai country in Siberia, below Omsk, engaged in work of a missionary character. No one is more respected in the whole of Russia. He is just as shown in the portrait he gave me, slight and not tall, and his whole face lights up with keen interest as he talks and enforces his words with appropriate gestures. He was very caustic upon the subject of the non-attendance at church of educated and wealthy people in a certain place, which perhaps it will be kinder not to mention.

“No,” he said, “they are never to be seen at any service, however important and solemn it may be. There are none there but the same common people who are always crowding into their churches. At least,” he added more deliberately, “if the others are there, they adopt the common people’s dress for the occasion!”

His expression and gesture as he said this were inimitable and indescribable, and the little touch of humour made one’s heart warm towards him. He was much interested in hearing anything I could tell him of our own Church, and delighted, in a wistful sort of way, to hear the many details I gave him of its progress, especially in the extension of its missionary activities and ever-deepening interest in social questions and economic problems, as they affect the labouring classes and the very poor. His eyes sparkled as he too spoke of the poor, and told me what I should hear from the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, whom I was to see that afternoon, about the work to which she has given her life since the assassination of her husband, the Grand Duke Serge.

Like all his brethren of the episcopate he was greatly interested in anything I could tell him of the Archbishop of Canterbury and of his views and hopes about our own and the Russian Churches, and the Christian Church as a whole. He looked thoughtfully down as I spoke to him about unity and inter-communion under special circumstances, and said rather sadly:—

“How one would love more unity! But how much ground there is to be covered, how many difficulties to be cleared away before that can come!”

I smiled a little, at which he looked at me questioningly, and so I said:—

“I smiled because I thought of the brotherly and loving way in which you have received me to-day, and in which you are speaking so much and so freely of what is in your heart, and if these kind and friendly relations go on increasing between our Churches it will be progress such as He must love to see Who said ‘By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples if ye have love one to another.’ That will be progress of the best kind, and, even if it is slow, I for one shall greatly rejoice that we are moving at all in the right direction. Let us only keep moving, and we shall arrive in time.”

We talked on about my own experiences the year before just to the south of where he had lived so long, and when I told him that I hoped this year to go to the Altai, his own actual country, he looked as though he envied me the journey. After embracing me again he accompanied me into the ante-room, where a poor peasant woman was waiting to see him with an ikon to be blessed. There was a great pile of quite cheap ikons for the poor, towards which he waved his hand and said, “And I have all these to bless also.”

As I left I could only murmur to myself, “The dear old saint.” He made me feel some sense of being back at Troas or Miletum or Ephesus, or coming out from the presence of Barnabas or Silas or St. Paul. It was truly apostolic!

Of course the interpreter makes a tremendous difference, but again, as at Petrograd and Riga, I had an excellent friend and helper in Mr. Birse, one of the churchwardens of our church in Moscow, who had spoken Russian all his life. I may add also that, as in Mr. Feild’s case at Petrograd, he enjoyed the interview as much as I did, and would probably catch little subtleties of expression and self-revelation that would be lost to me by the hurried kind of interpretation that was necessary.

The next great dignitary I will try and describe, though I know I cannot possibly do justice to the dignity and nobility of character evident in all she says and does, is the Abbess Magdalena of the great Convent at Ekaterinburg in Siberia. The Convent is a most imposing group of buildings, stretching along an extended front, with cupolas, spires, and pinnacles, and is much frequented by pilgrims from far and near who come to pray in its chapel before a famous ikon. The Abbess and all her nuns wear the same kind of black dress, with cap and veil, quite black and unredeemed by any trace of white linen or cambric. The first thing that impressed me, even before I entered the gate, was the beauty of their singing. The choir were practising for a service on the Emperor’s name-day on the morrow, and their hymn was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard from women’s voices. It seemed to me that all the four parts were there. The bass certainly was, and I was told that the nuns with deep voices submitted them to careful training until they were able to reach very low notes indeed. There was, of course, no accompanying music, the conductor just waving her open hand to and fro to beat time, and the precision and crispness of the whole hymn were wonderful.

The chapel is a fine building beautifully painted by the nuns themselves, and its services are conducted by a priest and deacon. The deacon is a special feature in the ranks of the Russian clergy, and is responsible for all the choral parts of the services, apart from the actual priest’s part in the Liturgy of course, and is chosen for the beauty of his voice. If a young man has a very fine voice and is wondering what use he shall make of it, he sees nothing at all unbecoming or incongruous in saying that he has not made up his mind yet whether he shall choose the Church or the stage.

When I was being introduced to the Ekaterinburg deacon, my friend and interpreter whispered to me, “He gave up the opera to come here.” I thought, in my ignorance, that he had left the world for religion, and full of sympathetic interest said:—

“Ask him if he has ever regretted it!” and was rather disconcerted when he said in an off-hand way:—

“Oh! well of course I missed things at first, but I’m gradually getting used to it.”

The Abbess confided to us that sometimes from the way he offered the incense she thought he must be thinking he was on the stage still.

He was a remarkably good-looking man with a wonderfully rich voice, and as none of the clergy ever cut hair or beard after Ordination, and his was just getting full, he looked a most picturesque and interesting figure. I should like to meet him again, and put the same question, in the hope of a somewhat more encouraging answer.

The Abbess, as well as managing and inspiring her sisters, superintends a really remarkable work. Her revenue is a very large one, and she gives a portion of it to the Bishop of Ekaterinburg for the work of his diocese—he is a young and energetic prelate whom I greatly liked when I knew him later—and out of the remainder she supports an Orphanage for six hundred girls in the Convent. The remarkable thing, however, about her management is its essentially practical, sensible, and considerate character. The girls do not wear a uniform, but can consult and improve their own taste in dress. They are carefully studied individually, and, while all are educated in school in the same way, special preparation is given for different callings in life according to the inclination and aptitude shown by the girls. Many, of course, prefer domestic service as being simpler and perhaps more in keeping with what they have known before coming there; but the more enterprising and competent can be, and are, taught all sorts of things which these very modern nuns do with such great ability themselves. They play, sing, do all sorts of “white work” for Russian and French purchasers, and are well up in modern photography. They carve, paint, make ikons, illuminate pictures, and do wonderful embroidery. There is a wide choice, therefore, for the girls under their charge, and they avail themselves of it to the full. Just before I was there a girl with a wonderful voice, after having been trained, had been launched, at the age of twenty-six, upon her career as a member of the Russian Imperial Opera.

I described this very modern work as carried out by the nuns of a very ancient convent, on my return, to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who remarked significantly, as I daresay many of my readers will, “And that is in Siberia!”

From Abbess let me pass to Abbot, but to a very different community. At Tiumen, the farthest point I reached in North Siberia, and where I had been to give services to a family living alone there, and from Scotland originally, I went out in the afternoon to see an old church outside the town where there had formerly been a fairly large monastery. It is very small and humble now, I am sure, from the few we saw there, and their neglected appearance as they went about their work in old and well-worn habits. The church was locked, but one of their number fetched the keys and showed us over the church, explaining their oldest ikons. As we walked towards the gate and our little carriage, he was full of curiosity about ourselves and our Church, and at last, as he questioned me rather closely, my friend could keep it in no longer, and explained:—

“He’s a bishop, an English bishop, and he has come from London to give us lonely folk a service!”

The effect was extraordinary.

“An English bishop! Do you say it? Only to think of it! And I in my dirty clothes like any common labourer! And I am the Abbot! I beg of you! Oh! yes, I must insist. Do not deny me. Enter my humble house, and let me feel, even if you only take a seat upon a chair for a moment, that I have entertained you!”

Such hospitable intent was not to be withstood, and willingly enough we went with him into his small and, as he said, very humble abode, feeling how very touching and appealing it all was. We entered, our host saying cheerfully, “Be good enough to walk on,” and found ourselves in a very bare and cheerless-looking parlour with stiff chairs, with black horsehair seats, round the walls, and a bare table in the centre, upon which stood a conventional and faded little basket of wax-flowers and fruit under a glass shade. On looking round we saw the good Abbot had disappeared, so we sat down and looked about us, hoping he had not gone off to order food; but in an incredibly short time, as if he had been a “lightning-change artist,” he was back again. And what a transformation! The dirty and faded brown cassock was gone, and a flowing rich black robe had taken its place, a black mitre with dependent veil was upon his head, a magnificent chain and cross hung from his neck, and, thoroughly satisfied with his change, he looked as though he were saying “Now we meet upon equal terms!” His boyish delight was good to see as he said:—

“Now let me welcome you and greet you!” and he kissed me as other bishops had done.

These embraces are no light ordeal, as the good clergy never shave or cut their hair, and are very heavily bearded. But what of that, if one can feel as I did that day, when driving off and waving our adieux, that one had been breathing apostolic air, and had been very near in the spirit to “Peter and John”?

It only remains to give my experience of a typical parish priest, and then I shall feel that the Russian clergy have been fairly described.

Upon my arrival at the Spassky Mine, during my first journey in Siberia, in the very heart of the Kirghese Steppes, the manager told me what had passed between himself and the parish priest, kept there by his company to minister to the labourers in the smelting works. These were all Russians, though the labourers in the mine itself were chiefly Kirghese and Mohammedans.

“You will be interested to hear that our bishop is coming to see us,” he had said by way of beginning.

“Your bishop! Where from and what for?”

“He is coming across the steppes, and from London, to give us services.”

“You don’t mean to say so!” was the startled exclamation. “I never heard of such a thing! Your bishop, all the way from London, driving night and day for five days across the steppes, to give you twenty English folk your services! Why, our bishop is only two or three days down the river at Omsk, but we could not expect him to come here for us.”

“Well, you see,” observed my friend, “our English Church does not forget her children, even if they are scattered far and wide. And we shall be glad to see him and receive Holy Communion and have sermons from him about our faith and highest duties.”

After a moment’s silence the priest looked up suddenly and said:—

“I wonder if your bishop will come to our service on Sunday and join with us in worship? If he will address us how glad we shall be to hear him!”

“He will certainly come, and, what is more, we will all come with him, and we will all be at divine service together for once. Suppose we have our Celebration at 7.30, and you arrange yours for 8.30 instead of 8.15, and we will all come over together? We shall fill our little room, and can’t invite others; but we will all accompany the bishop to the church.”

Next day (Sunday), after our Communion—all the staff received it—we went over, I in my robes, to the church, and were received by the wardens, the choir leading off with a hymn as we entered. The wardens at once conducted me behind the screen where the priest stood before the altar in his vestments, with a boy server on either side beautifully vested, the one in gold and the other in silver tissue.

After bowing to me gravely and reverently, he began the service. Nothing is seen of it by the congregation, and they hear only the voice of the priest, and are told from the other side of the screen what is passing within. The Russian Liturgy is full of traditional ceremonies, and rather bewildering, I should think, to an English Churchman; but there is no question as to the great reverence which distinguishes it. The priest confided to his manager afterwards how nervous he felt at celebrating with a bishop at his side, and how anxious he felt to make no mistake. He did not show it, however, and was as reverent and absorbed as any priest ought to be when back again in thought and word and deed in the Upper Room, where, on the same night on which He was betrayed, our Lord left us the memorial of His Passion and the Sacrament of His love and grace.

It was touching also to see the little servers struggling between curiosity and the claims of the service, but the latter triumphed; and not till they had taken off their little vestments and stood forth in their ordinary clothes did they permit themselves a good look at their strange visitor, and show themselves ready to have a word or two from him.

The priest, when he had taken an extra little service which some old men had asked for, came over to the manager’s house and told me of his work, asked questions, and received little gifts, and told me how inspiring it was to all the Russians to know that their English staff were religious, as well as clever and able men, and glad to have their services when they could.

In one way this priest was not typical, for he was paid his stipend by the company, and not dependent upon his people. In all ordinary parishes this is not the case. The parish priest receives a nominal stipend from public sources, but depends upon his people for the rest. They give small contributions on their name days—a very substantial sum is received on S. John’s Day, as a favourite Russian name is Ivan, or John—when the priest comes to bless their house or workshop, or for a marriage, christening, or funeral, or to give the Sacrament in illness. There is often, usually, indeed, bargaining on all these occasions. A portion of their fruits and crops is claimed. All sorts of contributions are made throughout the year, and, except in town parishes where able clergy have large incomes, given ungrudgingly by their people, the priest and his wife are always trying to get as much as they can for their services, and the people, who are very poor, to give as little.

This cannot lead to good relations between clergy and people, and, as the clergy in the country seldom if ever preach, there is no personal teaching to bring them together. Officially, therefore, it is true to say that the Russians value and reverence the ministry of their parish clergy, while, personally, they do not feel any great interest in them or their families, nor see any reason why they should. And certainly, as a rule—the fault of the system no doubt—they do not love them.

Let me now describe the service which I have mentioned upon a previous page, conducted after the Liturgy was over and the people had been dismissed. The priest told me four old men had asked to have a few special prayers and a reading from the Gospels, and I stayed to share it. The prayers were said, petition and response, by all five standing before the screen, after which the four old men, with rough and rugged faces, shaggy hair, and wide flowing beards, closed up together, and, as they stood back to back, the priest placed the beautifully-bound copy of the Gospels upon their heads and began to read. The rough faces seemed at once to change their whole expression: their blue eyes sparkled, and there appeared that light upon every countenance which “never was on sea or land,” or anywhere else except upon the face of one who is in communion with God. My thoughts went back to the story of Moses as he came down from Sinai, and veiled his face as he spoke to the people, lest they should find there that which they could neither bear to see or understand. One’s thoughts are always going back to scriptural scenes and descriptions when amongst the Russian peasantry.