vladimir alexandrovitch was, i suppose, one of the minor clergy. it was evident he was very poor; his house consisted of one room only, and was furnished by two chairs and a table. several ikons hung on the walls. on the floor a rough black sheepskin mat showed where he slept. he wouldn’t find me a lodging, but bade me welcome to his own. we ate kasha together, buckwheat porridge, and then he put the samovar on and we had tea. the ikons were all christ-faces, and they watched us all through the meal in a way that gave the place a strange atmosphere. at my elbow stood a famous picture, one that many russians love beyond all others as a comforter. it is called “the joy of all the afflicted”; it is, of course, a portrait of christ painted in the features of a russian peasant. it means nothing to a foreigner, but somehow it appeals to the peasant; it brings christ very near to him, it makes him a fellow-man. opposite me was “the ikon not made by hands,” also a peasant face, but having an expression as cold as the other was warm. 150but this one was arresting; one’s eyes continually rested upon it and tried to discover some hidden meaning. i asked the priest to tell me the story of it, and it was not until the end that i discovered that it was a version of the st veronica legend. i don’t know now whether he would agree with the version of his story i should tell. but this is how it remains in my mind.

the fame of jesus spread into many countries, even before the time of his death. it came to abyssinia where a queen was dying. the tidings came of the healing of the sick, the raising from the dead, tidings of all the wonderful faith-miracles wrought in the distant land where jesus was teaching. the tidings were brought to the dying queen, and as she heard a light passed over her face. all those who stood by wondered and hoped, for in the sudden light in the eyes of the queen they deemed they saw the promise of new life. the queen was silent, and looked on them, and then the light faded away, and she said: “if i might see him it is possible i should live, but how could it happen that he should come hither, so many hundred miles o’er hill and vale and desert and sea, for the sake even of a queen?” so she spoke and was silent, and yet was not without hope. and those around her were sad, and they waited for the queen to say more. but the queen lay still and spoke no more, and with a strange thought of comfort her feeble body and spirit slid gently 151into sleep. sweetly and gently her eyes and soul closed to the day, and her night eyes and soul opened to the night. she dreamed. she dreamed, and then even her dreaming self fell asleep.

in the morning she opened her eyes and remembered that she had dreamed, and she remembered a voice in the dream, and a face and a promise. she remembered the strange words that had been spoken to her dreaming self—“andray, the painter, shall bring you the face that shall save you from all harm.”

the queen bade heralds sound for andray, the painter. they sounded, and a painter, andray by name, was found, and they brought him before the queen. then, when he was come, and he stood before the pale queen, she told him the purport of the dream, and told him of the tidings of that jesus of galilee whose comfort her soul craved. andray understood his quest—that he should paint the face—and that day, ere the sun set, he departed on his long journey. his long travelling commenced. far over hill and vale and sea and desert he journeyed to the holy land, there to see the saviour and paint the face that should save the queen.

and a high faith held the pale queen between life and death during the intervening weeks, and a kindred faith bore andray through hardship and peril and the fear of man and of beast. the commotion and stir and rumour with regard to the saviour grew noisier 152as andray came nearer palestine. at length he arrived.

jesus was teaching among the people, living in his heart the life of everyone he saw, living from his heart in living veins over the whole earth. of the queen he knew in his heart, and of her faith, and of the painter and his faith, and he in his own heart had the fulfilment of each, the answer to each. and as part of that answer, on the day on which andray arrived, he stood upon a slope teaching, and below him were a thousand people, listening, calling, reviling, praying, and the disciples were bringing sick people to and fro at the master’s feet. so great was the crowd that andray found it impossible to get near, or he was too tired to struggle through. so he climbed the opposite hill, that which faced the one whereon jesus was working, for the people were in a valley between two hills. and from that eminence andray had a perfect view of the face that he needed to paint.

so the painter settled down to make his study, and he found the face such a subject as he had never yet imagined, such a face as was only one with his highest dream of an ideal, one with the fleeting fancy of the golden moment of his greatest love. eagerly he drew—eagerly for a moment—and then stopped in perplexity. there was something wrong; he put aside his first attempt and eagerly started a second. but the second also he put aside, and started a third; and a fourth 153and a fifth he started, for he found that directly he traced a line it was wrong. the slightest feature that he drew seemed at once a lie. for the living face of the teacher changed constantly, like the flash of the sun on the waves; it was not one face only that he saw, but a thousand faces; not a thousand faces only, but every face, and even for a moment his own face.

jesus knew that he was there, and had marked him where he sat at work upon the opposite hill. and now he beckoned to him, and andray gave up his efforts and made his way down the slope. then one of the disciples found him at the edge of the crowd and brought him to the throng, to the place where jesus was teaching. and when he was brought jesus looked at him and said, “my face may not be drawn by hands, lest in the days to come man should say this only is the likeness of christ. there is not one face alone for all, but for each man his own vision. there is one common knowledge for all, that only the heart may know. what wouldest thou then?”

“i would that i had the likeness that alone can save my queen.”

then jesus took a towel and pressed it to his face, and then gave it to andray. and on the towel was imprinted a strange likeness of christ. and all who looked upon the picture marvelled, for there was in it portraiture such as never painter’s hand could follow. and andray gazed, rapt, upon the living, breathing 154treasure that was his, and he marvelled at the depth and plenitude of power and love that breathed from its unfathomable calm; it seemed a myriad souls were merged in one face. and he looked questioningly at the thorn crown upon the head and the blood marks on the brow, for in such guise was the face portrayed. there was much in the picture that was as yet hidden from his heart.

this was the face that andray, the painter, brought from palestine, which restored to life the pale queen, and which, set in the holy seat of the capital, wrought many wonders and miracles. it is told that andray, though his paintings are now lost, became the most wonderful painter, and his fame went throughout the land; for before taking away the ikon of christ he had received a blessing. at parting jesus breathed on the eyes of the painter, and said, “thou couldest not find my face for the reflection there of the soul of the common man. behold now, thou shalt not look upon the face of any common man but thou shalt find my face there also.”

i liked the priest’s legend and probably read much more in it than he intended. indeed, he seemed mildly surprised at my enthusiastic inquiries as to points in the story. shortly after he concluded the lamp burned out, and as he had no more oil we went to bed. and i slept very soundly, for i had had a stiff day’s walk, and had not slept particularly well since i left vladikavkaz.

155next day i was awakened by the sun full in my face. it was time to go out. i left the priest fast asleep and went out to see the kazbek mountain. the air was so cold that it was necessary to run to keep warm even though the sun shone. there was mist on the mountains and the sun was fighting it. far distant peaks looked immense and elemental, like chaotic heaps awaiting the creation of a world. and the conquering sun was creating all things anew, and momentarily all around me the gems of the earth were, as it were, answering adsum to the morning roll-call. hyacinth and iris glittering with dew crept out of the wet scrub and gleamed in the sunlight, and fritillary butterflies came flitting down upon the blossoms.

then above me rose the majestic mountain to which in old time prometheus, as the story goes, was bound, mount caucasus, the wonder of the way. its high-born pinnacle of snow seemed to have riven the very sky itself, and was all glistering white, as if catching the radiance of another world. mount kazbek seemed a god; the other mountains were men. the other mountains were like grandfathers, hoary old men who wanted children playing at their knees. they enticed me. grandfathers are very fond of their children’s children.