. . his brother monks, bearded
and unkempt . . . debauched acolytes . . . pilgrims from the Holy Land
. . . glittering festal robes . . . vodka orgies, endless chants and
litanies, holy lamps burning, somber eikons with staring eyes . . . the
smell of greasy lukewarm cabbage soup, of unwashed bodies and boot
leather and incense. Holy Russia--it all moved before his eyes in a kind
of melodious twilight. Then the First Revelation. The Man-God.
Man-God. The word filtered through his intelligence. How strange it
sounded. The Man-God--what could it mean.
A sudden change. A life of glory and intrigue. Food on platters of
gold, sparkling wines and laughter. A diamond cross, an imperial gift,
the reward of faithful services. Everybody cringing. Showers of bribes.
Women--always women. A divine life! Nothing but women. . . .
Darkness. Something had happened; they had carried him into a place
full of endless penances, floggings, starvings. Then they accused him
of doing wrong. What was it? The flesh of warm-blooded beasts.
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