Nearly the entire population of Pskov came out to see Arseny off. He was pale, almost transparent, but he held himself in the saddle well.
Being on the road will bring him back to health for good, said the abbess of the John the Baptist Convent. The road is the best medicine.
Mayor Gavriil, who was usually reserved, did not hide his tears. He knew he was seeing Arseny for the last time. Pskovians were a little frightened by Arseny’s departure. The only thing that calmed them was that the pestilence was over and familiar life had returned to the city, if not forever, then for at least the next five years. In light of the possible end of the world, the residents of Pskov no longer expected a new pestilence.
Arseny truly did feel better on the road. Recovery entered him with the undulation of the fields and the sounds of the forest. The expanses of the Russian land were curative: they were not yet boundless at that time, so they gave, rather than demanded, strength. The drumming of hooves gladdened Arseny. He did not look around at his traveling companions but imagined that his dear friend Ambrogio was riding a little behind him and behind Ambrogio was the caravan and in the caravan were all those he had parted with at one time.
The horsemen rode quickly. Not because they were hurrying somewhere (Arseny was riding into timelessness, why should he be in a hurry?) but simply because the fast movement corresponded to Arseny’s inner state and raised his spirit. Arseny’s great renown traveled faster than the horsemen, however. It outstripped them and sent crowds of people out to greet them. Arseny dismounted. He attempted to listen to everyone who wanted to appeal to him.
Many awaited help with an illness. Arseny took them aside and examined them carefully. He determined if it was within his power to help these people. If he felt it was within his power, then he helped. If he was unable to help, he searched for possible words of encouragement. He would say:
Your illness exceeds my power, but the Lord’s mercy is far greater than human powers. Pray and do not despair.
Or:
I know you fear pain more than death. And so I tell you that your passing will be peaceful and pain will not torment you.
Many asked questions unrelated to illnesses. They simply wanted to speak with a person they had heard a lot about. Arseny touched them with his hand but did not enter into conversation with them. His contact was deeper than any words. It produced an answer inside the head of the inquirer himself, for he who asks a question often knows the answer, too, even if he cannot always admit that to himself.
Finally, there were a great many people who did not want treatment and did not ask anything, since in any nation the majority of people are healthy and have no questions. These people had heard that simply beholding Arseny was auspicious, and so they came to have a look at him.
Those meetings on the road took time and significantly extended the journey for Arseny’s procession. Arseny, though, did not attempt to speed up his movement.
If I do not hear out all these people, he told Ustina, my journey cannot be considered traveled. Our good deeds, my darling, will save you, but could they be enacted within oneself? No, I answer you, no can do, they are only for other people, and praise the Lord that He sends us these people.
Arseny’s arrival would become known several days in advance and residents would decide then who he would stay with. These people based their decisions on the greatest convenience for Arseny as well as a hope for their own welfare. Along with Arseny’s renown, after all, there also spread the opinion that his lodging in someone’s home portended of great benefit to the owner. Sometimes, instead of being housed in the place that was offered to him, Arseny would look out at the crowd to choose a person and then ask him:
And would you, O friend, allow me to stay with you?
The life of the person Arseny chose would change from that day on, too, at least in the eyes of his townsmen. Arseny also sensed his own life was changing. He had never before experienced such a gain in strength. Despite not sparing himself when helping those who asked, he gained more strength than he lost. And he never tired of being amazed about this. Arseny could feel that the hundreds of people he met gave him strength. He only imparted that strength to those who needed it most.
The travelers rode through places where Arseny had been many years ago, when he set off for Pskov from Belozersk. He recognized hills, rivers, churches, and houses he had seen before. It felt like he even recognized people, though he was not fully certain of that. People do change quickly, after all.
Arseny thought back to the sorrowful events of his youth, but his thoughts were warm. These were already thoughts about someone else. He had long suspected that time was discontinuous and its individual parts were not connected to one another, much as there was no connection—other than, perhaps, a name—between the blond little boy from Rukina Quarter and the gray-haired wayfarer, almost an old man. Strictly speaking, his name changed, too, over the course of his life.
In one of the wealthy homes, Arseny saw himself in a Venetian mirror: he was, indeed, an old man. This discovery staggered him. Arseny was not at all sorry about his bygone youth and, yes, he had felt before that he was changing. Even so, that glance in the mirror made a strong impression on him. Long gray hair. Sharp cheekbones that absorbed his eyes. He had not thought the changes had gone so far.
Just take a look at what has become of me, he said to Ustina. Who would have thought? You, my love, would not recognize me like this. I myself do not recognize me.
Arseny rode and thought about how his body was no longer as flexible as it had once been. Not as invulnerable. Now it felt pain not only after being struck but also without being struck. More specifically, now and then his body felt as if it had been struck. It reminded Arseny of its presence, aching maybe in one place, maybe in another. Before, though, Arseny had not remembered his own body, for he was treating the bodies of others, caring for each as if it were a vessel containing a spirit.
Once, along the way to Kirillov Monastery, he saw a body whose spirit had already almost departed. The body belonged to a man of advanced age: he looked at Arseny with blue eyes but no expression. The old man’s kin had brought him to Arseny, saying the man was weak. Arseny looked into the blue eyes of this man of advanced years and was surprised that they had not faded as everything in the man’s soul had faded.
Dost thou want to live, O olde man? asked Arseny.
I want to be deade, answered the old man.
Well, he died long ago but his body will not let him go, and so you are clinging to a shell, Arseny told his kin. What you loved in him is no longer here.
Well that, as they say, is noticeable, acknowledged the relatives. No more of his former spiritedness is left. If you say to him, maye thou live many more yeares, Grandfather… he says, scram, you. It is a horrifying metamorphosis. But really, what can we do with him, under the circumstances?
There is nothing for you to do, answered Arseny. Everything will be resolved within forty days.
And that is what happened. The old man passed away the day Arseny arrived at Saint Kirill’s cloister.