The Devil Comes To The Bishop

Uninvited, but not entirely unexpected, the Devil entered the Bishop's cell.

Believing himself to be obliged to courtesy at all times, the Bishop greeted

his visitor somewhat apologetically. "I am sorry for my appearance," the

Bishop said, with neither rage nor resentment. The imprisoners, whose

captive the Bishop was, had shaved off his beard and had dressed his now

emaciated body in rags.

The Devil smirked ruefully. "No matter how they humiliate you, or all those

others like you, your Faith does not diminish. It adorns you and identifies

your rank and office even more surely than long whiskers and liturgical

garments. We are unable to control this; thus, we must isolate you."

Humbled, the Bishop accepted the compliment: considering its source,

it did bear a certain validity. "I am grateful to be numbered---however

unworthy I am---among such brethren."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound, though not the sighr, of a

steam engine's labor: a single blast of its whistle, the clanging of its

bell, and the steady, rhythmic release of steam from valves, pushed

against pistons' pressure plates, as wheels turned. Both conversers

listened silently.

After a few moments, the Devil said, "That is the evening shipment of

peat, coming into Porokhov Station. At a spot near the last curve,

just before the rails straighten to the final approach, your life will

be required from you, and very forcefully taken."

The Devil waited for the Bishop to wince, or flinch, or even to blink

back tears. But no change occurred to the serenity of that countenance,

and the Bishop's gaze remained as direct, and yet as unconfrontational,

as it had before. "They will cast your dead carcass into a pit---perhaps

with lime; perhaps with grenades, as happened with the Abbess Elizabeth."

In his mind, and unnoticed by his visitor, the Bishop whispered a prayer

at the mention of the martyr's name.

"And what purpose has brought you here, interrupting your busy day?" the

Bishop inquired.

"I have come to bear witness to this proceeding. I encourage efficient

executions, and I set my seal on accomplished results and fulfilled

expectations. I have done so since the Deaon Stephen died in Jerusalem."

"Is it difficult, the materiality you have assumed?" the Bishop asked.

The Devil chuckled. "No. This particular person---or, shall I say, a

very particular comrade---had given me his soul some years ago. That

allows me a place within him to inhabit. He offered that soul to the Liar

rather than to the Lamb. The comrade dresses rather shabbily; his shoes

are always too tight and badly creased, and his socks have holes. His bald.

bulbous head always aches; it will ache the more when I have withdrawn."

Again, they fell silent. After a brief respite, the Devil said, "They

are coming for you now." The Bishop replied, "I am ready." The

Devil found no reason to doubt the Bishop's confident assertion.

"May I put to you a question, Benjamin?" For the first and last time,

the Devil pronounced the name the Bishop had received at his tonsuring.

"Did you not know that the vessels you refused to relinquish would

still be confiscated? It need not have cost your life."

The Bishop chuckled, quietly and without brazen ostentation, but his

amusement was something of an irritant to the Devil. "Our Lord once

told not us not to cast pearls before swine. And I have kept Faith

with the Gospel through all the days I have been His servant."

The Devil had intended to spit. But either he, or the body he had

appropriated, had suddenly developed a dry mouth.

"Does he know he is here, this bringer of your presence?" the Bishop

asked. His curiosity was genuine, even at this late hour. "No,"

the Devil answered, recovering a more cynical attitude. "He believes

he is sleeping next to that horse-faced woman on whom he cheats

regularly. I have provided him a respite from the sound of her snoring."

Wheb the executioners entered the cell, the Devil moved slightly away

and into the shadows. The party believed their victim was an

ordinary, but counter-revolutionary, priest; and not the Metropolitan

of Petrograd; nor did he, in his humility, inform them of his

identity. An anonymous Christian was all the identity he sought.

As they escorted him, and other companions sentenced to die with him,

to the site of this final agony, they believed the figure that

accompanied them, although hanging back in the shadows, was the

great Lenin himself, Chairman of the Council of People's Commisars

of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic.

Partiya Lenina, Mikhalkov's lyrics---some decades later---shall

declare. Uninvited, but not entirely unexpected, the Devil entered the

Bishop's cell.

Believing himself to be obliged to courtesy at all times, the Bishop greeted

his visitor somewhat apologetically. "I am sorry for my appearance," the

Bishop said, with neither rage nor resentment. The imprisoners, whose

captive the Bishop was, had shaved off his beard and had dressed his now

emaciated body in rags.

The Devil smirked ruefully. "No matter how they humiliate you, or all those

others like you, your Faith does not diminish. It adorns you and identifies

your rank and office even more surely than long whiskers and liturgical

garments. We are unable to control this; thus, we must isolate you."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound, though not the site, of a

steam engine's labor: a single blast of its whistle, the clanging of its

bell, and the steady, rhythmic release of steam from valves, of pistons

pushed, and of wheels turned. Both conversers paused silently to listen.

After a few moments, the Devil said, "That is the evening shipment of

peat, coming into Porokhov Station. At a spot near the last curve,

just before the rails straighten to the final approach, your life will

be required from you, and very forcefully taken."

The Devil waited for the Bishop to wince, or flinch, or even to blink

back tears. But no change occurred to the serenity of that countenance,

and the Bishop's gaze remained as direct, and yet as unconfrontational,

as it had before. "They will cast your dead carcass into a pit---perhaps

with lime; perhaps with grenades, as happened with the Abbess Elizabeth."

In his mind, and unnoticed by his visitor, the Bishop whispered a prayer

at the mention of the martyr's name.

"And what purpose has brought you here, interrupting your busy day?" the

Bishop inquired.

"I have come to bear witness to this proceeding. I encourage efficient

executions, and I set my seal on accomplished conclusions. I have done

so since the Deaon Stephen died in Jerusalem."

"Is it difficult, the materiality you have assumed?" the Bishop asked.

The Devil chuckled. "No. This particular person---or, shall I say, a

very particular comrade, had given me his soul some years ago. That

allows me a place to inhabit. He offered that soul to the Liar rather

than to the Lamb. The comrade dresses rather shabbily; his shoes are

always creased and unpolished, and his socks have holes. His bald.

bulbous head always aches; it will ache the more when I have withdrawn."

Again, they fell silent. After a brief respite, the Devil said, "They

are coming for you now." The Bishop replied, "I am ready." The

Devil found no reason to doubt the Bishop's confident assertion.

"May I put to you a question, Benjamin?" For the first and last time,

the Devil pronounced the name the Bishop had received at his tonsuring.

"Did you not know that the vessels you refused to relinquish would

still be confiscated? It need not have cost your life."

The Bishop chuckled, quietly and without brazen ostentation, but his

amusement was something of an irritant to the Devil. "Our Lord once

told not us not to cast pearls before swine. And I have kept Faith

with the Gospel through all the days I have been His servant."

The Devil had intended to spit. But either he, or the body he had

appropriated, had suddenly developed a dry mouth.

"Does he know he is here, this bringer of your presence?" the Bishop

asked. His curiosity was genuine, even at this late hour. "No,"

the Devil answered, recovering a more cynical attitude. "He believes

he is sleeping next to that horse-faced woman on whom he cheats

regularly. I have provided him a respite from the sound of her snoring."

When the executioners entered the cell, the Devil moved slightly away