A Russian Holy Week - 1906

Overexposed as we have been to the ongoing, screaming idiocy of politicians, media, and so many others, I occasionally retreat into a more sane world by turning to books I have particularly enjoyed. Is it an escape from reality? Maybe. Okay, probably. But not a very effective one, because the world and its evils seem to worm their way into the quiet of my life regardless of my efforts to create barriers.

Anyway, for the past day or two I’ve been re-reading parts of a book I’ve mentioned before in this blog, what is perhaps my favorite memoir, The Puppet Show of Memory, published right after World War One by the English writer, Maurice Baring (1874-1945). In Chapter 17, Baring relates his experiences in Russia during the revolution of 1905, an event that foreshadowed the communist revolution of 1917. Baring was working as a correspondent for a London newspaper, and because he was fluent in Russian (as well as French, Italian, German, and probably several other languages) and immersed himself in the culture, he was able to talk with the locals — aristocrats, intelligentsia, military officers, Cossacks, workers, peasants — and get a sense of their attitudes concerning both the revolutionaries, the government, and life in general. I’ll probably write about these observations sometime soon because they offer remarkable insights into the nature of revolutions and the people who suffer through them. 

But today, as we approach the end of the Christmas Season, and as we begin to turn our thoughts to Lent and Easter, I thought I’d simply repeat what Baring had to say about Holy Week and Easter as celebrated in Moscow in the Spring of 1906. Although Baring later converted to Catholicism, at the time he was an Anglican, but, one senses, a man searching for truth. I found the following passage fascinating, but keep in mind everything he described took place in the midst of the political and social unrest, and the violence, of a revolution. Of course the services described are Russian Orthodox as conducted in what was then Imperial Russia. 

The passage is quite long, but well worth reading, and leaves the reader with a sense that perhaps we modern day Christians have lost some of the glorious wonder of these holiest of days in our liturgical calendar. Of course for those Russians described by Baring, something far greater was lost when the Bolsheviks upended Russia just a decade later and created their atheistic, communist, slave state.

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There is a church almost in every street, and the Kremlin is a citadel of cathedrals. During Holy Week, towards the end of which the evidences of the fasting season grow more and more obvious by the closing of restaurants and the impossibility of buying any wine and spirits, there were, of course, services every day. During the first three days of Holy Week there was a curious ceremony to be seen in the Kremlin, which was held every two years. There was the preparation of the chrism or holy oil. While it was slowly stirred and churned in great cauldrons, filling the room with hot fragrance, a deacon read the Gospel without ceasing (he was relieved at intervals by others), and this lasted day and night for three days. On Maundy Thursday the chrism was removed in silver vessels to the Cathedral. The supply had to last the whole of Russia for two years. I went to the morning service in the Cathedral of the Assumption on Maundy Thursday. The church was crowded to suffocation. Everybody stood up, as there was no room to kneel. The church was lit with countless small wax tapers. The priests were clothed in white and silver. The singing of the noble plain chant without any accompaniment ebbed and flowed in perfect discipline; the bass voices were unequaled in the world. Every class of the population was represented in the church. There were no seats, no pews, no precedence nor privilege. There was the smell of incense and a still stronger smell of poor people, without which, someone said, a church is not a church. On Good Friday there was the service of the Holy Shroud, and besides this a later service in which the Gospel was read out in fourteen different languages, and finally a service beginning at one o’clock in the morning and ending at four, to commemorate the Burial of Our Lord. How the priests endured the strain of these many and exceedingly long services was a thing to be wondered at; for the fast which was kept strictly during all this period, precluded butter, eggs, and milk, in addition to all the more solid forms of nourishment, and the services were about six times as long as those of the Catholic or other churches.

The most solemn service of the year took place at midnight on Saturday in Easter week. From eight until ten o’clock the town, which during the day had been crowded with people buying provisions and presents and Easter eggs, seemed to be asleep and dead. At about ten people began to stream towards the Kremlin. At eleven o’clock there was already a dense crowd, many of the people holding lighted tapers, waiting outside in the square, between the Cathedral of the Assumption and that of Ivan Veliki [great St. John]. A little before twelve the cathedrals and palaces on the Kremlin were all lighted up with ribbons of various colored lights. Twelve o’clock struck, and then the bell of Ivan Veliki began to boom: a beautiful, full-voiced, immense volume of sound — a sound which Clara Schumann said was the most beautiful she had ever heard. It was answered by other bells, and a little later all the bells of the churches in Moscow were ringing together. Then from the Cathedral came the procession: first, the singers in crimson and gold; the bearers of the gilt banners; the Metropolitan, also in stiff vestments of crimson and gold; and after him the officials in their uniforms. They walked around the Cathedral to look for the Body of Our Lord, and returned to the Cathedral to tell the news that He was risen. The guns went off, rockets were fired, and illuminations were seen across the river, lighting up the distant cupola of the great Church of the Savior with a cloud of fire.

The crowd began to disperse and to pour into the various churches. I went to the Manège — an enormous riding school in which the Ekaterinoslav Regiment had its church. Half the building looks like a fair. Long tables, twinkling with hundreds of wax tapers, were loaded with the three articles of food which were eaten at Easter — a huge cake called kulich; a kind of sweet cream made of curds and eggs, cream and sugar, called Paskha (Easter); and Easter eggs, dipped and dyed in many colors. They were waiting to be blessed. The church itself was a tiny little recess on one side of the building. There the priests were officiating, and down below in the center of the building the whole regiment was drawn up. There were two services — a service which began at midnight and lasted about half an hour; and Mass, which followed immediately after it, lasting till about three in the morning. At the end of the first service, when the words, “Christ is risen,” were sung, the priest kissed the deacon three times, and then the members of the congregation kissed each other, one person saying, “Christ is risen,” and the other answering, “He is risen, indeed.” The colonel kissed the sergeant; the sergeant kissed all the men one after another. While this ceremony was proceeding, I left and went to the Church of the Savior, where the first service was not yet over. Here the crowd was so dense that it was almost impossible to get into the church, although it was immense. The singing in the church was ineffable. I waited until the end of the first service, and then I was borne by the crowd to one of the narrow entrances and hurled through the doorway outside. The crowd was not rough; they were just jostling one another, but with cheerful carelessness people dived into it as you would dive into a scrimmage at football, and propelled the unresisting herd towards the entrance, the result being, of course, that a mass of people got wedged into the doorway, and the process of getting out took longer than it need have done; and had there been a panic, nothing could have prevented people being crushed to death. After this I went to a friend’s house to break the fast and eat kulich, Paskha, and Easter eggs, and finally returned home when the dawn was faintly shining on the dark waters of the Moscow River, whence the ice had only lately disappeared.

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As one Moscow cabman, speaking of the violence of the revolution, said to Baring just days before Easter: “There is an illness abroad — we are sick; it will pass — but God remains.”  

Yes, indeed, He is risen and remains with us always.

Christmas Books- Some Suggestions

If you’re looking for a last-minute gift for someone who can read and actually enjoys doing so, I’ve put together a list of books you can purchase online in time for Christmas. Some I’ve actually read, while others still reside on my personal wishlist. I suppose it’s a bit iffy to recommend unread books to others, but I can live with the consequences. After all, should you actually choose to purchase one of these books as a gift for another, I consider myself out of the loop, neither the giver nor the givee. Anyway, my advice is offered voluntarily, without cost. Because you are free to accept or reject it, I accept no responsibility for your decision. 

With that understood, here’s my list of books, each with an Amazon link. First up, a few books I’ve actually read and enjoyed.

The Puppet Show of Memory, by Maurice Baring (1922). I’ve read many autobiographies, but this book tops them all. Maurice Baring is one of those English writers, popular during the first-half of the 20th century, who has been largely forgotten; and that’s a shame. 

Baring enjoyed a remarkable life (1874-1945), traveling the world in the midst of war and peace. Born into a well-connected family, he knew personally many of the world's movers and shakers, as well as the celebrities of his day. 

Baring wrote a number of wonderful novels, some surprisingly good poetry, and several remarkable books based on his personal experiences in many of the age's great events.  (Indeed, his book, R.F.C.  H.Q. 1914-1918, is a marvelous read and relates his service with the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War.) My personal library probably contains a dozen of his books, volumes you won’t find in many public libraries today. The literary establishment ignores Baring because he was born into a wealthy family, ignored political correctness, converted to Catholicism, and befriended both Chesterton and Belloc, among other sins. How wonderful that his autobiography is in print once again, and even available on Amazon. It’s also available as a Kindle edition — I think, for free.

Dove Descending, by Thomas Howard (2006). Thomas Howard, another convert to Catholicism, died this past October at the age of 85. 

Howard was a remarkable man whom I had the honor of knowing, if only slightly. Although we corresponded a bit via letter, as I recall we met only twice, and spent most of those brief meetings talking about the novels of Charles Williams, a subject on which Howard had written a wonderful book and was probably the world’s most knowledgeable scholar. He also authored a number of scholarly works on C. S. Lewis and T. S. Eliot. The current volume, Dove Descending -- subtitled “A Journey into T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets” -- offers an excellent commentary on what I’ve always believed to be one of Eliot’s greatest poems. If you’re looking for a gift for someone who appreciates good poetry, give them this book. And while you’re at it, you might consider bundling it with a copy of Eliot’s poem: Four Quartets. 

The Well and the Shallows, by G. K. Chesterton (1935). With the possible exception of books by Pope Benedict XVI, my home library probably holds more books by G. K. Chesterton than any other author. This volume, a collection of essays first published just a few years before the onset of World War II, is a true prophetic text in which Chesterton takes a serious look at the grave moral and societal issues facing mankind then and now. He warns the world of Naziism, nationalism, socialism, Communism, and a capitalism that rejects Christian ideals and morality. He examines militarism and pacifism, anti-Semitism, materialism, and the sexual revolution decades before it appeared. Sadly, everything Chesterton wrote about remains true but has been largely ignored...to our peril. Chesterton (1874-1936) died just a year after this book was published. 

The Annotated Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen (first published, 1813). If you've read yesterday's post, you'll know I've long been a Jane Austen fan. Should you happen to know someone who's never read her work -- in which case his or her education was sorely lacking -- this annotated version of her most famous novel, Pride and Prejudice, would be a good starting point. The annotations, provided by David M. Shapard, an historian who has annotated all of Austen's novels, will help those who might need an occasional explanation as they navigate through the peculiarities of early nineteenth-century England. Austen died in 1817 at the age of 41. 

Pirate Freedom, by Gene Wolfe (2007). Okay, it's a novel about pirates -- Arrgghh! -- but with a twist, since it's also a sci-fi novel. Don't let that scare you off because the authur, Gene Wolfe, was an amazing writer, among the very best writers of American fiction. Sadly, he died last year at the age of 87. Wolfe is intentionally ignored by many of the literati because of the sci-fi genre, and also because his Catholic faith has colored his work deeply. 

This novel has it all: a Catholic priest with a long -- indeed, a very long -- and strange past; time travel; pirates on the Spanish Main; lots of shiny gold; and a love story thrown in. If you know anyone who enjoys a good yarn, extremely well told, and can suspend his disbelief, this just might be the book to place under the tree.

Now, a few books I have not yet read, but feel confident recommending. In each instance I've either read other works by the author or have read a review of the recommended book by someone whose opinion I trust.

Our Peculiar Times,  by Fr. George Rutler (2020). If you’ve never read anything by Fr. Rutler, you should be ashamed of yourself. Buy one of his books, and do it now! 

Fr. Rutler is one of the leading voices of sanity within today’s Catholic Church. Nothing escapes his notice and he introduces it all to us in a remarkable mix of humor and wisdom. The problem with his books? I read them too quickly. Once I crack the binding, I can’t put it down until I’ve turned the last page. Of course, I usually reread them because I miss so much on that first rapid reading. This latest of his commentaries on the human condition addresses everything from pandemics and societal upheaval to faithlessness and ignorance. As one reviewer put it, "This book is a must-read for anyone interested in rousing our fellow Americans from their slumber and persuading them back to faith, hope, charity and courage."

Blackout, by Candace Owens (2020). If you're wondering why many in the black community are turning to the political right and deserting the Democrat party, Candace Owens will answer your questions. A political activist and star of social media, Owens lifts the lid and exposes the true racism of the political left. Indeed, her book's subtitle says it best: "How Black America Can Make Its Second Escape from the Democrat Plantation.” I’ve listened to several of Owens’ podcast talks, occasionally caught her commentaries on various opinion shows, and always came away enlightened and greatly impressed by this remarkable young woman.

Blessed Charles of Austria, by Charles A. Coulombe (2020). I was truly surprised by the number of Catholics who were shocked when Pope John Paul II beatified Emperor Charles of Austria in 2004. The last Habsburg emperor of Austria-Hungary who accepted the throne in the midst of Word War I, Blessed Charles struggled valiantly to bring peace to the world, but was betrayed by almost everyone. This devoted husband and father lived a life of humility and holiness (1887-1922), a life whose story must be told. Yes, it’s a sad story from a worldly perspective, but a glorious story from heavenly perspective. I have read other books about Blessed Charles and the Habsburgs, and enjoyed them, but this promises to be the best yet.

The Right Side: a Novel, by Spencer Quinn (2017). For several years now I've meant to pick up a copy of this novel, but for some reason have failed to do so. For me a novel must first be a good story with well-developed characters, and I'm told this book has both. The novel's lead character is a woman, a soldier who returned from Afghanistan physically and mentally wounded. But she's joined by another character, a dog with an attitude. This, of course, simply piques my interest, making the novel even more attractive. As one reviewer describes the plot: "a deeply damaged female soldier comes home from the war in Afghanistan and becomes obsessed with finding a missing girl, gains an unlikely ally in a stray dog, and encounters new perils beyond the combat zone." Sounds like my kind of novel.

Okay, that's enough...

Let me know if any of my recommendations work out for your gift-gving. If they don't, please keep it to yourself.

Have a blessed and merry Christmas.

World War One Redux

In a recent post, Tree Hugging, I mentioned World War One during a discussion of the poet, Joyce Kilmer, who died in combat during that war. And then yesterday evening I happened to catch a report on the historical ignorance of many young Americans. The reporter had asked a sampling of high school and college students a few seemingly simple questions, among them: When did World War One take place? and Whom did the United States fight in World War One? According to the reporter, a significant majority could not answer either question accurately. He said if they came within five or ten years on the first question he gave them credit, and he did the same on the second question if they could name just one of the enemy combatants. By the way, he asked similar questions about World War Two, sadly with similar results. How did Edmund Burke put it? “Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.”(Burke, by the way, was the first to say this, long before similar words were uttered by the philosopher, George Santayana, who often gets the credit.) All of this got me thinking once again about this surprising war. I call it "surprising" because at the time it seemed to take so much of the world by surprise.

Over the top: Into the Valley of Death

Have you thought much about World War One lately? After all, last year we celebrated, if I may use that word, the centennial of the start of that war in August 1914. And for the next three years many books and articles addressing the war and its causes and consequences will doubtless appear. Some will be written by authors bent on viewing the past through the filters of their present-day ideologies. But I expect a good number will be written by historians and others who will make a sincere effort to uncover and present the truth about the conflict and those who took part.

Irish Troops in the Trenches: Somme

Over the years I've actually collected quite a few books on World War One, and during the past few months I've been reading (and rereading) a few of them. Of course, Barbara Tuchman's award-winning history, The Guns of August (1962), tells the dramatic story of the months immediately prior to World War One. As I recall I first read the book during my last week of freedom before entering the U. S. Naval Academy in June 1963. 

In the Trenches: the Living among the Dead

David Fromkin's 2004 book, Europe's Last Summer, also addresses the period leading up to the war, although the author offers a different and perhaps more controversial explanation of its causes. And while I don't necessarily agree with all of Fromkin's conclusions, he does present an interesting case. 

I also found Joseph Persico's book on the war's climatic ending, Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour (2004), a fascinating read. This book fills a historical void by describing the final day of the war in remarkable detail. 

Historian Margaret MacMillan wrote about the Paris peace talks of 1919 and the resulting Treaty of Versailles which, instead of ensuring World War One was "the war to end all wars" actually set the stage for the even greater destruction of World War Two. Her book, Paris 1919, gives the reader a front-row seat at the six months of talks that set that stage for another century of conflict that remains with us today. 

J.R.R. Tolkien and the Trenches of World War One

And for fans of J.R.R. Tolkien, I recommend John Garth's Tolkien and the Great War (2003). Garth looks to Tolkien's combat service during World War One to uncover the roots of his famous trilogy, The Lord of the Rings. A young Army lieutenant, Tolkien managed to survive the Somme, a horrendous battle that took the lives of two of his closest friends, along with 300,000 others on both sides. Garth makes a strong case that Tolkien's subsequent writings were greatly influenced by his wartime experiences in which he witnessed first-hand the war's devastation. Another book on a related subject is Joseph Loconte's A Hobbit, A Wardrobe, and a Great War in which the author examines the influence of World War One on the writings of both Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. I have not yet read this book, so I really can't comment on it, but from the reviews I've read, it sounds interesting. I expect it will eventually find its way into my library.

Maurice Baring

But the books I have enjoyed the most are those written by contemporaries, especially those who played an active role in the war. One of my literary heroes, a man too often overlooked, is Maurice Baring. Novelist, poet, playwright, diplomat, world traveler and travel writer, and a close friend of G. K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc, Baring led a most remarkable and adventurous life. During the war he was a ground officer assigned to the staff of the legendary Boom Trenchard (aka, 1st Viscount Hugh Trenchard) who was busy in France creating the Royal Flying Corps. Closely associated with those early combat aviators, Baring wrote a wonderful book based on his diaries and describing his experiences: R.F.C.  H.Q.  1914-1918. For anyone interested in the early days of military aviation, it's a must read. If you'd like to know more about Baring the man, I suggest reading his fascinating autobiography, The Puppet Show of Memory. He's one of those people you wish you had known.

H. H. Munro ("Saki")

Another of the tragic casualties of World War One was H. H. Munro, the author of so many marvelously funny short stories who wrote under the pen name of Saki. Like Joyce Kilmer, Munro would not accept an officer's commission but decided to enter the Army as a common soldier, even though his age would normally exempt him from service. And like Kilmer he too was killed by a German sniper. Munro was 43 when he entered the Army and 45 when he died. Although I recommend anything written by Munro, I especially enjoyed his short novel, When William Came. Published in 1913, a year before the start of the war, it's a bit of a fantasy describing an authoritarian occupation of Great Britain after it loses a war to Germany. In writing the novel Munro makes the case that in a world where evil exists the best way to ensure peace is to be prepared for war. 

And lastly, about 30 years ago, while nosing about in a now-defunct local bookstore in Harwich on Cape Cod (Staten Hook Books), I came across several copies of the monthly publication, Current History. First published in 1914 by the New York Times, it is still published today but by a private publisher. Anyway, I found a dozen copies dating from 1915 through 1920 and purchased them all at a dollar apiece. Each issue consists of about 200 pages of articles, commentary, photographs, and political cartoons on the war, its causes, and its aftermath. The issues covering the peace talks and the formation of the League of Nations are particularly fascinating and include complete speeches and commentary by many of the actual participants. I was also intrigued by the articles covering the revolution in Russia as it was happening. Just to give you an idea of the content of these monthlies, I've included a few covers (below) from 1917 and 1919. (Click each to enlarge.)

A Good Memory is Overrated

My father had a friend, Bill Hersey, a self-taught memory expert who made a good living teaching others his memory aids and techniques. I still use a few of  them myself, although with my ever-present iPhone -- "There's an app for that!" -- I find myself relying more on the cellphone in my pocket than the cells in my brain. This increased reliance on man-made technology over God-given brainpower will no doubt have its effects over the long haul...well, assuming at my age I have a long haul.

I used to be envious of people who displayed extraordinarily good memories. And when an expert like Bill Hersey would say, "Anyone can have an outstanding memory," I'd usually mutter under my breath, "Yeah, easy for you to say. What else have you got to do? Memory's your business. I don't have the time to devote all my waking hours to learning these silly techniques." Of course, if I had actually studied and practiced those techniques of his, I would have spent far less time relearning things I already knew. At this point in my life, though, I really don't have the need. If I've forgotten something, I just Google it.

But back before Google, and iPhones, and PDAs, before the arrival of the digital computer, people had two choices: they either wrote things down or remembered them. And if they were illiterate, well, that left only one choice. Most experts who study these things believe that the people of the past had much better memories than you and me, a hypothesis that has apparently been successfully tested on primitive tribes that have no written language. Indeed, some of these experts believe that poetry and song, with its rhyme and rhythm, were originally developed as memory aids, as a means to record and pass down the history of families and tribes.

You can test this yourself by asking a stray teenager a series of questions to test his or her memory on the kind of things they would learn in school; questions like these: In what year did Columbus discover the new world? What nation attacked the United States on December 7, 1941? What two countries were involved in the Louisiana Purchase? And then check the music charts and ask them to recite the lyrics of the top three songs. I suspect they'll do a lot better on the latter than the former. Rhyme and rhythm make a difference. Of course, the fact that they may not have been taught any American history in school could have an effect on their answers.

I know that whenever I need to know the last day of the month, I find myself reciting, "Thirty days hath September, April, June and November..." It's just a lot easier than trying to remember a collection of unrelated facts like the number of days in individual months.

Just the other day I witnessed a rather poignant example of the impact of song and rhyme on the memory. The wife of one of our volunteer delivery drivers at the soup kitchen suffers from Alzheimer's. He is her sole caregiver and takes her along every Thursday when he delivers meals to shut-ins. The disease, though, has progressed to the point where she rarely speaks to us, and I'm sure she has no idea who we are. But the other day, some of the women kitchen volunteers began to sing old hymns as they filled the take-out containers with the day's meal. And wouldn't you know it? Donna joined right in and sang along with them. The melody, the words, the rhyme and rhythm were still there.

I noticed something similar some years ago when I would take the Eucharist to the residents of a local nursing home. Each week I would visit the Catholic residents, including those in the Alzheimer's ward. Even if they weren't able to receive Holy Communion, I would still pray with them, and always finished by reciting the Our Father. It was remarkable how many of these patients, who uttered not a word and often had the most blank expressions on their faces, would suddenly light up once they heard those familiar words. And even more surprisingly, most would then join me praying aloud.

These odd thoughts all began some minutes ago when I couldn't remember an acquaintance's last name. It finally came to me, but not before I had recalled two of my favorite quotes, both relating to memory. (I find it especially interesting that I have no trouble remembering these relatively obscure comments by two people I never knew personally, but had to struggle to recall the last name of someone I  was with two days ago. Go figure!)

Anyway, the first comment was made by Maurice Baring, an early 20th-century British writer whose book, A Puppet Show of Memory, is a classic memoir of the age. Regarding memory, Baring's words have provided me with much consolation as my memory power weakens:

"Memory is the greatest of artists, and effaces from your mind what is unnecessary."

Flannery O'Connor, self-portrait

This just reinforces my belief that the things I've forgotten weren't all that important anyway.

The second comment is by one of my heroines, Flannery O'Connor, who wrote:

"Total non-retention has kept my education from being a burden to me."

...and provided me with another reason to rejoice over my poor memory.

By the way, whether or not you're a Flannery O'Connor fan, I recommend reading a collection of her letters, published posthumously under the title, The Habit of Being. It is by far the most enjoyable collection of letters I have ever read...at least I think so, if I remember correctly...