BAGDONAS’S CROSS

BAGDONO KRYŽIUS

Vilniaus krašte, prie plento iš Vilniaus į Lydą, ties Pulstokių kaimu, ant kalniuko tarp keletos didelių pušų iki 1965 metų stovėjo gražius medinis kryžius .................

English Translation by GLORIA O’BRIEN

Until 1965, on the road from Vilnius to Lyda, near the village of Pulstokai, a handsome wooden cross flanked by some large bushes stood on a small hill. The people called it “Bagdonas’s Cross”. Few remembered its amazing story, as it had stood in that spot from olden times, but it was thought to be miraculous, and in hard times people often came to pray at its foot.

The older folks said there used to be a small farm next to the cross on the hillock, but the little house and outbuildings had fallen to ruin and disappeared long ago, and only the cross had been left. The story of the cross began in the days when the farm belonged to Antanas

Bagdonas, who lived there with his wife and two sons, Jonas, eighteen years old, and Petras, twelve. Jonas was already a capable worker and was employed at the large manor nearby, and Petras was still living at home. Their ancestors were Jotvingiai [i], who were forced to flee their land and move to Lithuania. The Grand Dukes of Lithuania settled these people in the Eišiškiai district, between Vilnius and Lyda.

The farmers of that district, and the family, were freemen, not serfs, and belonged to no manor; however, in the event of war, they would have been obliged to join the Grand Duke’s army. When the fighting was over, they would return to their families and farmsteads.

Antanas Bagdonas inherited his house and lands from his parents. There was enough land to grow potatoes and vegetables, and Bagdonas also earned a salary as a carpenter and construction craftsman. They had no riches, but the family never went hungry.

Bagdonas was honest and conscientious. Though still young, he was known among his neighbors as a wise and respectable person, who would never hurt anyone, and, though poor himself, always helped others as much as he was able. His farmstead was about a kilometer away from his nearest neighbor, on the sandy road between Vilnius and Lyda, so he was often visited by travelers or pilgrims on their way to atlaidai [ii] in Vilnius. Even one or two of the petty nobility sometimes stopped by at his farm, to feed and refresh their horses, and to pass the time with a few words.

The story of the cross actually began on Christmas Eve, 1765, when Bagdonas was forty years old. That night, he had stepped out of the house into a snow-covered yard, and looked up at the evening sky to see if the first star had yet appeared, since only then would the Kūčios meal commence. The weather was cold and dry, and a strong wind blew, carrying drifts of fine white snow. Looking around, he saw a person wading through the snow along the road. As the man leaned into the wind, his movements were slow and weary, and it seemed that at any moment, the wind could heave the man to the ground. Bagdonas was sorry for this person, traveling through such hard weather on Christmas Eve, and, hurrying towards the road, he greeted the man and invited him to his home, to rest and get warm. The traveler was an old man, but didn’t appear impoverished, as he wore clean, somewhat citified clothing, but he was very tired and exhausted.

When Bagdonas entered his house with his guest, the table had already been prepared for the Kūčios meal, spread with fragrant hay, covered with a fresh white tablecloth, and the traditional foods invitingly displayed. Bagdonas’ wife greeted them at the door, and then invited everyone to the table. Upon his father’s urging, the youngest son recited a prayer, and all began to eat.

Slowly, conversation began. The old man told them that he had been to many places and seen much of the wide world, and spoke about customs and traditions in other places, telling them how other people lived and occupied themselves. He did not neglect to praise Bagdonas’ wife, saying it was a rare pleasure to find such a tasty meal so well prepared. Mrs. Bagdonas was naturally very pleased.

After dinner, the old man said: “There is a custom, that as everyone sits at the table following the Kucios meal, each draws a straw from under the tablecloth, and tells what they want from life. Sometimes that comes to pass. Why shouldn’t we try it now?!” The suggestion appealed to everyone, so each drew out a straw and declared their wish. Mother wanted to have a cow, so that they would always have milk. The elder son wished for a good farm. Bagdonas was sure that the wishes would not be fulfilled, so in jest, he said he would like to live two hundred years more from that day, to see what the world and its people would look like then. The old man looked at him and said:

“You wish for much, but let it be so. God is merciful”

The younger son, Petras, who had not yet spoken his wish, asked the old man:

“Why don’t you, Sir, say what you would like? Surely there is something you need.”

The old man smiled and answered:

“I am very old already, and while there are compassionate people like your family, I need nothing. But today, I would wish that you, my son, would grow up to be an honest, just and good man, who will care more for others than for yourself, just as you have done today.”

And so it was left that the younger son made no wish for himself, as everyone then left the table, and the old man prepared to continue his journey.

Bagdonas and his wife urged him to stay the night, but he said he was by now well rested, and tomorrow he had to be in Vilnius without fail. It was a clear, brightly moonlit night, the wind had lessened, and it was not as cold as it had been. Bagdonas escorted their guest to the road and wished him a safe and happy journey.

The young ladies of the neighboring household, having gathered in the yard to

cast lots and play guessing games about the future, turned to look towards Bagdonas’ farm, and, frightened, immediately ran back inside. Bagdonas’ house was enveloped by fire, and all the outbuildings shrouded in flames. The entire village bestirred itself, one grabbing a bucket, another a hatchet, and others, whatever tool they could find to hand, and all ran to douse the fire, as all thought well of Bagdonas as a fine man and a good neighbor. But this fire was very strange: the closer people were to the house, the less flames they saw, and when they reached the house, there was no fire at all. As a matter of fact, there was no light to be seen, and the darkened house stood peaceful and quiet amid the tall bushes. Not wishing to alarm the family, the neighbors went back to the village. The following day, there was a lot of talk about the fire, and people even questioned Bagdonas, but he said he hadn’t seen or heard anything at all.

Changes came to the Bagdonas farmstead after the New Year. The owner of the nearby manor offered Bagdonas a job as forest warden, saying that people often cut down trees in his private woods, and he wanted to put a stop to these losses. He offered to pay Bagdonas in grain, sufficient to satisfy his entire family’s needs, and suggested he would also allow Bagdonas to gather deadwood from the forest to fuel his own home. Bagdonas pondered, unable to make up his mind. But then, when the landlord offered to sell a cow from his large herd, under a liberal three-year payment arrangement, Bagdonas could no longer hesitate. Bagdonas returned home leading a young speckled cow. There was great joy in his house that day, especially for his wife.

Stroking the little cow affectionately, she exclaimed, “The old man told the truth, when he said that wishes spoken on Christmas Eve come true!” Hearing her, Bagdonas fell to thinking, but said nothing, though his heart was uneasy. He recalled that he also had spoken a wish, but of course, it was merely in jest.

His work as forest warden went well, partly because the area’s residents, not wanting to cause trouble for him, went further afield, to a different forest, and avoided cutting trees in the manor’s woods. It was not forbidden, however, to gather mushrooms and berries, as well as fallen logs and branches for fuel, and all gladly did so.

One more change occurred that year in Bagdonas’ family. Their youngest son, Petras, began studies in a school recently opened at the manor and run by an order of monks. On completion of his studies, the order sent him for further schooling in Vilnius, and from there, he traveled to Rome, where he joined the order. With time, he became a famous preacher, whose sermons influenced even some of the world’s royalty. He returned to his home only twice: the first time, just before going to Rome; and the second, before his mother’s death.

He then returned to Rome, and no one ever saw him again.

A few years later, Bagdonas’ elder son Jonas married the only daughter of a wealthy neighboring farmer, and took up residence in his father-in-law’s house. It was a fine, large farm, having a variety of animal stock, crops and household conveniences. They lived well, and after two years, Jonas and his wife inherited the farm and were independent. The elder Bagdonases visited their son and daughter-in-law occasionally, mostly to see their grandchildren, but they disapproved when their son decided to change his surname to the Polish-style “Bagdonavichius”, and their relationship cooled, to the point where the grandparents hardly visited at all.

The old couple was left by themselves in the little cottage sheltered under tall trees, though their neighbors and nearby villagers often visited, exchanging news and pleasantries. Forty years after that fateful night of Kucios, Bagdonas’ wife died, at the age of seventy-nine years. Bagdonas was alone. He sold his land, and gave his cow and other animal stock to a poor man with a family of six children, upon the fellow’s agreement to deliver a daily quart of milk and a few eggs each month.

Bored at home, he often passed the time in the forest. His friends and contemporaries in the village, one by one, all died, leaving only their sons and daughters, whom Bagdonas never knew very well at all. His son suggested he come to live with him, but Bagdonas declined. He continued working as a forest warden, now for the new generation, as the nobleman who had owned the estate had passed away about ten years before. When he was one hundred years old, Bagdonas was the same as always – friendly with all his neighbors and always ready to help or give advice – and so he was always welcomed everywhere, but he felt foreign as a stranger, finding it difficult to understand the habits and thoughts of much younger people.

His son Jonas died, leaving two sons, who divided the farm between them and built new cottages, where each lived separately with their own families. Bagdonas seldom visited them. His closest relatives, they were, at the same time, strangers to him, with unfamiliar habits, traditions and pleasures. Their speech was full of modern, new words and expressions, unknown to him and strange.

Even the land, and all his neighbors changed. Many foreigners settled in the area, and a foreign army arrived to support a large group of foreign officials who came to rule the land. Numbers of old residents perished or inexplicably disappeared. Bagdonas lived through many disturbances, Russia’s occupation of Lithuania, Napoleon’s march through Vilnius to Russia, and the subsequent retreat of the French army, as well as Lithuanian revolts against Russian rule. But none of this touched him; his personality, attitude and physical appearance didn’t change. It seemed as though time and harsh experience did not exist for him. He was always active and healthy, though his face was slightly wrinkled and his hair turned gray.

His surroundings changed, as the forest gradually thinned and disappeared, as did the birds and beasts that had lived in it. At first, he found it interesting to watch all these changes, but soon he began to wish for earlier days, and to miss the great forest with its numbers of animals and birds whose song used to echo through the woods every morning. He missed seeing the squirrels leaping from branch to branch, chasing one another from one tree to the next.

Bagdonas was by now more than one hundred years old, but life gave him no pleasure, and was sometimes even boring. His new surroundings and new neighbors did not please him. He felt alone in the world, without friends or kindred. Life, for him, had become a burden instead of a joy. And now he understood, that this long life of his had some connection with his careless, almost joking wish, spoken on a Christmas Eve more than seventy years before.

The thought that he would have to live another one hundred and thirty years filled him with despair.

He resigned his job as a forest warden, and the owners of the manor, in recognition of his long and faithful service, decided to pay him a pension equal to his old salary. He left his home and began to walk over all the land, visiting each church he came to, begging God to shorten his life. But his prayers had no result and nothing changed.

He heard of a monk who lived in Vilnius’ Bernardine monastery, who was known for his holy life and his good counsel. The monk was said to be highly educated in several languages, and was known to converse with strangers in their own tongue. Bagdonas went to Vilnius, found the monk, told him everything that had happened so long ago, and asked for his help in correcting his grave error. The holy monk listened to his story and thought long and deeply, as Bagdonas waited quietly for his advice. Finally, he said:

“No one in this world can change the words of God, spoken through the lips of the old man, “Let it be so”. But at the same time, the old man said “God is merciful”, and that means that God Himself may change those words. Now, go home, make a cross with your own hands, and erect that cross on your property. When that has been done, and the cross stands near your home, believe that God will hear your prayer”.

Bagdonas, with hopes refreshed, went home and immediately asked the owner of the manor if he might be allowed to fell a tree of his own choosing. In light of his long and faithful service, permission was granted. He knew the forest well, and remembered even how individual trees had grown, and so he easily found the very tree he had in mind, a young oak, strong and straight. With a neighbor’s help, he cut it down, trimmed it and brought it home.

From that day on, he never left his property, but spent all his time with axe, saw and plane in hand, working on his cross. The project took a long time; it was almost five years later that the cross was finished. Bagdonas put all his considerable woodworking knowledge and experience into the work. The cross was tall, and its surface so smooth, that it seemed to be made of glass. At its base, Bagdonas carved his own name – “A. Bagdonas”, and the year “1853”.

In those days, the Russian rulers forbade the erecting of crosses, but they were willing enough to allow those to stand, that were already there and hadn’t been put up to advocate a particular grievance. For that reason people often set up crosses during the night, no one seeing. Bagdonas did the same. He asked the help of a few trustworthy neighbors, and one night, after a half-hour’s work the cross stood at the edge of his property.

After helping with the cross, the neighbors all left, and Bagdonas entered his cottage, feeling very tired. Working on the cross had been tiring, but each day, after a short rest, he had recovered his strength. Today, however, he was exhausted, and barely had the strength to undress before he fell into bed and slept.

The next day, a neighbor’s daughter stopped by and discovered that Bagdonas was unwell. The neighborhood bestirred itself, some people arriving to visit the sick man, others bringing the village doctor and the priest, and still others, notifying his grandsons in the next village. Three days later, Bagdonas died, at the age of one hundred and twenty-eight years. He was laid to rest in the village cemetery, and his grandsons sold his property to a nearby farmer. There were just a few tumble-down farm buildings, and at the edge of the homestead, a little mound with a fine, new cross set between some thick bushes.

As time passed, all the old buildings collapsed, and shepherds used whatever was left as firewood, but the cross remained, just as it had been when first erected. People said the cross was miraculous, and it was not unusual to see someone kneeling at its base in prayer. In summertime, the maidens of the surrounding area would decorate the cross with flowers and greens.

Rumors of its miraculous nature spread beyond the village, after the infant son of a young mother from another nearby village fell gravely ill. He thrashed around and cried feverishly, and no medicines or measures helped to calm him. The mother, feeling hopeless, not knowing what to do, wrapped him in a blanket, went up to Bagdonas’ cross, and, holding her child, began to pray. Soon her child quieted; his fever abated and he fell asleep. A short while later, he was well, though weakened by his illness.

Another miraculous event resounded, when a farmer rode his wagon through the woods one winter night and was set upon by a pack of wolves. There was no hope of rescue, as he was far from a village and other people, and his horse was just a young pony, not very strong or fast. The horse, pursued by the wolves, turned from the road, ran up to Bagdonas’ cross, and stood next to it, trembling in fear. The wolves surrounded the horse and wagon, howling, but remained at a distance of perhaps thirty feet. There they stayed, prowling, until daybreak, when they gave up and faded into the deeper woods. The farmer, in gratitude, put up a nice low fence around the cross, and a bench next to it, for the benefit of passersby.

This did not please the Russians, and the gendarmes’ superior decided to get rid of this irritant. He summoned two of his men, took a saw and an axe, harnessed a horse to one of his wagons, and rode off to cut down the cross. Just before they reached the cross, however, their horse shied at something in the road and jumped to the side, overturning the wagon and dumping the gendarmes with their tools into a ditch. The supervisor broke a leg, and another gendarme, his hand. The saw, which they had planned to use on the cross, cracked in half. After that, the Russians let the cross stand in peace, and talk about its miraculous properties spread ever further. When the Bolsheviks occupied Lithuania, the communists also attempted to destroy the cross. Three communist youth members arrived from town and broke up the little fence. One stepped up to the cross with an axe in hand, but he slipped, and as he fell, wounded another of their group in the leg. They took the injured fellow to a hospital, and forgot all about the cross. Overnight, the villagers repaired the little fence so there was no sign it had been disturbed.

Bagdonas’ cross stood until 1965, for a total of one hundred and twelve years. That Christmas, people on their way to church found the cross toppled, its wood completely rotted, though it had seemed whole and healthy just the day before Christmas Eve. People calculated, that it had been exactly two hundred years before, that Bagdonas, after the Kūčios meal, spoke his wish to live another two hundred years. Bagdonas had lived out eighty-eight of those years, and the remaining one hundred and twelve years had been lived out by the cross he had built and erected.

Source:

“Vilniaus Krašto Legendos” by

Genrikas Songinas, printed in Chicago,

1988, Draugo Spaustuve

Publisher Linas Raslavičius