KATEDROS
DĖMĖ
English Translation by Gloria O’Brien
Approximately a year after
the 1831 Lithuanian uprising, when the disturbances had subsided, a dark stain
appeared on the outside wall of Vilnius Cathedral, resembling the silhouette of
a person with arms outstretched. The
mark was not very distinct, but people noticed it and reported it to authorities
of the church and city. There wasn’t
much that churchly authorities were able to do, but the city government
appointed a commission to investigate the stain and determine its origin.
The commission made a
thorough inspection, even scraping a small scale off the Cathedral’s wall for closer
examination, but they were unable to learn how the mark had happened. They decided that it must have come about as
the result of dampness seeping into the Cathedral’s walls, but assured the
populace that the building was in no danger.
The investigation was closed. The
stain remained; sometimes it would fade, and other times it would become even
more distinct.
But the people would not
calm down; especially when rumors began to spread through the city, that this
was not just an ordinary stain, but was the work of the Evil One, and might
mean misfortune for the entire city.
Some pious women organized a blessing, hoping in that way to erase the
mark and eliminate any possible misfortune.
The Church authorities had no objection, and when the priest read the
prayer and sprinkled the stain with holy water,
it was gone the
next day. The women’s joy
was short-lived, however, as it re-appeared three weeks later, and was even
darker. It remained until the Bolshevik
occupation, and by that time, no one was paying it much attention.
The origin of the stain
had been authoritatively explained in 1835 by the Cathedral’s sacristan, an old
man named Maciejauskas, who maintained that the story was told to him by a
member of the gentry named Kazimieras Kuliešius, who knew a great deal about it.
Kuliešius lived in Balandžių kaima, eight kilometers north of Eišiškes, where he had a large farm. He lived well, had a fine farmstead
surrounded by many tall trees, some of whose branches stretched to cast a cool
shade over his roof. He was one of
those petit noblemen who could be found in almost every part of the Vilnius
countryside. He differed from the
peasants among whom he lived, by his long mustache and large red nose, which
was a sure sign that you were dealing with a nobleman. The redness was not a result of the use of
alcohol - Kazimieras drank very little - but
a mark of his nobility, inscribed by the winds of Lithuania’s outdoors.
He got along very well
with his free peasant neighbors. The
people liked him, and there was never a baptism or wedding in the kaima to
which Kuliešius was not invited. There he displayed no arrogance and behaved
as a man among equals, though the peasants didn’t neglect to show him honor,
pouring his liquor (degtinės) in a separate glass.
On festival days, he could
be distinguished from his neighbors by his dress - clothing customarily worn by the nobility
of the time. Kuliešius had a good head for figures, and could read and
write in Polish, having attended the school in Eišiškes for four years, and then studied in Vilnius for
another five years. He came home from
school in Vilnius at the age of eighteen having learned the Polish language,
which was not at all necessary to him, and four words in Latin: “ego sum” and “mea culpa”. His studies went no further, and were soon
finished. Studies did not seem to go well for him, not because he wasn’t
bright, but merely because his thoughts flew to his birthplace, its green
fields and sighing forests, rather than hewing to the dry lectures of his
teachers. But he learned the Polish
language because it interested him, most of Lithuania’s nobility used it, and
the priests in church talked at the populace in it, even though the peasantry
didn’t understand it.
He did not forget his native
Lithuanian language, and sometimes a spirit of rebellion would form in him,
urging him to struggle for its rights, and at least privately, to protest
against its being forced out of the schools.
A friend once gave him a pamphlet with the “Lord’s Prayer” printed in
Lithuanian, and he committed it to memory once again (He had learned it in
childhood), and once during class recited it in Lithuanian, instead of the
customary Polish. He was expelled from
school and forced to go home. Three
other fellows, holding the same opinions, left school when he did, in a show of
solidarity.
His father greeted the
returning son, questioned him thoroughly, then said:
“I see that you have
learned much in school, and speak the Polish tongue very nicely. But if you speak that language here at home,
you will have only yourself to blame, when your back pains you afterward.”
He gained his further
education carrying a rifle in and around the Rudninkų forest and neighboring fields, hunting rabbits and
foxes, and occasionally bringing down a broad-shouldered elk. Here he was far more successful: being comfortable and competent in the woods,
he was adept at tracking down game, and in time, was acknowledged as the best
hunter in the area, without whom no hunt would prosper.
He inherited the property
when his father died, and soon married, but his wife died after the birth of
one son, and a distant old-maid cousin arrived to care for the boy. He did not participate in the 1831 uprising,
as he was very ill at the time, spending
several months in bed. By the time he
was well, the rebellion had been crushed.
The rebellion suppressed,
Lithuania was overrun by the Russian military, the Russian gendarmes and
bureaucrats, who brought with them the Russian order. Cossacks would often ride
to the kaimas and manor properties to assess the general mood and the people’s
attitude towards the authorities, perhaps to gain early warning of any possible
disturbances. The people, unable to
speak their language, avoided contact with the foreigners and held their peace.
About this time, strange
events began to occur in the Eišiškių district. One evening, a farmer rode to the market at Eišiškes, and instead found himself in Kolesnikus. He knew the road very well, having traveled
it often with his parents and on his own, and he could not understand nor
explain how he had arrived at Kolesnikus.
Another, older, person,
walking to church one evening, wound up
in the opposite direction, in the Pulstokų
bogs, where the poor fellow almost drowned.
He was able to help himself only by grabbing onto a birch growing on a
small mound, and there he sat in prayer until the dawn came up. Yet another, leading his horse from pasture
in the hour before dawn, harnessed it to a wagon, and drove out to Eišiškes. He was
already close to town when the dawn came up, and he saw that it was his
neighbor’s horse, not his own, that was harnessed to his wagon. He had to return and apologize to his
neighbor, but he was unable to explain how it happened, that he had taken a
horse not his own.
All these incidents were
explained, when an old man named Tartkus, who had seen a great deal of the
world, wandered into the Balandžių
kaima. He was a familiar visitor, having
walked all over Lithuania, north and south, east and west. There was no village that he didn’t know and
he had friends everywhere, to whom he brought news of all the world, often
giving worthwhile advice as well. He was
well-liked and always eagerly awaited.
There were some whispers that Tartkus had been a trusted courier for the
1831 rebels, and that he was on familiar and equal terms with Plateraitė[1] and Gelgaudas[2].
Tartkus explained to the
villagers, that when the Russian army entered Lithuania, the devil Pinčiukas had traveled with them. This was a fiend of small power, but with a
great liking for seducing people, leading them astray and confusing them. It
was with his help that the Russians put down the revolt, and now he was raging
through the countryside.
The villagers believed
this, as there seemed to be no other logical explanation. Kuliešius
believed it, too, though, up till now, none of these events had touched
him. He had received a strong religious
education in Vilnius, and he trusted that prayer, and especially his patron Saint
Casimir, would protect him, not only from this Pinčiukas, but from any dozen other devils. Every Sunday, while in the church at Eišiškes, he lit a candle at St. Casimir’s portrait, and
addressed a few words of greeting to the saint.
It seemed that his trust was well-founded, as he had never lost his way,
either in the Rudninkų forest or elsewhere
outdoors, even at night.
He liked the forest and
its inhabitants, often passing long hours
simply sitting on a fallen log, enjoying the tall pines, the dark green firs,
the wide-branched oaks. There was much
to admire.
He used to say, “When you
look at a pine, you can see how its crown supports the heavens, and, gazing at
the spreading branches of an oak, you feel yourself a very small creature in
comparison to its strength and majesty.”
Kuliešius sometimes wondered, how
old can this oak tree be? Two hundred,
five hundred years, or more? What has it
seen through all that time? Perhaps it
even saw Saint Casimir? He had no doubt
that Saint Casimir used to come to the Rudninkų forest to admire its giants.
Immersed in such thoughts,
Kuliešius would even forget about the hunt, paying no attention if an elk, deer, or even a bear
passed by, and might not lift a finger, though his trophy bag might be
empty. Those days, he would go home
having caught nothing, outside of a couple of rabbits that happened to be
underfoot.
But eventually, it came to
be his turn. Tartkus had warned, that Pinčiukas would concentrate all his efforts against the
just, the devout, and the honest people, trying to diminish their faith and
raise doubts. The Evil One was confident
that sinners already belonged to him, so there was not much reason to direct
efforts towards them, but to grab someone like Kuliešius, now that would be a very great catch. He had no doubt that such a prize would earn
him a good deal of praise from his superiors.
One
fine, warm day in autumn, Kuliešius sat on
a bench against his cottage wall and quietly prayed his rosary. It wasn’t an ordinary rosary: it had been given to his grandfather by a
monk who had returned from the Holy Land, and who explained that it had been
made from the very tree, from which the Cross had been made, on which the
Redeemer gave up His life. Its beads
were the size of cherry pits, and so the rosary was longer than most, but that
made it hard to lose. It was highly
valued by the Kuliešius family, and was used
only by the family’s head, just once in a while being loaned to a guest.
That
day, beggar carrying several bags and packs entered the yard, approached Kuliešius, and instead of the customary “garbė Dievui” (glory to God), gave him a common greeting, “labas vakaras” (good
evening). Kuliešius unhurriedly passed the last bead through his
fingers, blessed himself with the Sign of the Cross, then said, “Come, sit down
here on this bench, where you can say your prayers, and I will ask the
housekeeper to find something for you to put in your bags.”
He
stood up as he spoke, and walking away, he draped his rosary on the beggar’s
leg. He would always do that, lending
his rosary to beggars, so that they might properly say a prayer before
receiving alms.
This
time, something odd happened: the beggar
jumped up as though pricked by a needle, and as the rosary fell to the ground,
sprang into a run and disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
Kuliešius
understood that this was no ordinary beggar, but Pinčiukas himself. Returning to the bench, he picked up his
rosary and with it in hand, walked around all his farm buildings, then hung it
up in its accustomed place near his bed.
From that time forward, Pinčiukas regarded Kuliešius as his mortal enemy. He tried every which way he could to injure
him, but St. Casimir, Kuliešius’
patron, protected his ward, so all of Pinčiukas’ machinations fell to nothing.
Easter
was approaching, and would be early this year.
There was still some snow on the ground, but the ice on the risen rivers
had begun to crack. It looked as though
the waters would soon begin to carry the ice floes and flood the lowest land
areas. Kuliešius decided that he would travel to Vinlius for
Easter, to visit his patron’s tomb and thank him for his help in recovering
from illness, and for his guardianship.
He had forgotten all about Pinčiukas,
as he had not been seen again, and had not tried to approach Kuliešius.
On
the morning of Holy Thursday, Kuliešius, harnessing one of his horses, rode out and was
in Vilnius as evening fell. He stopped
at his regular place, an inn on Dominikonų Gatvę, not far from the Cathedral. It had been an easy journey, and he stabled
his horse, gave him some oats, and spent the night at the inn. He went to church on Good Friday morning,
afterward visiting friends.
The
residents of Vilnius and its environs firmly believed that, from Good Friday
afternoon, that is, the hour the Redeemer died on the Cross, until midnight on
Easter morning, the Evil One holds sway on earth and is able to do whatever he
pleases, but cannot use violence. Since
the Redeemer was dead, there was no one to restrain him. During that time, the saints lose their
powers, and can do nothing to aid those who depend on their guardianship. Their powers return only upon the
Resurrection. Only the Mother of God may
help a person who has been assaulted by the Evil One, by sheltering them under her cloak. And so, on Holy Saturday night, people would
travel in groups to the Resurrection Mass.
People avoided going outdoors alone, as one never knew what might
happen.
Kuliešius had forgotten that, and at ten o’clock Saturday
night, he left the inn and set out for the Cathedral’s Resurrection Mass. After a short while, he met a well-dressed
gentleman, who said he was also on his way to the Cathedral, and courteously
suggested they walk together. The
gentleman said he had lived in Vilnius a long time and knew every street in the
city very well. He suggested they take
the shortest route, as it was surely better to arrive early and thus be able to
stay a bit longer in church. Kuliešius agreed, and they turned into a narrow street, then
into another.
They
walked for a long while, and still the Cathedral was not in sight, but his
companion’s conversation was so interesting that Kuliešius lost track of time. Soon they heard a roaring
sound, like the grinding of ice floes carried by the river’s waters. The gentleman explained that this was merely
the praying of the faithful in the Cathedral, just a few yards away. A moment later, they met a peasant, who stopped
them, and said that they had lost their way and would not reach the Cathedral
by this path. The gentleman was much
offended.
“What
are you talking about? I know Vilnius
very well, and know which road to take.
Move aside and get out of our way!” , he cried angrily.
But
Kuliešius
stopped and asked the peasant, “Your
face looks familiar to me, but I cannot recall where I have seen you?”
“Yes,
sir, said the peasant. “We have seen
each other often, in Eišiškes” .
“Let
us go quickly, or we will be late!” , urged the gentleman impatiently.
“Wait
just a minute - said Kuliešius - “I want to
ask this man which village he comes from.
He is from the same district where I live”.
“Hurry!
– came the gentleman’s loud and stern response.
Kuliešius was
about to go, when the Resurrection was announced by the joyful pealing of
church bells from all directions.
“Christ is risen!” shouted the peasant.
An
immediate change came over the gentleman.
He began to shrink, and his fine clothing dropped from him. Kuliešius saw
the devil Pinčiukas standing before
him. As the evil creature tried to run,
the peasant seized him by the neck and violently hurled him in the direction of
the Cathedral, whose walls could just be seen through the trees. Pinčiukas,
arms outstretched, caromed from one tree, to another, then another, until he
struck the Cathedral wall, and stuck fast.
“Stay
there, while there is a Cathedral!” said
the peasant.
Kuliešius
looked around in amazement. The peasant
was gone. He was standing on the banks
of the Neris, and just a few steps beyond, the roaring ice floes cracked and
ground against each other, as they were carried past by the strong river
current. Had he taken two more steps, he
would have fallen into the river and drowned.
Now he remembered where he had seen the peasant. He thought of the church in Eišiškes and the portrait of St. Casimir, before which he
stood every Sunday, in prayer and praise for his patron. This was not a peasant, but St. Casimir
himself, dressed in a peasant’s common clothing. Kuliešius blessed
himself, then hurried through the trees to the Cathedral. He fell on his knees before his patron’s
tomb, giving thanks for his deliverance and asking for the saint’s continued
assistance.
Pinčiukas was absorbed by the Cathedral’s walls, leaving only a stain on the
surface.
The
people, in discussing the stain’s variable appearance, came to the conclusion
that, when the priest had blessed that place, Pinčiukas, protecting
himself from the holy water, had drawn deeper into the wall and the stain had
faded; then, when the holy water had evaporated, he came out again and the
stain was even more apparent.
When the Bolsheviks made the Cathedral into an
art museum, and took the cross down, Pinčiukas was able to climb out of the wall, as St. Casimir
had said, “Stay there, while there is a Cathedral”.
He
was so frightened by his experience that he wouldn’t stay in Lithuania, and
took himself off to his accustomed haunts in Punsk.
The
inhabitants of Vilnius remembered these events for a very long time. Old folks often told the story, and from the
time of these events to the second Bolshevik occupation, all the residents of Balandžio kaima kept a picture of St. Casimir in a place of
honor on their walls, decorating it with greens at Eastertime.
A
few people, probably out of envy, told the following version of the story: On Saturday before Easter, several casks of
Tokay wine had been brought from Hungary to the inn where Kuliešius was staying.
The innkeeper offered his guests a tasting, and Kuliešius tasted a little too much. He met no one on his way to the Cathedral,
but simply got lost, and the cold air near the river sobered him. And the stain on the Cathedral was caused by
dampness, just as the commission maintained.
But
very few believed that version, especially and certainly not the people of Balandžio kaima, who knew Kuliešius best. They
knew that a couple of quarts of wine would have had no effect whatsoever on his
equilibrium.
Source:
compiled
by Stasys Lipskis and published by “Žuvėdra”
in
Lithuania, 1998
© English
Translation - Gloria O’Brien 2006
[1] Emilija Plateraitė, a young noblewoman who fought in the rebellion and is sometimes referred to as Lithuania’s Joan of Arc.
[2] Antanas (Anthony) Gelgaudas, another member of the Lithuanian nobility who fought in the rebellion. The Gedigaudas (Gelgaudas) familly were the ancestors of the famous, distinguished British actor, Sir John Gielgud.