Prayer on a starry night

(based on a story of the same name by Vladimir Korolenko)

Vladimir Korolenko was born in 1853 to a family of a judge, in the Russian Empire, and died in 1921 in Soviet Russia. Ethnically semi-Ukrainian, semi-Pole, he invariably wrote his literary works in Russian. This is why Russians and Ukrainians regard Korolenko as their own writer.

Vladimir Korolenko was a profoundly religious person – an Orthodox Christian, and, according to his contemporaries, was noted for his remarkable spiritual purity.

The story that we would like to offer you today is autobiographical.


In early childhood my brother and I were taught two prayers: “Our Father in Heaven” and “O Theotokos and Virgin, rejoice”. I had an excellent memory, and so I mechanically memorized two texts — Polish and Slav-Ukrainian. However, I knew them simply as assembled sounds.

Once father, after listening to our parrot-like morning prayer, summoned us to his study and began teaching us how to pronounce it correctly and embrace its profound spiritual meaning. After that we at least grasped the significance of the words, yet the prayer itself remained aloof and didn’t solicit our imagination.

Once father decided it was time for me and my younger brother to go to confession, so he took us to church with him. We went to Vespers: the church was almost empty, and there was that timid, reverential rustling sound that is characteristic for a small number of assembled praying folk. There was a dark group of believers lined up for confession, and occasionally a figure would separate from that group and kneel down before the clergyman, seated at the altar stand. The clergyman covered the head of whoever was receiving confession with the orarion and leaned towards that person with great attentiveness… There commenced a subdued, profound and momentous whispering…

I felt fear stealing over me and instinctively I glanced at father… Since he was lame, he could not stand up for long, and prayed whilst seated on a chair. His face reflected something very special: it was at once sorrowful, enrapt and tender. There was more sorrow there, however, and there was also a distinct shadow of inner exertion. It was as if his eyes were searching for something up high, under the dome, where a misty grey cloud of incense was shot through with sunrays of the fading day. His lips kept repeating one word: “Father… Father… Father…” The impression was as if he could not overcome the hurdle of that one word, in order to continue the prayer.

When he caught me watching him, he turned away with an expression of chagrin, and laboriously kneeling down, he continued praying in that position for some time.

When he rose up again, his face wore a tranquil expression, his lips murmuring words with smooth ease, while his moist eyes shone and seemed to see something there in the dusky twilight under the dome.

Once, I cannot recall in what connection, father pronounced one of his statements: “When you pray, children, do it as if you are directly addressing God… As though He is standing before you. Just as when you are requesting something from your mother or me.”

A while later father added: “It is said in the Gospel: “If you have faith, whatsoever you shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you, and if you shall say to the mountain, Be you removed it shall be done.”

Both these sentences came together in my mind, as the flame of a matchstick with the flame of a lighted fuse. I began to comprehend father’s mood during prayer: he wanted to sense the Lord’s presence there before him, to feel as though he were addressing Him, and that the Lord could hear his words. And if you asked something of God in this manner, the Lord could not turn you down, even if one requested Him to move a mountain…

There were no mountains around, and no need to move them. However, very soon I was granted the opportunity to test the force of my own prayer in connection with something else…

Once my elder brother conceived the notion of flying. His idea was very simple: you only needed to climb something high, say, a tall fence, and jump off it. Before your feet touched the ground, you needed to try and jump up yet again – right in the air – that was sure to carry you across the air without too much difficulty.

And so, with this in mind, he equipped himself with two quite ugly looking blades of wooden lath and paper, in the manner of primitive wings, and climbed the fence. Then he jumped, waving these wings, proceeding, quite naturally, to crash to the ground. Like other inventors before him, he didn’t reject his idea immediately. In his opinion, the fence simply wasn’t high enough. Jumping off it, he didn’t even have the time to bend his knees for a second jump while up in the air, before crashing to the ground. Now, if he were to jump off a roof… However, for several days his leg hurt too much, and then he lacked the determination… The idea was never implemented.

However, it had lodged itself quite firmly in my imagination, and once I decided to trust it and… flew! In the presence of brothers and my sister I jumped off the barn roof, managed to jump up again before reaching ground, and then was flying through the air, having initially taken several jumps as though ascending an invisible ladder, after which I found myself flying smoothly as a bird.

At first I was soaring over the yard, then flew off even farther, over fields and some windmill. I could not recall that mill, but quite possibly it was lodged in my memory after some trip made in early childhood… Its wheels spun ‘round and rustled, as I soared over it, among the fresh sprays of water in the glorious sunlight…

Of course, it was nothing but a dream… Upon awakening, for a long time I refused to believe it wasn’t real life…

My dream flights continued… The sensations were so true to life, colorful and multi-faceted… just as reality was…

To awaken meant to experience a genuine poignant sense of grief… Yet, again it was just a dream!.. Again I was heavy, clumsy and unhappy…

I kept wondering how I could carry across all my dream experiences into real life.

The Gospel words that father said to us, “if you shall say to the mountain, Be you removed it shall be done” suddenly ignited hope within me. If what was said in the Gospel was true, then it could all be arranged so easily. You only had to ask the Lord, with genuine Faith and Hope, for a pair of wings… Not the pitiful ones that my brother had made out of wood and paper, but real ones, with feathers, like the birds and Angels possessed. And then I would fly!

I decided against sharing my plan with anyone, even my younger brother. For some reason I decided it would be a secret between God and myself. Of course, I realized that if it were to happen, it would hardly be amid the noisy bustling day or even the drowsy languid nod, when the dropping to earth of a pair of wings might draw unnecessary indolent attention. Of course, something like that could only take place in the evening. The wings would appear somewhere up high, in the silvery twilight of the night-darkened sky, only to fall silently at my feet… Of course, later on, if they remained at my disposal, I would loan them out on occasion to my brother and sister… However, I had no idea whether I would be allowed to keep them, and generally I didn’t think much about that…

The evenings were warm, and when after tea I went outside into the yard, I could see flung open, illuminated windows gazing at me on all sides. In the shadows of the walls, on the porches, people were seated, but this didn’t put me off in the least. And the open windows, through which I couldn’t see any people, the mysterious murmur of conversations in the deep shadows, and the white stones of the cobbled yard, the whispering leaves of the tall poplar nearby – all this only served to generate a very special mood. I was intending to embark on a relationship with another world, yet felt no fear. Perhaps, because, in part, this relationship was of a businesslike nature.

After making the round of the yard a few times, I started murmuring sotto voice the prayers “Our Father in Heaven” and “O Theotokos and Virgin, rejoice”. However, I sensed this wasn’t quite right, because there was nothing said in those prayers about the wings. I did try, however, to sound as if I were addressing someone live, someone who was right there before me. To begin with this was difficult, and I just repeated prayer after prayer, as if in preparation for something… At last, sensing that my spirit was attuned to the right mood, I came to a standstill in the corner of the yard and gazed at the sky…

For the first time in my life I became keenly aware of the grandeur of the glowing heavens… The moon rose up above the roof of the stone house, yet its glow didn’t dim that of the stars. The latter shone and sparkled with all colors, quietly and solemnly, and the entire blue void seemed alive and breathing… Excited and overwrought as my childish soul was, I keenly sensed the depth of this space and its limitless expanse of living, shimmering lights, fading off into a mysterious hazy distance…

When yet again I pronounced “Our Father” it was as if suddenly the tremulous life of this fiery distance was suddenly revealed before me… All of it, with its bottomless blue depths and endless lights was gazing down at me with indescribable tenderness. This both encouraged and heartened me…

Casting aside all memorized prayers, I simply stated my desire to have a pair of wings, as reliable as those of the birds or Angels. Be it for good, or temporarily, so that I could at least once ascend to those wonderful, enticing, glorious heights…

All my thoughts were attuned to one thing: to be able to rise up above the city and look down on the lights of the houses below…

I joyously gazed up at the sky anticipating the appearance of the coveted wings… But they did not appear…

Then I decided that there was no need for gazing up at the sky: the wings would appear in the spot where I had prayed. So I started walking around the yard, and again said ten prayers “Our Father” and ten “O Theotokos and Virgin, rejoice”.

But still, the wings did not appear in the designated spot…

Yet again I walked around the yard, praying, and designating new spots for the wings to emerge…

In the meantime, the yard grew empty, the people who had been conversing in the shadows of the houses had left, and some time later the stable hands, having finished supper, set off to their stables to turn in for the night. The guests we were entertaining that evening were also starting to take their leave.

My spirits plummeted… I was aware that soon mother would notice my absence and send out looking for me, since my brothers and sisters were probably all asleep. I knew I had to repeat the prayer again, but… Exhaustion was weighing me down, rendering my feet slow and cumbersome, but most importantly – I felt doubts assailing me. That meant nothing would come of it.

The maid came out onto the porch and summoned me to bed.

“Just a minute!” I replied, and furiously rushed about from one corner of the yard to the other.

At last, tired and disappointed I went to my room and undressed. However, the instant that slumber started to invade my feverish mind, I suddenly sat up straight as if someone had nudged me. How could I have left the yard precisely at the moment when it was finally deserted and open to all manner of mysteries?.. The wings were quite probably there by now! I even guessed where exactly! I thought I spotted them between the barn and the fence.

I jumped up and dashed into the hallway in my nightgown. The servants weren’t sleeping yet. The maids were cleaning up after the guests. The door was open and I went onto the porch.

The moon had slipped behind the roof of the stone house, and the yard looked quite different. It was darker, having lost its colors, and looked as if in a slumber. The sky, too, held a different expression: the stars still glimmered and shone, but seemed quite indifferent to me, as if they were conversing amongst themselves on matters having nothing to do with me. The impression was as if a vast conference that had taken up my cause for a brief spell was now addressing other issues, infinitely more important, mysterious and pressing… And now there was no hope of attracting its attention again. The starry night was now cold, damp, severe and unattainable.

Exhausted, with the coldness gripping my heart I went back to my room, kneeled beside my bed to say the usual prayers. I spoke them in a hurried, unwilling, mechanical manner. Soon I was fast asleep…

I do not recall what conclusions I drew from my failure. Quite possibly, none at all. Simply, after a night of restful sleep, I rose ready to embrace new and fresh impressions. However, ever since that time, just as my father, when starting the prayer “Our Father”, I would say the opening words with laborious difficulty, going over them again and again, until I finally felt my spirit was attuned to the required mood, ensuring that my prayer would be heartfelt and sincere…

And on every occasion the torturous struggle was repeated…


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