"To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . ." Ieronim went on in a
weak sighing tenor like the voice of a convalescent. "The sky is
rejoicing and the earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures
are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even in the time
of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows?"
I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one of
those endless religious conversations which bored and idle monks
are so fond of. I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only
asked:
"What sorrows have you, father?"
"As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a special
sorrow has happened in the monastery: at mass, during the reading
of the Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died."
"Well, it's God's will!" I said, falling into the monastic tone.
"We must all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . .
They say if anyone dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom
of heaven."
"That's true."
We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat
melted into the lines of the bank. The tar barrels were flaring up
more and more.
"The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity of sorrow and so
does reflection," said Ieronim, breaking the silence, "but why does
the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want
to weep bitterly?"
Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and said quickly:
"If I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth notice perhaps;
but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No one else but Nikolay! Indeed,
it's hard to believe that he is no more! I stand here on my ferry-boat
and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift up his voice
from the bank. He always used to come to the bank and call to me
that I might not be afraid on the ferry. He used to get up from his
bed at night on purpose for that. He was a kind soul. My God! how
kindly and gracious! Many a mother is not so good to her child as
Nikolay was to me! Lord, save his soul!"
Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me again at once.
"And such a lofty intelligence, your honour," he said in a vibrating
voice. "Such a sweet and harmonious tongue! Just as they will sing
immediately at early matins: 'Oh lovely! oh sweet is Thy Voice!'
Besides all other human qualities, he had, too, an extraordinary
gift!"
"What gift?" I asked.
The monk scrutinized me, and as though he had convinced himself
that he could trust me with a secret, he laughed good-humouredly.
"He had a gift for writing hymns of praise," he said. "It was a
marvel, sir; you couldn't call it anything else! You would be amazed
if I tell you about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes from Moscow,
the Father Sub-Prior studied at the Kazan academy, we have wise
monks and elders, but, would you believe it, no one could write
them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, a deacon, had not studied
anywhere, and had not even any outer appearance of it, but he wrote
them! A marvel! A real marvel!" Ieronim clasped his hands and,
completely forgetting the rope, went on eagerly:
"The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in composing sermons;
when he wrote the history of the monastery he worried all the
brotherhood and drove a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote
canticles! Hymns of praise! That's a very different thing from a
sermon or a history!"
"Is it difficult to write them?" I asked.
"There's great difficulty!" Ieronim wagged his head. "You can do
nothing by wisdom and holiness if God has not given you the gift.
The monks who don't understand argue that you only need to know the
life of the saint for whom you are writing the hymn, and to make
it harmonize with the other hymns of praise. But that's a mistake,
sir. Of course, anyone who writes canticles must know the life of
the saint to perfection, to the least trivial detail. To be sure,
one must make them harmonize with the other canticles and know where
to begin and what to write about. To give you an instance, the first
response begins everywhere with 'the chosen' or 'the elect.' . . .
The first line must always begin with the 'angel.' In the canticle
of praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested in the
subject, it begins like this: 'Of angels Creator and Lord of all
powers!' In the canticle to the Holy Mother of God: 'Of angels the
foremost sent down from on high,' to Nikolay, the Wonder-worker--
'An angel in semblance, though in substance a man,' and so on.
Everywhere you begin with the angel. Of course, it would be impossible
without making them harmonize, but the lives of the saints and
conformity with the others is not what matters; what matters is the
beauty and sweetness of it. Everything must be harmonious, brief
and complete. There must be in every line softness, graciousness
and tenderness; not one word should be harsh or rough or unsuitable.
It must be written so that the worshipper may rejoice at heart and
weep, while his mind is stirred and he is thrown into a tremor. In
the canticle to the Holy Mother are the words: 'Rejoice, O Thou too
high for human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep for angels'
eyes to fathom!' In another place in the same canticle: 'Rejoice,
O tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is the food of the
faithful! Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading shade, under which
there is shelter for multitudes!'"
Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though frightened at something
or overcome with shame, and shook his head.
"Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . tree of gracious
spreading shade. . . ." he muttered. "To think that a man should
find words like those! Such a power is a gift from God! For brevity
he packs many thoughts into one phrase, and how smooth and complete
it all is! 'Light-radiating torch to all that be . . .' comes in
the canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet. 'Light-radiating!' There is
no such word in conversation or in books, but you see he invented
it, he found it in his mind! Apart from the smoothness and grandeur
of language, sir, every line must be beautified in every way, there
must be flowers and lightning and wind and sun and all the objects
of the visible world. And every exclamation ought to be put so as
to be smooth and easy for the ear. 'Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly
growth!' comes in the hymn to Nikolay the Wonder-worker. It's not
simply 'heavenly flower,' but 'flower of heavenly growth.' It's
smoother so and sweet to the ear. That was just as Nikolay wrote
it! Exactly like that! I can't tell you how he used to write!"
"Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead," I said; "but let us
get on, father, or we shall be late."
Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they were beginning to peal
all the bells. Probably the procession was already going on near
the monastery, for all the dark space behind the tar barrels was
now dotted with moving lights.
"Did Nikolay print his hymns?" I asked Ieronim.
"How could he print them?" he sighed. "And indeed, it would be
strange to print them. What would be the object? No one in the
monastery takes any interest in them. They don't like them. They
knew Nikolay wrote them, but they let it pass unnoticed. No one
esteems new writings nowadays, sir!"
"Were they prejudiced against him?"
"Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder perhaps the brethren
would have been interested, but he wasn't forty, you know. There
were some who laughed and even thought his writing a sin."
"What did he write them for?"
"Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the
only one who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that
no one else might know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest
in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressing
words as to a little child. He would shut his cell, make me sit
down beside him, and begin to read. . . ."
Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.
"We were dear friends in a way," he whispered, looking at me with
shining eyes. "Where he went I would go. If I were not there he
would miss me. And he cared more for me than for anyone, and all
because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes me sad to remember.
Now I feel just like an orphan or a widow. You know, in our monastery
they are all good people, kind and pious, but . . . there is no one
with softness and refinement, they are just like peasants. They all
speak loudly, and tramp heavily when they walk; they are noisy,
they clear their throats, but Nikolay always talked softly,
caressingly, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying
he would slip by like a fly or a gnat. His face was tender,
compassionate. . . ."
Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We were
by now approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the darkness
and stillness of the river into an enchanted realm, full of stifling
smoke, crackling lights and uproar. By now one could distinctly see
people moving near the tar barrels. The flickering of the lights
gave a strange, almost fantastic, expression to their figures and
red faces. From time to time one caught among the heads and faces
a glimpse of a horse's head motionless as though cast in copper.
"They'll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, . . ." said Ieronim,
"and Nikolay is gone; there is no one to appreciate it. . . . There
was nothing written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to take
in every word! You'll be there, sir, so notice what is sung; it
takes your breath away!"
"Won't you be in church, then?"
"I can't; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . ."
"But won't they relieve you?"
"I don't know. . . . I ought to have been relieved at eight; but,
as you see, they don't come! . . . And I must own I should have liked
to be in the church. . . ."
"Are you a monk?"
"Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother."
The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck
piece into Ieronim's hand for taking me across and jumped on land.
Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping woman in it drove
creaking onto the ferry. Ieronim, with a faint glow from the lights
on his figure, pressed on the rope, bent down to it, and started
the ferry back. . . .
I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther walked on a
soft freshly trodden path. This path led to the dark monastery
gates, that looked like a cavern through a cloud of smoke, through
a disorderly crowd of people, unharnessed horses, carts and chaises.
All this crowd was rattling, snorting, laughing, and the crimson
light and wavering shadows from the smoke flickered over it all
. . . . A perfect chaos! And in this hubbub the people yet found room
to load a little cannon and to sell cakes. There was no less commotion
on the other side of the wall in the monastery precincts, but there
was more regard for decorum and order. Here there was a smell of
juniper and incense. They talked loudly, but there was no sound of
laughter or snorting. Near the tombstones and crosses people pressed
close to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their arms.
Apparently many had come from a long distance for their cakes to
be blessed and now were exhausted. Young lay brothers, making a
metallic sound with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabs
that paved the way from the monastery gates to the church door.
They were busy and shouting on the belfry, too.
"What a restless night!" I thought. "How nice!"
One was tempted to see the same unrest and sleeplessness in all
nature, from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses on
the tombs and the trees under which the people were moving to and
fro. But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so marked as
in the church. An unceasing struggle was going on in the entrance
between the inflowing stream and the outflowing stream. Some were
going in, others going out and soon coming back again to stand still
for a little and begin moving again. People were scurrying from
place to place, lounging about as though they were looking for
something. The stream flowed from the entrance all round the church,
disturbing even the front rows, where persons of weight and dignity
were standing. There could be no thought of concentrated prayer.
There were no prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly
irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext to break out and vent itself
in some movement, even in senseless jostling and shoving.
The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service
itself. The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of incense
float in the air near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are
lights, the gleam and splutter of candles. . . . There is no reading;
restless and lighthearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing.
After each hymn the clergy change their vestments and come out to
burn the incense, which is repeated every ten minutes.
I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front and
forced me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me with a
long red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre
hurried after him with the censer. When they had vanished from sight
the crowd squeezed me back to my former position. But ten minutes
had not passed before a new wave burst on me, and again the deacon
appeared. This time he was followed by the Father Sub-Prior, the
man who, as Ieronim had told me, was writing the history of the
monastery.
As I mingled with the crowd and caught the infection of the universal
joyful excitement, I felt unbearably sore on Ieronim's account. Why
did they not send someone to relieve him? Why could not someone of
less feeling and less susceptibility go on the ferry? 'Lift up thine
eyes, O Sion, and look around,' they sang in the choir, 'for thy
children have come to thee as to a beacon of divine light from north
and south, and from east and from the sea. . . .'
I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expression of triumph,
but not one was listening to what was being sung and taking it in,
and not one was 'holding his breath.' Why was not Ieronim released?
I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly somewhere by the wall, bending
forward and hungrily drinking in the beauty of the holy phrase. All
this that glided by the ears of the people standing by me he would
have eagerly drunk in with his delicately sensitive soul, and would
have been spell-bound to ecstasy, to holding his breath, and there
would not have been a man happier than he in all the church. Now
he was plying to and fro over the dark river and grieving for his
dead friend and brother.
The wave surged back. A stout smiling monk, playing with his rosary
and looking round behind him, squeezed sideways by me, making way
for a lady in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery servant hurried
after the lady, holding a chair over our heads.
I came out of the church. I wanted to have a look at the dead
Nikolay, the unknown canticle writer. I walked about the monastery
wall, where there was a row of cells, peeped into several windows,
and, seeing nothing, came back again. I do not regret now that I
did not see Nikolay; God knows, perhaps if I had seen him I should
have lost the picture my imagination paints for me now. I imagine
the lovable poetical figure solitary and not understood, who went
out at nights to call to Ieronim over the water, and filled his
hymns with flowers, stars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man with
soft mild melancholy features. His eyes must have shone, not only
with intelligence, but with kindly tenderness and that hardly
restrained childlike enthusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim's
voice when he quoted to me passages from the hymns.
When we came out of church after mass it was no longer night. The
morning was beginning. The stars had gone out and the sky was a
morose greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and the buds
on the trees were covered with dew There was a sharp freshness in
the air. Outside the precincts I did not find the same animated
scene as I had beheld in the night. Horses and men looked exhausted,
drowsy, scarcely moved, while nothing was left of the tar barrels
but heaps of black ash. When anyone is exhausted and sleepy he
fancies that nature, too, is in the same condition. It seemed to
me that the trees and the young grass were asleep. It seemed as
though even the bells were not pealing so loudly and gaily as at
night. The restlessness was over, and of the excitement nothing was
left but a pleasant weariness, a longing for sleep and warmth.
Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint mist hovered over
it in shifting masses. There was a harsh cold breath from the water.
When I jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two dozen men and
women were standing on it already. The rope, wet and as I fancied
drowsy, stretched far away across the broad river and in places
disappeared in the white mist.
"Christ is risen! Is there no one else?" asked a soft voice.
I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no darkness now to
hinder me from seeing the monk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered man
of five-and-thirty, with large rounded features, with half-closed
listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped beard. He had an
extraordinarily sad and exhausted look.
"They have not relieved you yet?" I asked in surprise.
"Me?" he answered, turning to me his chilled and dewy face with a
smile. "There is no one to take my place now till morning. They'll
all be going to the Father Archimandrite's to break the fast
directly."
With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish fur that
looked like the little wooden tubs in which honey is sold, he threw
his weight on the rope; they gasped simultaneously, and the ferry
started.
We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily rising mist.
Everyone was silent. Ieronim worked mechanically with one hand. He
slowly passed his mild lustreless eyes over us; then his glance
rested on the rosy face of a young merchant's wife with black
eyebrows, who was standing on the ferry beside me silently shrinking
from the mist that wrapped her about. He did not take his eyes off
her face all the way.
There was little that was masculine in that prolonged gaze. It
seemed to me that Ieronim was looking in the woman's face for the
soft and tender features of his dead friend.