From the day of the funeral, silence reigned in the little house. It
was not stillness, for stillness is merely the absence of sounds; it
was silence, because it seemed that they who were silent could speak
but would not. So thought Father Ignatius each time he entered his
wife’s chamber and met that obstinate gaze, so heavy in its aspect that
it seemed to transform the very air into lead, which bore down one’s
head and spine. So thought he, examining his daughter’s music-sheets,
which bore marks of her voice-work, and also her books and her
portrait, which she had brought with her from St. Petersburg. Father
Ignatius never deviated from the following order when scrutinizing the
portrait: First, he would gaze on the cheek upon which a strong light
had been thrown by the painter; in his fancy he would see upon it a
slight wound, which he had noticed on Vera’s cheek in death, and the
source of which mystified him. More than once he meditated upon causes,
and each time he reasoned that if it had been made by the train the
entire skull would have been crushed, whereas the head of Vera remained
wholly untouched.
It was possible that some one had done it with his foot when the body
was being lifted, or accidentally with a finger-nail.
The details of Vera’s death, contemplated at length, taxed the strength
of Father Ignatius, so that he would soon pass on to the eyes. These
were dark, handsome, with long lashes that cast deep shadows beneath,
causing the whites to seem particularly luminous, both eyes appearing
to be inclosed in black mourning frames. A strange expression had been
given them by the unknown but talented artist; it seemed as if in the
space between the eyes and the object upon which they gazed lay a
thin, transparent film. It resembled somewhat the effect made by an
imperceptible layer of dust on the black top of a piano, softening the
shine of polished wood. And no matter how Father Ignatius placed the
portrait, the eyes insistently followed him; but there was no speech
in them, only silence; and this silence was so clear that it seemed it
could be heard. Gradually Father Ignatius began to think that he heard
silence.
Every morning after breakfast the priest would enter the drawing-room,
take in at a rapid glance the empty cage and the other familiar
objects, and, seating himself in the arm-chair, would close his eyes
and listen to the silence of the house. There was something grotesque
about this. The cage kept silence, stilly and tenderly, and in this
silence were felt sorrow and tears and distant dead laughter. The
silence of his wife, deepened by the walls, continued insistent, heavy
as lead, and terrible, so terrible that on the hottest day Father
Ignatius would be seized with cold shivers. Continuous and frigid as
the grave, and mysterious as death, was the silence of his daughter.
The silence itself seemed to share this suffering and struggled, as
it were, with the terrible desire to pass into speech; something
strong and cumbersome, as a machine, held it motionless, however, and
stretched it out as a wire. And somewhere at the distant end, the wire
would begin to agitate and resound subduedly, feebly, and plaintively.
With joy, yet with terror, Father Ignatius would seize upon this
engendered sound, and, resting with his arms upon the arm of the
chair, would lean his head forward, waiting for the sound to reach him.
But it would break and pass into silence.
“How stupid!” muttered Father Ignatius angrily, arising from the
chair, still erect and tall. Through the window he saw, suffused with
sunlight, the street paved with round, even-sized stones, and, directly
across, the stone wall of a long, windowless shed. On the corner stood
a cab-driver, looking like a clay statue, and it was difficult to
understand why he stood there, when for hours there was not a single
passer-by.