coarse, and he felt ill at ease because he raised his voice so high
in these silent rooms, so soon after his daughter's funeral.
"Nastasya!" he called out in a lower tone of voice, "where is the
canary?"
"She flew away, to be sure."
"Why did you let it out?"
Nastasya began to weep, and wiping her face with the edges of her
calico headkerchief, said through her tears:
"It was my young mistress's soul. Was it right to hold it?"
And it seemed to Father Ignatius that the yellow, happy little
canary, always singing with inclined head, was really the soul of
Vera, and if it had not flown away it wouldn't have been possible to
say that Vera had died. He became even more incensed at the
maid-servant, and shouted:
"Off with you!"
And when Nastasya did not find the door at once he added:
"Fool!"
II
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 say
something 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 imprints of her voice, as well as
her books and her portrait, which she brought with her from St.
Petersburg. Father Ignatius was accustomed to scrutinise the
portrait in established order: First, he would gaze on the cheek upon
which a strong light was 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 he could not understand. Each time he
would meditate upon causes; he reasoned that if it was made by the
train the entire head would have been crushed, whereas the head of
Vera remained wholly untouched. It was possible that someone did it
with his foot when the corpse was removed, or accidentally with a
finger nail.
To contemplate at length upon the details of Vera's death taxed the
strength of Father Ignatius, so that he would pass on to the eyes.
These were dark, handsome, with long lashes, which cast deep shadows
beneath, causing the whites to seem particularly luminous, both eyes
appearing to be inclosed in black, mourning frames. A strange
expression was 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 there lay a thin, transparent film. It resembled somewhat
the effect obtained 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. And gradually
Father Ignatius began to think that he heard silence.
Every morning after breakfast Father Ignatius would enter the
drawing-room, throw a rapid glance at the empty cage and the other
familiar objects, and seating himself in the armchair 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, softened by the walls, continued
insistent, heavy as lead, and terrible, so terrible that on the
hottest day Father Ignatius would be seized by cold shivers.
Continuous and cold 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; however, something strong and cumbersome, as a machine,
held it motionless 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 arms of the chair, would lean his head
forward, awaiting the sound to reach him. But the sound 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, which was paved with round, even-sized
stones, and directly across, the stone wall of a long, windowless
shed. On the corner stood a cab-driver, resembling a clay statue,
and it was difficult to understand why he stood there, when for hours
there was not a single passer-by.
III
Father Ignatius had occasion for considerable speech outside his
house. There was talking to be done with the clergy, with the
members of his flock, while officiating at ceremonies, sometimes with
acquaintances at social evenings; yet, upon his return he would feel
invariably that the entire day he had been silent. This was due to
the fact that with none of those people he could talk upon that
matter which concerned him most, and upon which he would contemplate
each night: Why did Vera die?
Father Ignatius did not seem to understand that now this could not be
known, and still thought it was possible to know. Each night--all
his nights had become sleepless--he would picture that minute when he
and his wife, in dead midnight, stood near Vera's bed, and he
entreated her: "Tell us!" And when in his recollection, he would
reach these words, the rest appeared to him not as it was in reality.
His closed eyes, preserving in their darkness a live and undimmed
picture of that night, saw how Vera raised herself in her bed, smiled
and tried to say something. And what was that she tried to say?
That unuttered word of Vera's, which should have solved all, seemed
so near, that if one only had bent his ear and suppressed the beats
of his heart, one could have heard it, and at the same time it was so
infinitely, so hopelessly distant. Father Ignatius would arise from
his bed, stretch forth his joined hands and, wringing them, would
exclaim:
"Vera!"
And he would be answered by silence.
One evening Father Ignatius entered the chamber of Olga Stepanovna,
whom he had not come to see for a week, seated himself at her head,
and turning away from that insistent, heavy gaze, said:
"Mother! I wish to talk to you about Vera. Do you hear?"
Her eyes were silent, and Father Ignatius raising his voice, spoke
sternly and powerfully, as he was accustomed to speak with penitents:
"I am aware that you are under the impression that I have been the
cause of Vera's death. Reflect, however, did I love her less than
you loved her? You reason absurdly. I have been stern; did that
prevent her from doing as she wished? I have forfeited the dignity
of a father, I humbly bent my neck, when she defied my malediction
and departed hence. And you--did you not entreat her to remain,
until I commanded you to be silent. Did I beget cruelty in her? Did
I not teach her about God, about humility, about love?"
Father Ignatius quickly glanced into the eyes of his wife, and turned
away.
"What was there for me to do when she did not wish to reveal her
sorrow? Did I not command her? Did I not entreat her? I suppose,
in your opinion, I should have dropped on my knees before the maid,
and cried like an old woman! How should I know what was going on in
her head! Cruel, heartless daughter!"
Father Ignatius hit his knees with his fist.
"There was no love in her--that's what! As far as I'm concerned,
that's settled, of course--I'm a tyrant! Perhaps she loved you--you,
who wept and humbled yourself?"
Father Ignatius gave a hollow laugh.
"There's love for you! And as a solace for you, what a death she
chose! A cruel, ignominious death. She died in the dust, in the
dirt--as a d-dog who is kicked in the jaw."
The voice of Father Ignatius sounded low and hoarse:
"I feel ashamed! Ashamed to go out in the street! Ashamed before
the altar! Ashamed before God! Cruel, undeserving daughter!
Accurst in thy grave!"
When Father Ignatius glanced at his wife she was unconscious, and
revived only after several hours. When she regained consciousness
her eyes were silent, and it was impossible to tell whether or not
she remembered what Father Ignatius had said.
That very night--it was a moonlit, calm, warm and deathly-still night
in May--Father Ignatius, proceeding on his tip-toes, so as not to be
overheard by his wife and the sick-nurse, climbed up the stairs and
entered Vera's room. The window in the attic had remained closed
since the death of Verar and the atmosphere was dry and warm, with a
light odour of burning that comes from heat generated during the day
in the iron roof. The air of lifelessness and abandonment permeated
the apartment, which for a long time had remained unvisited, and
where the timber of the walls, the furniture, and other objects gave
forth a slight odour of continued putrescence. A bright streak of
moonlight fell on the window-sill, and on the floor, and, reflected
by the white, carefully washed boards, cast a dim light into the
room's corners, while the white, clean bed, with two pillows, one
large and one small, seemed phantom-like and aerial. Father Ignatius
opened the window, causing to pour into the room a considerable
current of fresh air, smelling of dust, of the nearby river, and the
blooming linden. An indistinct sound as of voices in chorus also
entered occasionally; evidently young people rowed and sang.
Quietly treading with naked feet, resembling a white phanton, Father
Ignatius made his way to the vacant bed, bent his knees and fell face
down on the pillows, embracing them--on that spot where should have
been Vera's face. Long he lay thus; the song grew louder, then died
out; but he still lay there, while his long, black hair spread over
his shoulders and the bed.
The moon had changed its position, and the room grew darker, when
Father Ignatius raised his head and murmured, putting into his voice
the entire strength of his long-suppressed and unconscious love and
hearkening to his own words, as if it were not he who was listening,
but Vera.
"Vera, daughter mine! Do you understand what you are to me,
daughter? Little daughter! My heart, my blood, and my life. Your
father--your old father--is already grey, and also feeble."
The shoulders of Father Ignatius shook and the entire burdened figure
became agitated. Suppressing his agitation, Father Ignatius murmured
tenderly, as to an infant:
"Your old father entreats you. No, little Vera, he supplicates. He
weeps. He never has wept before. Your sorrow, little child, your
sufferings--they are also mine. Greater than mine."
Father Ignatius shook his head.
"Greater, Verochka. What is death to an old man like me? But
you--if you only knew how delicate and weak and timid you are! Do
you recall how you bruised your finger once and the blood trickled
and you cried a little? My child! I know that you love me, love me
intensely. Every morning you kiss my hand. Tell me, do tell me,
what grief troubles your little head, and I--with these hands--shall
smother your grief. They are still strong, Vera, these hands."
The hair of Father Ignatius shook.
"Tell me!"
Father Ignatius fixed his eyes on the wall, and wrung his hands.
"Tell me!"
Stillness prevailed in the room, and from afar was heard the
prolonged and broken whistle of a locomotive.
Father Ignatius, gazing out of his dilated eyes, as if there had
arisen suddenly before him the frightful phantom of the mutilated
corpse, slowly raised himself from his knees, and with a credulous
motion reached for his head with his hand, with spread and tensely
stiffened fingers. Making a step toward the door, Father Ignatius
whispered brokenly:
"Tell me!"
And he was answered by silence.
IV
The next day, after an early and lonely dinner, Father Ignatius went
to the graveyard, the first time since his daughter's death. It was
warm, deserted and still; it seemed more like an illumined night.
Following habit, Father Ignatius, with effort, straightened his
spine, looked severely about him, and thought that he was the same as
formerly; he was conscious neither of the new, terrible weakness in
his legs, nor that his long beard had become entirely white as if a
hard frost had hit it. The road to the graveyard led through a long,
direct street, slightly on an upward incline, and at its termination
loomed the arch of the graveyard gate, resembling a dark, perpetually
open mouth, edged with glistening teeth.
Vera's grave was situated in the depth of the grounds, where the
sandy little pathways terminated, and Father Ignatius, for a
considerable time, was obliged to blunder along the narrow footpaths,
which led in a broken line between green mounds, by all forgotten and
abandoned. Here and there appeared, green with age, sloping
tombstones, broken railings, and large, heavy stones planted in the
ground, and seemingly crushing it with some cruel, ancient spite.
Near one such stone was the grave of Vera. It was covered with fresh
turf, turned yellow; around, however, all was in bloom. Ash embraced
maple tree; and the widely spread hazel bush stretched out over the
grave its bending branches with their downy, shaggy foliage. Sitting
down on a neighbouring grave and catching his breath, Father Ignatius
looked around him, throwing a glance upon the cloudless, desert sky,
where in complete immovability hung the glowing sun disk--and here he
only felt that deep, incomparable stillness which reigns in
graveyards, when the wind is absent and the slumbering foliage has
ceased its rustling. And anew the thought came to Father Ignatius
that this was not a stillness but a silence. It extended to the very
brick walls of the graveyard, crept over them and occupied the city.
And it terminated only--in those grey, obstinate and reluctantly
silent eyes.
Father Ignatius' shoulders shivered, and he lowered his eyes upon the
grave of Vera. He gazed long upon the little tufts of grass uprooted
together with the earth from some open, wind-swept field and not
successful in adapting themselves to a strange soil; he could not
imagine that there, under this grass, only a few feet from him, lay
Vera. And this nearness seemed incomprehensible and brought
confusion into the soul and a strange agitation. She, of whom Father
Ignatius was accustomed to think of as one passed away forever into
the dark depths of eternity, was here, close by--and it was hard to
understand that she, nevertheless, was no more and never again would
be. And in the mind's fancy of Father Ignatius it seemed that if he
could only utter some word, which was almost upon his lips, or if he
could make some sort of movement, Vera would issue forth from her
grave and arise to the same height and beauty that was once hers.
And not alone would she arise, but all corpses, intensely sensitive
in their solemnly-cold silence.
Father Ignatius removed his wide-brimmed black hat, smoothed down his
disarranged hair, and whispered:
"Vera!"
Father Ignatius felt ill at ease, fearing to be overheard by a
stranger, and stepping on the grave he gazed around him. No one was
present, and this time he repeated loudly:
"Vera!"
It was the voice of an aged man, sharp and demanding, and it was
strange that a so powerfully expressed desire should remain without
answer.
"Vera!"
Loudly and insistently the voice called, and when it relapsed into
silence, it seemed for a moment that somewhere from underneath came
an incoherent answer. And Father Ignatius, clearing his ear of his
long hair, pressed it to the rough, prickly turf.
"Vera, tell me!"
With terror, Father Ignatius felt pouring into his ear something cold
as of the grave, which froze his marrow; Vera seemed to be
speaking--speaking, however, with the same unbroken silence. This
feeling became more racking and terrible, and when Father Ignatius
forced himself finally to tear away his head, his face was pale as
that of a corpse, and he fancied that the entire atmosphere trembled
and palpitated from a resounding silence, and that this terrible sea
was being swept by a wild hurricane. The silence strangled him; with
icy waves it rolled through his head and agitated the hair; it smote
against his breast, which groaned under the blows. Trembling from
head to foot, casting around him sharp and sudden glances, Father
Ignatius slowly raised himself and with a prolonged and torturous
effort attempted to straighten his spine and to give proud dignity to
his trembling body. He succeeded in this. With measured
protractiveness, Father Ignatius shook the dirt from his knees, put
on his hat, made the sign of the cross three times over the grave,
and walked away with an even and firm gait, not recognising, however,
the familiar burial ground and losing his way.
"Well, here I've gone astray!" smiled Father Ignatius, halting at the
branching of the footpaths.
He stood there for a moment, and, unreflecting turned to the left,
because it was impossible to stand and wait. The silence drove him
on. It arose from the green graves; it was the breath issuing from
the grey, melancholy crosses; in thin, stifling currents it came from
all pores of the earth, satiated with the dead. Father Ignatius
increased his stride. Dizzy, he circled the same paths, jumped over
graves, stumbled across railings, clutching with his hands the
prickly, metallic garlands, and tearing the soft material of his
dress into tatters. His sole thought was to escape. He fled from
one place to another, and finally broke into a dead run, seeming very
tall and unusual in the flowing cassock, with his hair streaming in
the wind. A corpse arisen from the grave could not have frightened a
passer-by more than this wild figure of a man, running and leaping,
and waving his arms, his face distorted and insane, and the open
mouth breathing with a dull, hoarse sound. With one long leap,
Father Ignatius landed on a little street, at one end of which
appeared the small church attached to the graveyard. At the
entrance, on a low bench, dozed an old man, seemingly a distant
pilgrim, and near him, assailing each other, were two quarrelling old
beggar women, filling the air with their oaths.
When Father Ignatius reached his home, it was already dusk, and there
was light in Olga Stepanovna's chamber. Not undressing and without
removing his hat, dusty and tattered, Father Ignatius approached his
wife and fell on his knees. "Mother ... Olga ... have pity on me!"
he wept. "I shall go mad."
He dashed his head against the edge of the table and he wept with
anguish, as one who was weeping for the first time. Then he raised
his head, confident that a miracle would come to pass, that his wife
would speak and would pity him.
"My love!"
With his entire big body he drew himself toward his wife--and met the
gaze of those grey eyes. There was neither compassion in them, nor
anger. It was possible his wife had forgiven him, but in her eyes
there was neither pity, nor anger. They were dumb and silent.
* * * * * * *
And silent was the entire dark, deserted house.
END