knows Latin and he knows Greek. . . . Ah Petrushka, Petrushka!" the
deacon said, suddenly remembering. "Now that will make him scratch his
head! That will shut his mouth, that will bring it home to him! Now he
won't ask 'Why.' It is a case of one wit to outwit another! Haha-ha!"
The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the letter had been written
to Pyotr he had become serene and more cheerful. The consciousness of
having performed his duty as a father and his faith in the power of the
letter had brought back his mirthfulness and good-humour.
"Pyotr means a stone," said he, as he went into his house. "My Pyotr is
not a stone, but a rag. A viper has fastened upon him and he pampers
her, and hasn't the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo! To think there should
be women like that, God forgive me! Eh? Has she no shame? She has
fastened upon the lad, sticking to him, and keeps him tied to her apron
strings. . . . Fie upon her!"
"Perhaps it's not she keeps hold of him, but he of her?"
"She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I am defending Pyotr. . . .
He'll catch it. He'll read the letter and scratch his head! He'll burn
with shame!"
"It's a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn't send it, Father
Deacon. Let him alone."
"What?" said the deacon, disconcerted.
"Why. . . . Don't send it, deacon! What's the sense of it? Suppose you
send it; he reads it, and . . . and what then? You'll only upset him.
Forgive him. Let him alone!"
The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark face, at his unbuttoned
cassock, which looked in the dusk like wings, and shrugged his
shoulders.
"How can I forgive him like that?" he asked. "Why I shall have to answer
for him to God!"
"Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! And God will forgive you for
your kindness to him."
"But he is my son, isn't he? Ought I not to teach him?"
"Teach him? Of course--why not? You can teach him, but why call him a
heathen? It will hurt his feelings, you know, deacon. . . ."
The deacon was a widower, and lived in a little house with three
windows. His elder sister, an old maid, looked after his house for him,
though she had three years before lost the use of her legs and was
confined to her bed; he was afraid of her, obeyed her, and did nothing
without her advice. Father Anastasy went in with him. Seeing his table
already laid with Easter cakes and red eggs, he began weeping for some
reason, probably thinking of his own home, and to turn these tears into
a jest, he at once laughed huskily.
"Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast," he said. "Yes . . . it
wouldn't come amiss, deacon, to have a little glass now. Can we? I'll
drink it so that the old lady does not hear," he whispered, glancing
sideways towards the door.
Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and wineglass towards him. He
unfolded the letter and began reading it aloud. And now the letter
pleased him just as much as when his Reverence had dictated it to him.
He beamed with pleasure and wagged his head, as though he had been
tasting something very sweet.
"A-ah, what a letter!" he said. "Petrushka has never dreamt of such a
letter. It's just what he wants, something to throw him into a fever. .
."
"Do you know, deacon, don't send it!" said Anastasy, pouring himself out
a second glass of vodka as though unconsciously. "Forgive him, let him
alone! I am telling you . . . what I really think. If his own father
can't forgive him, who will forgive him? And so he'll live without
forgiveness. Think, deacon: there will be plenty to chastise him without
you, but you should look out for some who will show mercy to your son!
I'll . . . I'll . . . have just one more. The last, old man. . . . Just
sit down and write straight off to him, 'I forgive you Pyotr!' He will
under-sta-and! He will fe-el it! I understand it from myself, you see
old man . . . deacon, I mean. When I lived like other people, I hadn't
much to trouble about, but now since I lost the image and semblance,
there is only one thing I care about, that good people should forgive
me. And remember, too, it's not the righteous but sinners we must
forgive. Why should you forgive your old woman if she is not sinful? No,
you must forgive a man when he is a sad sight to look at . . . yes!"
Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into thought.
"It's a terrible thing, deacon," he sighed, evidently struggling with
the desire to take another glass--"a terrible thing! In sin my mother
bore me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . . God forgive me,
a sinner! I have gone astray, deacon! There is no salvation for me! And
it's not as though I had gone astray in my life, but in old age--at
death's door . . . I . . ."
The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off another glass, then got
up and moved to another seat. The deacon, still keeping the letter in
his hand, was walking up and down the room. He was thinking of his son.
Displeasure, distress and anxiety no longer troubled him; all that had
gone into the letter. Now he was simply picturing Pyotr; he imagined his
face, he thought of the past years when his son used to come to stay
with him for the holidays. His thoughts were only of what was good,
warm, touching, of which one might think for a whole lifetime without
wearying. Longing for his son, he read the letter through once more and
looked questioningly at Anastasy.
"Don't send it," said the latter, with a wave of his hand.
"No, I must send it anyway; I must . . . bring him to his senses a
little, all the same. It's just as well. . . ."
The deacon took an envelope from the table, but before putting the
letter into it he sat down to the table, smiled and added on his own
account at the bottom of the letter:
"They have sent us a new inspector. He's much friskier than the old one.
He's a great one for dancing and talking, and there's nothing he can't
do, so that all the Govorovsky girls are crazy over him. Our military
chief, Kostyrev, will soon get the sack too, they say. High time he
did!" And very well pleased, without the faintest idea that with this
postscript he had completely spoiled the stern letter, the deacon
addressed the envelope and laid it in the most conspicuous place on the
table.
EASTER EVE
I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the ferry-
boat from the other side. At ordinary times the Goltva is a humble
stream of moderate size, silent and pensive, gently glimmering from
behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay stretched out before me.
The waters of spring, running riot, had overflowed both banks and
flooded both sides of the river for a long distance, submerging
vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so that it was no unusual
thing to meet poplars and bushes sticking out above the surface of the
water and looking in the darkness like grim solitary crags.
The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could see the
trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was lighted by the
stars, which were scattered thickly all over the sky. I don't remember
ever seeing so many stars. Literally one could not have put a finger in
between them. There were some as big as a goose's egg, others tiny as
hempseed. . . . They had come out for the festival procession, every one
of them, little and big, washed, renewed and joyful, and everyone of
them was softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water;
the stars were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the
quivering eddies. The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, far
away on the further bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright
red lights were gleaming. . . .
A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette of a peasant in a
high hat, with a thick knotted stick in his hand.
"How long the ferry-boat is in coming!" I said.
"It is time it was here," the silhouette answered.
"You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?"
"No I am not," yawned the peasant--"I am waiting for the illumination. I
should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I haven't the five kopecks
for the ferry."
"I'll give you the five kopecks."
"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle
for me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be more interesting,
and I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had
sunk in the water!"
The peasant went up to the water's edge, took the rope in his hands, and
shouted; "Ieronim! Ieron--im!"
As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal of a great bell floated
across from the further bank. The note was deep and low, as from the
thickest string of a double bass; it seemed as though the darkness
itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once there was the sound of a cannon
shot. It rolled away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the far
distance behind me. The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself.
'"Christ is risen," he said.
Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell had time to die away
in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third, and the darkness
was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh
lights flashed, and all began moving together and twinkling restlessly.
"Ieron--im!" we heard a hollow prolonged shout.
"They are shouting from the other bank," said the peasant, "so there is
no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep."
The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew one towards them. . .
. I was already beginning to lose patience and grow anxious, but behold
at last, staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of something
very much like a gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It moved
towards us with such deliberation that if it had not been that its lines
grew gradually more definite, one might have supposed that it was
standing still or moving to the other bank.
"Make haste! Ieronim!" shouted my peasant. "The gentleman's tired of
waiting!"
The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and stopped with a creak. A
tall man in a monk's cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the
rope.
"Why have you been so long?" I asked jumping upon the ferry.
"Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Ieronim answered gently. "Is there no
one else?"
"No one. . . ."
Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, bent himself to the figure
of a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat creaked and gave
a lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat began slowly
retreating from me--so the ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew
himself up and began working with one hand only. We were silent, gazing
towards the bank to which we were floating. There the illumination for
which the peasant was waiting had begun. At the water's edge barrels of
tar were flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson as the
rising moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks. The burning barrels
lighted up their own smoke and the long shadows of men flitting about
the fire; but further to one side and behind them from where the velvety
chime floated there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All at
once, cleaving the darkness, a rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up
the sky; it described an arc and, as though broken to pieces against the
sky, was scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank
like a far-away hurrah.
"How beautiful!" I said.
"Beautiful beyond words!" sighed Ieronim. "Such a night, sir! Another
time one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one
rejoices in every vanity. Where do you come from?"
I told him where I came from.
"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.