From the day of the funeral silence reigned in the little house. It was
not stillness, for that is the mere absence of noise, but it was
_silence_ which means that those who kept silence could, apparently,
have spoken if they had pleased. So thought Father Ignaty when,
entering his wife’s chamber, he would meet an obstinate glance, so
heavy that it was as though the whole air were turned to lead, and was
pressing on his head and back. So he thought when he examined his
daughter’s music, on which her very voice was impressed; her books, and
her portrait, a large one painted in colours which she had brought with
her from St. Petersburg. In examining her portrait a certain order was
evolved.
First he would look at her neck, on which the light was thrown in the
portrait, and would imagine to himself a scratch on it, such as was on
the neck of the dead Vera, and the origin of which he could not
understand. And every time he meditated on the cause. If it had been
the train which struck it, it would have shattered her whole head, and
the head of the dead Vera was quite uninjured.
Could it be that some one had touched it with his foot when carrying
home the corpse; or was it done unintentionally with the nail?
But to think long about the details of her death was horrible to Father
Ignaty, so he would pass on to the eyes of the portrait. They were
black and beautiful, with long eyelashes, the thick shadow of which lay
below, so that the whites seemed peculiarly bright, and the two eyes
were as though enclosed in black mourning frames. The unknown artist, a
man of talent, had given to them a strange expression. It was as though
between the eyes, and that on which they rested, there was a thin,
transparent film. It reminded one of the black top of a grand piano, on
which the summer dust lay in a thin layer, almost imperceptible, but
still dimming the brightness of the polished wood. And wherever Father
Ignaty placed the portrait, the eyes continually followed him, not
speaking, but silent; and the silence was so clear that it seemed
possible to hear it. And by degrees Father Ignaty came to think that he
did hear the silence.
Every morning after the Eucharist Father Ignaty would go to the
sitting-room, would take in at a glance the empty cage, and all the
well-known arrangement of the room, sit down in an arm-chair, close his
eyes and listen to the silence of the house. It was something strange.
The cage was gently and tenderly silent; and grief and tears, and
far-away dead laughter were felt in that silence. The silence of his
wife, softened by the intervening walls, was obstinate, heavy as lead;
and terrible, so terrible that Father Ignaty turned cold on the hottest
day. Endless, cold as the grave, mysterious as death, was the silence
of his daughter. It was as though the silence were a torture to itself,
and as though it longed passionately to pass into speech, but that
something strong and dull as a machine, held it motionless, and
stretched it like a wire. And then somewhere in the far distance, the
wire began to vibrate and emit a soft, timid, pitiful sound. Father
Ignaty, with a mixture of joy and fear, would catch this incipient
sound, and pressing his hands on the arms of the chair, would stretch
his head forward and wait for the sound to reach him. But it would
break off, and lapse into silence.
“Nonsense!” Father Ignaty would angrily exclaim, and rise from the
chair, tall and upright as ever. From the window was to be seen the
market-place, bathed in sunlight, paved with round, even stones, and on
the other side the stone wall of a long, windowless storehouse. At the
corner stood a cab like a statue in clay, and it was incomprehensible
why it continued to stand there, when for whole hours together not a
single passer-by was to be seen.