[Illustration]
_Twenty-five years separate Korolénko from Tolstoi, and a new and more
modern point of view becomes apparent in the work of the younger man.
“Easter Night” is distinguished from its predecessors in this volume
by a romantic note of imaginative dramatic interest that shows the
developed artistic temperament of the author._
_Korolénko was born in 1853, made his literary début in 1879, and with
“The Blind Musician,” in 1886, rose to the front rank among the younger
generation of writers. It is the story of the life of a boy who has
been blind from birth who becomes a musician under the tender care of
his father and mother._
[Illustration]
EASTER NIGHT
BY VLADIMIR KOROLÉNKO
Translated by Mrs. Aline Delano. Copyright, 1887,
by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. It was Holy Saturday in 188-.
Evening had long since enfolded the silent earth. The ground, warmed
during the day by the rays of the sun, was now cooling beneath the
invigorating influence of the night-frost. It seemed like one sighing,
while its breath, forming a silvery mist, rose glistening in the rays
of the starlit sky, like clouds of incense, to greet the approaching
holiday.
All was still. In the cool night-breeze the small provincial town of
N---- stood silent, waiting to hear the first stroke of the bell from
the high cathedral tower. But the town was not sleeping; a spirit of
expectancy brooded beneath the veil of darkness, breathing through the
shadows of the silent and deserted streets. Now and then a belated
workman, who had but just escaped from his servile task ere the holiday
began, passed, hurrying on his way; once in a while a droshky rattled
by, leaving silence behind it. Life had fled indoors and hidden itself,
in palace and hovel, from whose windows the lights shone far out upon
the street, while over the city and the fields hovered the spirit of
Resurrection.
Although the moon stood high above the horizon, the town still rested
in the broad, deep shadow of a hill, crowned by a gloomy and massive
edifice, whose peculiarly straight and severe outlines were sharply
defined in the golden ether. The sombre gates were hardly to be
distinguished amid the gloom of its deeply shadowed walls, while the
towers on the four corners stood out boldly against the azure sky, and
gradually over all the moon poured its flood of liquid gold.
Suddenly on the sensitive air of the expectant night came the first
stroke from the high cathedral belfry; then another, and still another.
A minute later and the whole air throbbed and swelled, as the countless
bells rang out, uniting in one harmonious peal. From the gloomy
building overshadowing the town there came a faint, broken harmony,
that seemed to flutter helplessly in the air, and thence to rise into
the ethereal light, and join the mighty chord. The singing ceased, the
sounds dissolved in air, and the silence of the night gradually resumed
its sway; a faint echo seemed to hover for a while, like the vibration
of an invisible harp-string. Now the fires were gradually extinguished,
the church windows shone forth brightly, and the earth seemed ready to
proclaim once more the old tidings of peace, love, and good-will.
The bolts of the dark gates in the gloomy building creaked, and a band
of soldiers, with clanking arms, sallied forth to relieve the night
sentinels; on approaching the corners, they would halt, and a dark
form, with measured steps, would detach itself from the rest, while
the former sentinel took his place in the ranks, and the soldiers went
on their way, skirting the high prison wall, that glistened in the
moonbeams.
As they reached its western side, a young recruit stepped forward
from the ranks to relieve the sentry who was posted there; a rustic
awkwardness still showed itself in his movements, and his young face
betrayed the absorbed attention of a novice who was to occupy for the
first time a responsible post. He faced the wall, presented arms, made
two steps forward, and, shouldering his musket, stood beside the sentry
he was to replace. The latter, turning slightly toward him, repeated
the usual formula, in the singsong tone of discipline.
“From corner to corner--Look out! Do not sleep or doze!” He spoke
rapidly, while the recruit listened with close attention, and a
peculiar expression of anxiety and sadness in his gray eyes.
“You understand?” asked his superior.
“Yes, sir!”
“Then, look out!” he added, sharply; but, suddenly changing his tone,
he said, good-naturedly:
“Don’t be afraid, Faddeyef; you are not a woman! I hope you are not
afraid of the Lyeshy!”
“Why should I be afraid of him?” replied Faddeyef. Then he added: “But
I tell you, my good fellows, I have a misgiving.”
This simple and almost childish confession made the soldiers laugh.
“There’s simplicity for you!” exclaimed the leader, in tones of
contempt. Then giving the order, “Shoulder arms! March!” the sentries,
with measured tread, disappeared around the corner, and the sound of
their footsteps was soon lost in the distance. The sentinel shouldered
his musket, and began to pace along the wall.
Inside the prison, at the first stroke of the bell, all was in motion.
It was long since the sad and gloomy prison night had witnessed so
much life. It seemed as if the church bells had really brought tidings
of liberty; for the grimy doors of the cells opened in turn, and
their occupants, clad in long gray garments, the fatal patches on
their backs, filed in rows along the corridors, on their way to the
brilliantly lighted prison church. They came from all directions--from
right and left, descending and ascending the stairway--and amid the
echoing footsteps rang the sound of arms and the clanking of chains. On
entering the church, this gray mass of humanity poured into the space
allotted to them, behind the railing, and stood there in silence. The
windows of the church were protected by strong iron bars.
The prison was empty, except in the four towers, where, in small,
strongly bolted cells, four men, in solitary confinement, were
restlessly pacing to and fro, stopping once in a while to listen at the
keyhole to the snatches of church singing that reached their ears.
And, beside these, in one of the ordinary cells, in a bunk, lay a sick
man. The overseer, to whom this sudden illness had been reported, went
into his cell as they were escorting the prisoners to church, and,
leaning over him, looked into his eyes, that were gazing fixedly before
him, and in which shone a peculiar light.
“Ivanof! Ivanof!” he called out to the invalid.
The convict never turned his head, but continued muttering something
unintelligible, moving his parched lips with difficulty.
“Carry him to the hospital to-morrow!” said the overseer, as he left
the cell, appointing a sentry to guard the door. The latter, after a
close examination of the delirious patient, shook his head, saying as
he did so: “A vagrant! Poor fellow! you are not likely to tramp any
more!” The overseer continued his way along the corridor, and entered
the church, taking up his post by the door, where, with frequent
genuflections, he listened devoutly to the service. Meanwhile the
mutterings of the unconscious man filled the empty cell.
He did not seem old; on the contrary, he looked strong and muscular.
He was delirious, apparently reliving his recent past, while a look of
distress disfigured his face. Fate had played him a sorry trick. He had
tramped thousands of versts through the Siberian forests and mountains,
had suffered countless dangers and privations, always urged onward by a
consuming homesickness, and sustained by one hope--that he might live
to see his native place, and be once more with his own people, if it
were but for a month, or even a week. Then he would be resigned, even
if he had to go back again. But it chanced that when only a few hundred
versts from his native village he had been recaptured, and confined in
this prison. Suddenly his mutterings ceased. His eyes dilated, and his
breathing became more even--Brighter dreams flitted across his fevered
brain--The forest soughs--He knows it well, that soughing; monotonous,
musical, and powerful--He can distinguish its various tones; the
language of each tree: the majestic pine, dusky green, rustling high
overhead--the whispering cedars--the bright, merry birch, tossing its
flexible branches--the trembling aspen, fluttering its timid, sensitive
leaves--The free birds sing; the stream rushes across the stony chasm;
and a swarm of gibbering magpies, detectives of the forest, are soaring
in the air over the path followed by the vagrant through this almost
impenetrable thicket.
It seemed as if a breeze from the free forest were wafted through
the prison cell. The invalid sat up and drew a long breath, gazing
intently before him, while a sudden gleam of consciousness flashed into
his eyes--The vagrant, the habitual fugitive, beheld before him an
unaccustomed sight--an open door?
In his frame, enfeebled by disease, a powerful instinct sprang to life.
His delirium either disappeared, or centred itself on one idea, which,
like a ray of sunlight, illumined the chaos of his thoughts. Alone! and
with an open door! In a moment he was on his feet. It seemed as if the
fever had left his brain, and was only perceptible in his eyes, which
had a fixed and menacing expression.
Some one had just come out from the church, leaving the door ajar.
The strains of the harmonious singing, subdued by the distance, reached
the ear of the vagrant, and then died away. His face softened, his eyes
grew dim, and his imagination reproduced a long cherished scene: A
mild night, the whisper of the pines, their branches swaying above the
old church of his native village--a throng of countrymen; the lights
reflected in the river, and this same chant--He must make haste with
his journey, that he may hear this at home, with his family!
All this time, in the corridor, near the church door, the overseer
prayed devoutly, kneeling, and touching his forehead to the ground.
Meanwhile, the young recruit paced to and fro on his beat along the
prison wall, which glowed with a phosphorescent light. A broad, level
field, recently freed from snow, lay before him.
A light wind rustled through the tall grass, inclining him to a sad and
pensive mood.
The moon hung high above the horizon; the expression of anxiety had
vanished from Faddeyef’s face. He stopped by the wall, and, setting his
musket on the ground, rested his hand on the muzzle, on which he leaned
his head, falling into a deep reverie. He could not yet wholly grasp
the idea of his presence in this place, on this solemn Easter night,
beside the wall, with a musket in his hand, and opposite the vacant
field. He had by no means ceased to be a peasant; many things clear
to a soldier were to him incomprehensible; and he was often teased by
being called “a rustic.” But a short time ago he was a free man, had
the care of a household, owned a field, and was at liberty to labor
when and where he pleased. Now, an indefinite, inexplicable fear beset
his every step and movement, forcing the awkward young rustic into the
groove of strict discipline. At this moment he was alone--the bleak
landscape before him, and the wind, whistling through the dry grass,
made him dreamy; and memories of familiar scenes passed through his
mind. He seemed to see his native village! The same moon shone above
it, the same breeze blew over it; he saw the lighted church, and the
dark pines tossing their green heads--
Suddenly he became conscious of his present surroundings, and surprise
kindled his blue eyes, as though he were questioning, “What are these?
this field, this wall, and musket?” For an instant he realized where
he was, but in another moment the whistling breeze wafted him back to
familiar scenes; and again the soldier dreamt, leaning on his musket.
All at once, close beside him, appeared a head over the top of the
wall--the eyes glimmering like two coals. The vagrant peered into
the open field, and beyond it to the shadowy line of the distant
forest--his chest expanded as he greedily inhaled the refreshing breath
of “mother night.” He let himself down by his hands, gently gliding
along the wall.
The joyful ringing had awakened the slumbering night. The door of the
prison church was opened, and the procession moved into the yard. In
waves of melody the singing poured forth from the church. The soldier
started, lifted his cap, and was about to make the sign of the cross,
when he suddenly stopped, with his hand raised in the act of prayer,
while the vagrant, having reached the ground, swiftly started on a run
toward the tall grass.
“Stop, pray, stop, my dearest fellow!” exclaimed the soldier, in a
terrified voice, as he raised his musket. At the sight of this gray
figure fleeing from pursuit, all his shapeless and terrible fears took
a definite form. “Duty--responsibility!” flashed across his mind, and,
raising his musket, he aimed at the fugitive. But before pulling the
trigger he pitifully shut his eyes.
Meanwhile, above the town there rose, hovering in the ether, a
harmonious and prolonged chime, marred only by the prison bell, that
trembled and fluttered like a wounded bird; and from beyond the wall
the sounds of the joyous chant, “Christ is risen,” reached far into
the field. Suddenly, above all other sounds, came the report of a
musket, followed by a faint, helpless groan, like a plaintive and dying
protest. Then for a moment all was still; and only the distant echoes
of the vacant field repeated with a sad murmur the last reverberation
of the shot amid the silence of the terror-stricken night.