Peter had lost all interest in the books that Maxim used to read aloud to
him, and nothing ever arrested his attention now, unless it bore directly
or indirectly upon his own affairs. Once he interrupted the reading to
ask,—
“_Red ringing; carmine ringing_,—what does that mean? Can one see colors
in tones?”
“No,” replied Maxim; “but some sounds make an impression analogous to
that of colors. I am not sure that I shall be doing right, or even if I
shall succeed in explaining this analogy to you so that you will be able
to understand it; but I have often thought of it myself, and this is the
way it appears to me: Whenever I look upon a bright red surface of any
considerable dimensions, it produces on me the impression of something
flexible and quivering. It seems as if this red surface were changing
every instant; rising from a substratum of a deeper color, it throbs, so
to speak, with swift pulsations of a lighter shade, making a most vivid
impression on the eyes. That may be the reason why a certain kind of
ringing is called red.”
“Yes, yes! wait a moment,” said Peter, quickly opening the piano; and
with practised hand he struck the key-board in imitation of the holiday
bell-ringing. The illusion was unusually perfect. A chord in the middle
register served as a background, while the clearer high notes rose over
it as though leaping and bounding through the air.
“Is that it?” asked the blind man.
“Yes, that is like it; and I know persons who are as unpleasantly
affected by those sounds as I myself am affected by the color. I believe
the expression ‘carmine ringing’ refers to post-bells. After a bell has
been ringing for a long time it grows monotonous,—the sound becomes
deeper, softer, and more uniform, although it is still as distinct as
ever. The same effect may be obtained by a skilful selection of the
different tones.”
“Now, listen,” said Peter; and under his fingers the piano rang out like
the spasmodic peals of a post-bell.
“No, that is not the way,” said Maxim. “You must play more softly.”
“Ah, yes, I remember!”
And now the instrument sent forth tones, low, rhythmical, and sad, like
the music of a “set of bells” under the _dugà_ of a Russian _tròika_,
receding along the dusty road in the dim vista of evening,—a sound low
and monotonous, growing softer and softer, until the last notes are lost
amid the silence of the quiet fields.
“Ah, now you have it! You have caught the idea,” said Maxim. “Our
language possesses certain definitions applicable to our conceptions of
sound and light, as well as of touch. Thus we use the word ‘brilliant’
in regard to tones, and also in regard to colors; and the word ‘soft’
belonging primarily to the sense of touch, may also be applied to colors.
We even say a ‘warm’ color, a ‘cold’ color. Of course this is only by
way of analogy, but they show some points of resemblance. Some time ago,
while you were still a child, your mother tried to explain colors to you
by means of sounds.”
“Yes, I remember. Why did you forbid us to continue? Perhaps I might have
succeeded in understanding.”
“No,” replied Maxim, “that would have been impossible, and all your labor
would have been in vain. You can study an object by itself, as far as its
form and the space it occupies are concerned,—and you seem able, in some
inscrutable way, to perceive vague differences in color; but in order to
gain any distinct ideas of form, size, and color the sense of sight is
absolutely indispensable. The sooner you give up your vain efforts the
better it will be for you.”
Peter made no reply; but afterward he returned to those musical
experiments that had been given up in days gone by. While he by
the sense of touch would examine bits of bright-colored cloth, his
mother—her nerves strained to their utmost tension, and trembling with
agitation—would try to represent the color by a correspondence in sound.
Maxim no longer opposed these performances; he realized that his
influence was of no avail against that inward impulse, and felt that it
would be better to allow the blind man to pursue his own course, that
in the end he might be convinced that all his efforts to combine these
separate impressions were utterly in vain. And that this result might be
the sooner attained, Maxim lent his own assistance to promote the blind
man’s researches.
“Uncle Maxim,” said Peter to him one day, “you once described red to me
by means of words so vividly, I wish you would tell me about the other
colors that you see in Nature.”
Maxim paused to consider. “That is a very difficult matter; but I will
try. I will begin by describing to you something with which you are
perfectly familiar, and that is blood. Blood courses through the veins,
but it cannot be seen. It circulates through the body, diffused by the
heart, which is constantly throbbing, beating, and burning with sorrow
or joy. When a sudden thought occurs to you, or when from dreams you
awake trembling and weeping, it is because the heart has given a more
rapid impulse to the blood, and sent it coursing in bright streams to the
brain. Well, this blood is red.”
“Red, warm,” said the young man, thoughtfully.
Maxim paused: was it well for him to go on with these fruitless
illustrations? But when he saw the eagerness with which the blind man was
hanging on his words, he sighed, and made up his mind to continue.
“First, I will tell you about the heavens. If you lift your arm above
your head, you will describe with it a semi-circle in space. In the same
way, infinitely far above us, we behold the vaulted semi-circle of the
hemisphere. It is blue. We call it the sky. The sun crosses it from
east to west,—that you already know. You can also tell when the sky is
overcast; at such times its blue depths are hidden by the confused and
portentous outlines of dense masses of clouds. You always perceive the
approach of a threatening storm-cloud—”
“Yes, I am conscious of an influence that agitates the soul.”
“You are right. A blue sky is the symbol of serene and lasting happiness.
We watch for the return of the dark-blue sky. The tempest will pass over,
while the sky above remains ever the same; knowing this, we can wait
patiently for the passage of the storm. The sky then is blue; and the
sea when it is calm is of the same color. Your mother has blue eyes, and
Evelyn’s eyes are also blue.”
“Like the sky,” murmured the blind man, tenderly.
“Blue eyes are said to be the token of a pure soul. Now I will tell
you about the earth. A little while ago it was spring; now the summer
has come, and the surface of the ground is nearly all covered with
green grass. The earth is black; and in the early spring the trunks and
branches of the trees look black too, and moist; but no sooner are these
dark surfaces warmed by the rays of the sun than they send forth green
grass and leaves. Vegetation requires light and warmth; but the amount
must not be excessive. The reason why all that is green is so grateful
to the eye, is that it seems like the union of warmth and cool moisture;
it arouses sensations of calm contentment and health, but not those of
passion, or what the world calls happiness. Do you understand?”
“No, it is not quite clear. But please go on.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can make that clearer; but I will tell you
more. The summer grows hotter and brighter as it goes on. All vegetation
seems to be oppressed with its own vitality; the leaves droop, and if
the heat of the sun is not cooled by the refreshing rain, the green
vegetation grows utterly parched and withers away. But with the approach
of autumn, the juicy fruit begins to ripen among the brown and faded
leaves, reddening most on the side next the sun, as if all the intensity
and passion of vegetable nature were concentrated therein. You see that
even here red is as ever the symbol of passion. It is the color of
luxury and delight; the color of sin, anger, and madness; the emblem of
unforgiving vengeance.—But you fail to follow me!”
“Never mind; go on, go on!”
“The autumn comes. The fruit has grown heavy; it drops and falls to the
ground,—it dies; but the seed still lives,—and therein lies the germ of
a ‘possibility’ of some future plant, with its luxuriant foliage and
its fruit. The seed falls on the ground; and above this ground the cold
sun hangs low, the cold wind sweeps over it, the cold clouds float
overhead. So life and the passions die slowly, imperceptibly. Day by day
the blackness of the soil shows more and more plainly through the green
grass, until at last the day comes when the snowflakes fall by millions
and cover the ground, humble and sorrowful in its widowhood, with a
mantle of one uniform color,—cold, and white. The cold snow, the clouds
that float in the inaccessible heights above our heads, the grand and
sterile mountain-peaks, all are white. It is the emblem of a passionless
nature, of the cold purity of holiness, and of the future spiritual life.
As to black—”
“I know,” interrupted the blind man, “_that_ signifies silence and
quiescence. It is night.”
“Yes; and therefore the emblem of death.”
Peter shuddered, and said in a low tone: “Yes,—as you say yourself,—of
death. And for me black is the prevailing color!”
“You are wrong to say that,” rejoined Maxim unhesitatingly, “when you
have access to all the pleasures of sound, warmth and movement.”
“Yes,” replied the young man, thoughtfully, “that is true. Sounds also
have their colors; and I have learned to know the red tones, the green
and the majestic white ones, that soar aloft in inaccessible heights. But
those nearest akin to me are the dark tones of grief, which reverberate
close to the earth. I never rejoice when I play,—I weep.”
“Let me tell you,” said Maxim earnestly, “of one gift which you fail to
appreciate at its proper value,—one that has been bestowed upon you with
a generosity rarely found among mortals. We have already spoken of light,
warmth, and sound. But you know still another joy,—you are surrounded by
love. You take little heed of this, and the reason of your suffering may
be ascribed to an egotistic cherishing of your own woes.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Peter, passionately, “I cherish them against my will!
Where can I hide from them, when they are with me wherever I go?”
“Could you once realize that the world is full of sorrow a hundredfold
harder to bear than yours,—sorrows in comparison with which your life,
rich in consolations and sympathy, may well be called bliss,—then—”
“No, no! it is not so!” interrupted the blind man, angrily, in his former
tone of passionate excitement. “I would change places with the lowest
beggar; gladly would I wear his rags! He sees!”
“Very well,” said Maxim, coldly, “I will prove to you that you are
mistaken.”