In a small town, sixty versts from the estate of the Popèlski, stands a
miraculous Roman Catholic image. Persons versed in such matters could
detail accurate accounts of its miraculous power, and all who make a
pilgrimage to visit it on its holiday receive “twenty days absolution.”
Therefore every year, on a certain day in the fall, the little town is
so crowded that it can hardly be recognized. On the occasion of the
anniversary, the old chapel is decorated with flowers and foliage; the
merry pealing of the bells rings through the air, the carriages of the
Pans roll past; the town is filled with worshippers, bivouacking in the
streets and squares and even in the neighboring fields. Nor are Catholics
the only visitors. The reputation of the N—— image has spread far and
wide, and the sick and afflicted Orthodox, particularly those from the
cities, come also to visit it.
On this particular holiday of which we would now speak, the road on
both sides of the chapel was lined with a many-colored procession of
human beings. One viewing this spectacle from the summit of any of the
low hills encircling the place might have imagined that some gigantic
serpent had stretched itself out over the road near the chapel, and lay
there motionless, save when from time to time it lifted its many-colored
scales. On both sides of the road, lined with two far-reaching rows of
men and women, stood a whole regiment of beggars in a line, stretching
their hands for alms.
Maxim on his crutches, and Peter beside him leaning on Joachim’s arm,
moved slowly along the street. Having passed the noisiest and most
crowded spot, they came to the road where it entered the field. The hum
of the many-voiced crowd, the cries of the Jewish tradesmen, the noise of
the carriages,—all that vast rumbling as of mighty waves, mingled into
one continuous surging volume of sound, they had left behind them. But
even here where the crowd had diminished, they could still hear the tramp
of the foot-passengers and the hum of the wheels and human voices. A
carriage-train of teamsters was coming from the direction of the fields,
and creaking heavily, turned into the nearest cross street.
Peter listened absent-mindedly to this noisy life, wondering why Maxim
had brought him there on such a day. Although Pan Popèlski was a
Catholic himself, the child had been baptized in the mother’s church
by an Orthodox priest, and this was no holiday of his. Nevertheless he
obediently followed Maxim, once in a while pulling his overcoat together,
for it was chilly weather; and thus he walked along, his mind a prey to
melancholy thoughts. Suddenly in the midst of his absorption, Peter’s
attention was so violently arrested that he shuddered as he paused. The
last houses of the city buildings ended here, and the wide thoroughfare
now lay between fences and empty lots. Just where it entered the fields,
some pious hands had erected a stone post, with an icon and a lantern;
the latter, which was never lighted, now hung creaking in the wind. At
the very foot of the post crouched a group of blind beggars, who had been
crowded from the desirable places by their more fortunate competitors.
They sat there holding wooden cups, and some of them from time to time
set up a heart-rending wail:—
“Give to the blind!—for Christ’s sake!”
It was a cold day, and since early morning these beggars had been exposed
to the cold wind that blew in gusts from the field. The crowd was so
great that they could not keep themselves warm by exercise, and as by
turns they drawled their mournful lamentation, the plaintive note of
physical suffering and of utter helplessness could plainly be discerned.
The first words were quite distinct, but they were soon lost in a
mournful wail, expiring in a shudder as of one perishing from the cold.
And yet the last low notes of the song, almost lost in the midst of the
noisy street, on reaching the human ear struck it with a sense of the
hopelessness of the enormous suffering they expressed.
“What is that?” exclaimed Peter, seizing his uncle suddenly by the arm.
His face changed, as though this moan were the embodied image of some
ghost that suddenly rose before him.
“That?” repeated Maxim, indifferently. “They are only blind
beggars,—blind like yourself, and somewhat cold besides. They would like
to go home, but they are hungry. You have some money in your pocket, have
you not? Throw them a five-copeck piece.”
Peter, who in his anguish had rushed ahead, suddenly stopped. He took
out his purse, and instinctively turning away that he might not hear the
mournful strains repeated, held it out to Maxim, saying,—
“Give them this! Give them all you have with you,—only let us go away!
For mercy’s sake, let us go home as quickly as possible! I cannot, I
cannot bear to hear it!”