Short Stories by Chekhov
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