Chapter 19

I was standing on the crest of a sloping hill; in front of me lay outspread, and motley of hue, the ripe rye, now like a golden, again like a silvery sea.

But no surge was coursing across this sea; no sultry breeze was blowing; a great thunder-storm was brewing.

Round about me the sun was still shining hotly and dimly; but in the distance, beyond the rye, not too far away, a dark-blue thunder-cloud lay in a heavy mass over one half of the horizon.

Everything was holding its breath ... everything was languishing beneath the ominous gleam of the sun's last rays. Not a single bird was to be seen or heard; even the sparrows had hidden themselves. Only somewhere, close at hand, a solitary huge leaf of burdock was whispering and flapping.

How strongly the wormwood on the border-strips[75] smells! I glanced at the blue mass ... and confusion ensued in my soul. "Well, be quick, then, be quick!" I thought. "Flash out, ye golden serpent! Rumble, ye thunder! Move on, advance, discharge thy water, thou evil thunder-cloud; put an end to this painful torment!"

But the storm-cloud did not stir. As before, it continued to crush the dumb earth ... and seemed merely to wax larger and darker.

And lo! through its bluish monotony there flashed something smooth and even; precisely like a white handkerchief, or a snowball. It was a white dove flying from the direction of the village.

It flew, and flew onward, always straight onward ... and vanished behind the forest.

Several moments passed--the same cruel silence still reigned.... But behold! Now _two_ handkerchiefs are fluttering, _two_ snowballs are floating back; it is _two_ white doves wending their way homeward in even flight.

And now, at last, the storm has broken loose--and the fun begins!

I could hardly reach home.--The wind shrieked and darted about like a mad thing; low-hanging rusty-hued clouds swirled onward, as though rent in bits; everything whirled, got mixed up, lashed and rocked with the slanting columns of the furious downpour; the lightning flashes blinded with their fiery green hue; abrupt claps of thunder were discharged like cannon; there was a smell of sulphur....

But under the eaves, on the very edge of a garret window, side by side sit the two white doves,--the one which flew after its companion, and the one which it brought and, perhaps, saved.

Both have ruffled up their plumage, and each feels with its wing the wing of its neighbour....

It is well with them! And it is well with me as I gaze at them.... Although I am alone ... alone, as always.

May, 1879.

TO-MORROW! TO-MORROW!

How empty, and insipid, and insignificant is almost every day which we have lived through! How few traces it leaves behind it! In what a thoughtlessly-stupid manner have those hours flown past, one after another!

And, nevertheless, man desires to exist; he prizes life, he hopes in it, in himself, in the future.... Oh, what blessings he expects from the future!

And why does he imagine that other future days will not resemble the one which has just passed?

But he does not imagine this. On the whole, he is not fond of thinking--and it is well that he does not.

"There, now, to-morrow, to-morrow!" he comforts himself--until that "to-morrow" over-throws him into the grave.

Well--and once in the grave,--one ceases, willy-nilly, to think.

May, 1879.

NATURE

I dreamed that I had entered a vast subterranean chamber with a lofty, arched roof. It was completely filled by some sort of even light, also subterranean.

In the very centre of the chamber sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe green in hue. With her head bowed on her hand, she seemed to be immersed in profound meditation.

I immediately understood that this woman was Nature itself,--and reverent awe pierced my soul with an instantaneous chill.

I approached the seated woman, and making a respectful obeisance, "O our common mother," I exclaimed, "what is the subject of thy meditation? Art thou pondering the future destinies of mankind? As to how it is to attain the utmost possible perfection and bliss?"

The woman slowly turned her dark, lowering eyes upon me. Her lips moved, and a stentorian voice, like unto the clanging of iron, rang out:

"I am thinking how I may impart more power to the muscles in the legs of a flea, so that it may more readily escape from its enemies. The equilibrium of attack and defence has been destroyed.... It must be restored."

"What!" I stammered, in reply.--"So that is what thou art thinking about? But are not we men thy favourite children?"

The woman knit her brows almost imperceptibly.--"All creatures are my children," she said, "and I look after all of them alike,--and I annihilate them in identically the same way."

"But good ... reason ... justice...." I stammered again.

"Those are the words of men," rang out the iron voice. "I know neither good nor evil.... Reason is no law to me--and what is justice?--I have given thee life,--I take it away and give it to others; whether worms or men ... it makes no difference to me.... But in the meantime, do thou defend thyself, and hinder me not!"

I was about to answer ... but the earth round about me uttered a dull groan and trembled--and I awoke.

August, 1879.

"HANG HIM!"

"It happened in the year 1803," began my old friend, "not long before Austerlitz. The regiment of which I was an officer was quartered in Moravia.

"We were strictly forbidden to harry and oppress the inhabitants; and they looked askance on us as it was, although we were regarded as allies.

"I had an orderly, a former serf of my mother's, Egór by name. He was an honest and peaceable fellow; I had known him from his childhood and treated him like a friend.

"One day, in the house where I dwelt, abusive shrieks and howls arose: the housewife had been robbed of two hens, and she accused my orderly of the theft. He denied it, and called upon me to bear witness whether 'he, Egór Avtamónoff, would steal!' I assured the housewife of Egór's honesty, but she would listen to nothing.

"Suddenly the energetic trampling of horses' hoofs resounded along the street: it was the Commander-in-Chief himself riding by with his staff. He was proceeding at a foot-pace,--a fat, pot-bellied man, with drooping head and epaulets dangling on his breast.

"The housewife caught sight of him, and flinging herself across his horse's path, she fell on her knees and, all distraught, with head uncovered, began loudly to complain of my orderly, pointing to him with her hand:

"'Sir General!' she shrieked. 'Your Radiance! Judge! Help! Save! This soldier has robbed me!'

"Egór was standing on the threshold of the house, drawn up in military salute, with his cap in his hand,--and had even protruded his breast and turned out his feet, like a sentry,--and not a word did he utter! Whether he was daunted by all that mass of generals halting there in the middle of the street, or whether he was petrified in the presence of the calamity which had overtaken him,--at any rate, there stood my Egór blinking his eyes, and white as clay!

"The Commander-in-Chief cast an abstracted and surly glance at him, bellowing wrathfully: 'Well, what hast thou to say?'.... Egór stood like a statue and showed his teeth! If looked at in profile, it was exactly as though the man were laughing.

"Then the Commander-in-Chief said abruptly: 'Hang him!'--gave his horse a dig in the ribs and rode on, first at a foot-pace, as before, then at a brisk trot. The whole staff dashed after him; only one adjutant, turning round in his saddle, took a close look at Egór.

"It was impossible to disobey.... Egór was instantly seized and led to execution.

"Thereupon he turned deadly pale, and only exclaimed a couple of times, with difficulty, 'Good heavens! Good heavens!'--and then, in a low voice--'God sees it was not I!'

"He wept bitterly, very bitterly, as he bade me farewell. I was in despair.--'Egór! Egór!' I cried, 'why didst thou say nothing to the general?'

"'God sees it was not I,' repeated the poor fellow, sobbing.--The housewife herself was horrified. She had not in the least expected such a dreadful verdict, and fell to shrieking in her turn. She began to entreat each and all to spare him, she declared that her hens had been found, that she was prepared to explain everything herself....

"Of course, this was of no use whatsoever. Military regulations, sir! Discipline!--The housewife sobbed more and more loudly.

"Egór, whom the priest had already confessed and communicated, turned to me:

"'Tell her, Your Well-Born, that she must not do herself an injury.... For I have already forgiven her.'"

As my friend repeated these last words of his servant, he whispered: "Egórushka[76] darling, just man!"--and the tears dripped down his aged cheeks.

August, 1879.

WHAT SHALL I THINK?...

What shall I think when I come to die,--if I am then in a condition to think?

Shall I think what a bad use I have made of my life, how I have dozed it through, how I have not known how to relish its gifts?

"What? Is this death already? So soon? Impossible! Why, I have not succeeded in accomplishing anything yet.... I have only been preparing to act!"

Shall I recall the past, pause over the thought of the few bright moments I have lived through, over beloved images and faces?

Will my evil deeds present themselves before my memory, and will the corrosive grief of a belated repentance descend upon my soul?

Shall I think of what awaits me beyond the grave ... yes, and whether anything at all awaits me there?

No ... it seems to me that I shall try not to think, and shall compel my mind to busy itself with some nonsense or other, if only to divert my own attention from the menacing darkness which looms up black ahead.

In my presence one dying person kept complaining that they would not give him red-hot nuts to gnaw ... and only in the depths of his dimming eyes was there throbbing and palpitating something, like the wing of a bird wounded unto death....

August, 1879.

"HOW FAIR, HOW FRESH WERE THE ROSES"

Somewhere, some time, long, long ago, I read a poem. I speedily forgot it ... but its first line lingered in my memory:

"How fair, how fresh were the roses...."

It is winter now; the window-panes are coated with ice; in the warm chamber a single candle is burning. I am sitting curled up in one corner; and in my brain there rings and rings:

"How fair, how fresh were the roses...."

And I behold myself in front of the low window of a Russian house in the suburbs. The summer evening is melting and merging into night, there is a scent of mignonette and linden-blossoms abroad in the warm air;--and in the window, propped on a stiffened arm, and with her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, gazing mutely and intently at the sky, as though watching for the appearance of the first stars. How ingenuously inspired are the thoughtful eyes; how touchingly innocent are the parted, questioning lips; how evenly breathes her bosom, not yet fully developed and still unagitated by anything; how pure and tender are the lines of the young face! I do not dare to address her, but how dear she is to me, how violently my heart beats!

"How fair, how fresh were the roses...."

And in the room everything grows darker and darker.... The candle which has burned low begins to flicker; white shadows waver across the low ceiling; the frost creaks and snarls beyond the wall--and I seem to hear a tedious, senile whisper:

"How fair, how fresh were the roses...."

Other images rise up before me.... I hear the merry murmur of family, of country life. Two red-gold little heads, leaning against each other, gaze bravely at me with their bright eyes; the red cheeks quiver with suppressed laughter; their hands are affectionately intertwined; their young, kind voices ring out, vying with each other; and a little further away, in the depths of a snug room, other hands, also young, are flying about, with fingers entangled, over the keys of a poor little old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the grumbling of the patriarchal samovár....

"How fair, how fresh were the roses...."

The candle flares up and dies out.... Who is that coughing yonder so hoarsely and dully? Curled up in a ring, my aged dog, my sole companion, is nestling and quivering at my feet.... I feel cold.... I am shivering ... and they are all dead ... all dead....

"How fair, how fresh were the roses."

Septembers 1879.

A SEA VOYAGE

I sailed from Hamburg to London on a small steamer. There were two of us passengers: I and a tiny monkey, a female of the ouistiti breed, which a Hamburg merchant was sending as a gift to his English partner.

She was attached by a slender chain to one of the benches on the deck, and threw herself about and squeaked plaintively, like a bird.

Every time I walked past she stretched out to me her black, cold little hand, and gazed at me with her mournful, almost human little eyes.--I took her hand, and she ceased to squeak and fling herself about.

There was a dead calm. The sea spread out around us in a motionless mirror of leaden hue. It seemed small; a dense fog lay over it, shrouding even the tips of the masts, and blinding and wearying the eyes with its soft gloom. The sun hung like a dim red spot in this gloom; but just before evening it became all aflame and glowed mysteriously and strangely scarlet.

Long, straight folds, like the folds of heavy silken fabrics, flowed away from the bow of the steamer, one after another, growing ever wider, wrinkling and broadening, becoming smoother at last, swaying and vanishing. The churned foam swirled under the monotonous beat of the paddle-wheels; gleaming white like milk, and hissing faintly, it was broken up into serpent-like ripples, and then flowed together at a distance, and vanished likewise, swallowed up in the gloom.

A small bell at the stern jingled as incessantly and plaintively as the squeaking cry of the monkey.

Now and then a seal came to the surface, and turning an abrupt somersault, darted off beneath the barely-disturbed surface.

And the captain, a taciturn man with a surly, sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and spat angrily into the sea, congealed in impassivity.

To all my questions he replied with an abrupt growl. I was compelled, willy-nilly, to have recourse to my solitary fellow-traveller--the monkey.

I sat down beside her; she ceased to whine, and again stretched out her hand to me.

The motionless fog enveloped us both with a soporific humidity; and equally immersed in one unconscious thought, we remained there side by side, like blood-relatives.

I smile now ... but then another feeling reigned in me.

We are all children of one mother--and it pleased me that the poor little beastie should quiet down so confidingly and nestle up to me, as though to a relative.

November, 1879.

N. N.

Gracefully and quietly dost thou walk along the path of life, without tears and without smiles, barely animated by an indifferent attention.

Thou art kind and clever ... and everything is alien to thee--and no one is necessary to thee.

Thou art very beautiful--and no one can tell whether thou prizest thy beauty or not.--Thou art devoid of sympathy thyself and demandest no sympathy.

Thy gaze is profound, and not thoughtful; emptiness lies in that bright depth.

Thus do the stately shades pass by without grief and without joy in the Elysian Fields, to the dignified sounds of Gluck's melodies.

November, 1879.

STAY!

Stay! As I now behold thee remain thou evermore in my memory!

From thy lips the last inspired sound hath burst forth--thine eyes do not gleam and flash, they are dusky, weighted with happiness, with the blissful consciousness of that beauty to which thou hast succeeded in giving expression,--of that beauty in quest of which thou stretchest forth, as it were, thy triumphant, thine exhausted hands!

What light, more delicate and pure than the sunlight, hath been diffused over all thy limbs, over the tiniest folds of thy garments?

What god, with his caressing inflatus, hath tossed back thy dishevelled curls?

His kiss burneth on thy brow, grown pale as marble!

Here it is--the open secret, the secret of poetry, of life, of love! Here it is, here it is--immortality! There is no other immortality--and no other is needed.--At this moment thou art deathless.

I will pass,--and again thou art a pinch of dust, a woman, a child.... But what is that to thee!--At this moment thou hast become loftier than all transitory, temporal things, thou hast stepped out of their sphere.--This _thy_ moment will never end.

Stay! And let me be the sharer of thy immortality, drop into my soul the reflection of thine eternity!

November, 1879.

THE MONK

I used to know a monk, a hermit, a saint. He lived on the sweetness of prayer alone,--and as he quaffed it, he knelt so long on the cold floor of the church that his legs below the knee swelled and became like posts. He had no sensation in them, he knelt--and prayed.

I understood him--and, perhaps, I envied him; but let him also understand me and not condemn me--me, to whom his joys are inaccessible.

He strove to annihilate himself, his hated _ego_; but the fact that I do not pray does not arise from self-conceit.

My ego is, perchance, even more burdensome and repulsive to me than his is to him.

He found a means of forgetting himself ... and I find a means to do the same, but not so constantly.

He does not lie ... and neither do I lie.

November, 1879.

WE SHALL STILL FIGHT ON!

What an insignificant trifle can sometimes put the whole man back in tune!

Full of thought, I was walking one day along the highway.

Heavy forebodings oppressed my breast; melancholy seized hold upon me.

I raised my head.... Before me, between two rows of lofty poplars, the road stretched out into the distance.

Across it, across that same road, a whole little family of sparrows was hopping, hopping boldly, amusingly, confidently!

One of them in particular fairly set his wings akimbo, thrusting out his crop, and twittering audaciously, as though the very devil was no match for him! A conqueror--and that is all there is to be said.

But in the meantime, high up in the sky, was soaring a hawk who, possibly, was fated to devour precisely that same conqueror.

I looked, laughed, shook myself--and the melancholy thoughts instantly fled. I felt daring, courage, a desire for life.

And let _my_ hawk soar over _me_ if he will....

"We will still fight on, devil take it!"

November, 1879.

PRAYER

No matter what a man may pray for he is praying for a miracle.--Every prayer amounts to the following: "Great God, cause that two and two may not make four."

Only such a prayer is a genuine prayer from a person to a person. To pray to the Universal Spirit, to the Supreme Being of Kant, of Hegel--to a purified, amorphous God, is impossible and unthinkable.

But can even a personal, living God with a form cause that two and two shall not make four?

Every believer is bound to reply, "He can," and is bound to convince himself of this.

But what if his reason revolts against such an absurdity?

In that case Shakspeare will come to his assistance: "There are many things in the world, friend Horatio...." and so forth.

And if people retort in the name of truth,--all he has to do is to repeat the famous question: "What is truth?"

And therefore, let us drink and be merry--and pray.

July, 1881.

THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE

In days of doubt, in days of painful meditations concerning the destinies of my fatherland, thou alone art my prop and my support, O great, mighty, just and free Russian language!--Were it not for thee, how could one fail to fall into despair at the sight of all that goes on at home?--But it is impossible to believe that such a language was not bestowed upon a great people!

June, 1882.

ENDNOTES:

[1] See endnote to "Old Portraits," in this volume.--TRANSLATOR.

[2] The Vigil-service (consisting of Vespers and Matins, or Compline and Matins) may be celebrated in unconsecrated buildings, and the devout not infrequently have it, as well as prayer-services, at home.--TRANSLATOR.

[3] Meaning the odour of the oil which must be used in preparing food, instead of butter, during the numerous fasts.--TRANSLATOR.

[4] The custom of thus dressing up as bears, clowns, and so forth, and visiting all the houses in the neighbourhood, is still kept up in rustic localities. St. Vasíly's (Basil's) day falls on January 1.--TRANSLATOR.

[5] An arshín is twenty-eight inches.--TRANSLATOR

[6] A park for popular resort in the suburbs of Moscow.--TRANSLATOR

[7] Incorrectly written for Poltáva.--TRANSLATOR

[8] The fatter the coachman, the more stylish he is. If he is not fat naturally, he adds cushions under his coat.--TRANSLATOR.

[9] That is, to the Trinity monastery of the first class founded by St. Sergius in 1340. It is situated about forty miles from Moscow, and is the most famous monastery in the country next to the Catacombs Monastery at Kíeff.--TRANSLATOR.

[10] Pronounced _Aryól_.--TRANSLATOR.

[11] Such a sledge, drawn by the national team of three horses, will hold five or six persons closely packed.--TRANSLATOR.

[12] The word he used, _mytárstvo_, has a peculiar meaning. It refers specifically to the experiences of the soul when it leaves the body. According to the teaching of divers ancient fathers of the church, the soul, as soon as it leaves the body, is confronted by accusing demons, who arraign it with all the sins, great and small, which it has committed during its earthly career. If its good deeds, alms, prayers, and so forth (added to the grace of God), offset the evil, the demons are forced to renounce their claims. These demons assault the soul in relays, each "trial," "suffering," or "tribulation" being a _mytárstvo_. One ancient authority enumerates twenty such trials. The soul is accompanied and defended in its trials by angels, who plead its cause. Eventually, they conduct it into the presence of God, who then assigns to it a temporary abode of bliss or woe until the day of judgment. The derivation of this curious and utterly untranslatable word is as follows: _Mytár_ means a publican or tax-gatherer. As the publicans, under the Roman sway over the Jews, indulged in various sorts of violence, abuses, and inhuman conduct, calling every one to strict account, and even stationing themselves at the city gates to intercept all who came and went, _mytárstvo_ represents, in general, the taxing or testing of the soul, which must pay a ransom before it is released from its trials and preliminary tribulations.--TRANSLATOR.

[13] A folk-tale narrates how the Tzar Arkhídei obtained his beauteous bride by the aid of seven brothers called "The Seven Semyóns," who were his peasants. The bride was distant a ten years' journey; but each of the brothers had a different "trade," by the combined means of which they were enabled to overcome time and space and get the bride for their master.--TRANSLATOR.

[14] The word used in Russian indicates not only that he was a hereditary noble, but that his nobility was ancient--a matter of some moment in a country where nobility, both personal and hereditary, can be won in the service of the state.--TRANSLATOR.

[15] The change to _thou_ is made to express disrespect.--TRANSLATOR.

[16] A simple card-game.--TRANSLATOR.

[17] The word used is _popadyá_, the feminine form of _pop(e)_, or priest. _Svyashtchénnik_ is, however, more commonly used for priest. --TRANSLATOR.

[18] June 29 (O. S.), July 12 (N. S.).--TRANSLATOR.

[19] In former days the sons of priests generally became priests. It is still so, in a measure.--TRANSLATOR.

[20] Therefore, there would be no one to maintain his widow and daughters, unless some young man could be found to marry one of the daughters, be ordained, take the parish, and assume the support of the family.--TRANSLATOR.