Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

and fro, and the little houses of the village stand around, and the forest seems to be so far away, while the round clearing, in the middle of which stands the village, seems so large, almost limitless.

“Yet, there it is, the whole of it,” smiles the gray-haired old man, as he casts his eye over the little clearing.

And the whole of life is like this. In childhood it seems that life has no end, no limit. Yet, there it is, as if represented on the palm of his hand, from its very beginning to that quiet little grave that he has chosen for himself in a dark corner of the cemetery. Well, what of that? Glory be to God! It is time for a rest. He has gone honestly all along his difficult road, and the earth is his mother⁠ ⁠… It is coming soon, very soon!⁠ ⁠…

But it is time to strike the bell. Mikheich cast another look at the stars, bared his head, made the sign of the cross, and began to gather the bell ropes. A moment later the night air was startled by the first resounding peal of the great bell. Then came another peal, and still another. One after another they were falling on the gently slumbering night, filling the air with majestic, prolonged, ringing, and singing tones.

The ringing ceased, and the service began in the church. Formerly, Mikheich would descend into the church and stand somewhere in the corner, praying and listening to the singing. But this year he remained in the tower. It is too hard for him to walk up and down the stairs. He sat down on a little bench, and, listening to the dying sounds of the brass, he fell into a profound revery. What was he dreaming about? He himself could not say. The belfry-tower was dimly lit by his little lantern. The humming bells were sunk in the darkness. At times, like a faint rumbling, the sounds of singing floated from the church, while the night wind gently swayed the ropes tied to the iron hearts of the bells.

The old man dropped his white head on his chest, and wandering thoughts began to crowd through his mind. He seems to see himself in the church. Dozens of beautiful, childish voices are singing in unison, while old Father Naum, dead long ago, pronounces the service. Hundreds of peasant heads, like ears of ripe wheat swayed by the wind, are bending down and rising again. The peasants make the sign of the cross. The faces are all familiar, although the men are all dead by this time. Here is the stern face of his father; here is his elder brother, sighing and making the sign of the cross by his father’s side. And here is he, young, and healthy, and strong, and full of unconscious hopes of happiness and joy in life⁠ ⁠… Where is that happiness? His thought flares up like a dying flame, gliding along like a bright ray that illumines all the nooks and corners of his life⁠ ⁠… Unbearable toil, sorrows, and care⁠ ⁠… Where is that happiness? His hard lot will soon trace wrinkles on his youthful face, will bend his mighty back, will teach him how to sigh, as it has taught his elder brother⁠ ⁠…

Over to the left, among the women that stand there with meekly lowered heads, he sees his wife. A fine woman she was, God rest her soul! She, too, had to undergo unbearable suffering⁠ ⁠… But poverty and grinding toil will soon make her beauty wither; her eyes will grow dull, and the expression of constant fright before life’s unexpected blows will replace her beautiful gaze⁠ ⁠… Where is her happiness?⁠ ⁠… One son remained to them, but him, too, human injustice had overcome⁠ ⁠…

And here is he, his wealthy enemy, bowing to the ground, praying for mercy for the orphan tears that are on him; making the sign of the cross, he falls down on his knees, striking the floor with his forehead⁠ ⁠… And Mikheich’s heart boils and seethes, and the dark countenances of the icons gaze sternly upon human sorrow, human injustice⁠ ⁠…

All this is past; it has remained far behind⁠ ⁠… Now his whole world is this dark belfry-tower, where the wind whistles in the darkness, swaying the bell ropes⁠ ⁠… “Let God judge them!” whispers the old man, and bows his white head, while tears flow and flow down the bell-ringer’s cheeks⁠ ⁠…

“Hey, Mikheich! Have you fallen asleep?” shout people from below.

“Eh?” The old man jumped to his feet. “My God! Did I fall asleep? I’ve never had such shame!”

Quickly, with his long-accustomed hand, he seizes the bell-ropes. Below, the crowd moves on like a procession of ants; the church banners flutter in the air, shining with their gold ornaments. Now the procession has encircled the church, and Mikheich hears the joyous shouts:

“Christ is risen from the dead⁠ ⁠…”

Like a surging wave, this shout strikes the old man’s heart. It seems to Mikheich that the wax candles are burning brighter, that the banners are fluttering feverishly, that the wind has suddenly awakened, caught up the waves of sound, and borne them aloft on its broad wings, mingling them on high with the majestic ringing of the bells.

Never did Mikheich ring as he did that night.

It seemed that his overflowing heart transfused itself into the dead brass, and the peals of the bells sang and trembled and laughed and cried, as they rose upward to the very sky. And the stars burned brighter and brighter, and the sounds trembled and flowed, again falling to the earth and embracing it with a loving caress.

The great brass-bell thundered, hurling into space its mighty, commanding tones that resounded in heaven and on the earth with the words, “Christ is arisen!”

The two tenors, constantly startled by periodic strokes of their iron hearts, sang out joyously, “Christ is arisen!”

And the two little bells, hastening after the larger ones, sang out like children, outstripping each other in their joy, “Christ is arisen!”

It seemed that the whole tower