Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

“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.”

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 absentmindedly 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 heartrending 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