As though taking fright at something, or suddenly overcome with shame, leronim covered his face with his hands and rocked his head from side to side.
'Tree of fairest Fruit . . . Tree of benign Canopy . . .' he muttered to himself. 'To find such words! Only the Lord bestows such a power! For brevity he'd link several words and thoughts together — and how smooth and pregnant he succeeds in making them! "Thou an a light-enduing Beacon to the people . . ." it says in the canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet. "Light-enduing"! You won't find that word in conversation or in books - yet he managed to think ;t up, to find it in his own mind! As well as smoothness and felicit«mess, sir, every line must also be adorned in divers ways - with flowers and lightning and wind and sun and all the objects of the visible world. And you have to compose every exclamation so that it falls smoothly and easily on the ear. "Rejoice, thou Lily thatdwellest in the heavens!" it says in the canticle to St Nicholas the Miracle-Worker. Not j ust "Lily of heaven", but "Lily that dwellest in the heavens!" That way it's smoother and sweeter on the ear. And that's how Nikolay used to write, too! Just like that! Oh, I can't begin to tell you how he used to write!'
'Well, in that case it's a pity he's died,' I said. 'But let's carry on across, father, or we shall be late . ..'
leronim started out of his thoughts and scurried to the rope. On the bank all the bells were beginning to peal out. Probably the procession was already under way near the monastery, for the whole of the dark area beyond the tar barrels was now dotted with moving lights.
'Did Nikolay have his canticles printed?' I asked leronim.
'How could he?' he sighed. 'And it would have seemed strange, too. For what purpose? No one in our monastery's interested in that sort of thing. They don't approve. They knew that Nikolay wrote them, but they ignored them. Nowadays, sir, no one thinks very highly of new writings!'
'They're prejudiced against them?'
'That's right. If Nikolay had been an elder, well then perhaps the brotherhood would have taken some interest, but he wasn't yet forty. There were those that laughed at his writing, and even held it a sin.'
'Why did he write, then?'
'Well, more for his own consolation. Ofall the brotherhood I was the only one who actually read his canticles. I'd slip along to him without letting the others see and he'd be so glad that I took an interest. He would hug me, stroke my head, and call me affectionate names, as though I were a little child. He would shut up his cell, sit me down next to him, and we'd read away . ..'
Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.
'He and I were like friends, somehow,' he whispered, looking at me with gleaming eyes. 'Wherever he went, I went too. When I wasn't there, he would miss me. And he loved me more than anyone else, and all because I used to weep over the canticles he wrote. It's touching to think of! Now I feel j ust like an orphan or a widow. You see, they're all good, kind, devout people in our monastery, but ... none of them has that softness and gentility, they're more like commonfolk. They all talk loudly and clump their feet, they make a lot of noise and are always clearing their throats, whereas Nikolay always spokc quietly, affectionately, and if he noticed that someone was slceping or praying, then he would creep past as though he werc a little fly, or a gnat. And his face was loving and compassionatc . . .'
leronim gave a deep sigh and took up the rope again. By now we were approaching the bank. We wcre drifting out of thc darkness and the stillness of the river straight into an enchanted rcalm full of choking smoke, crackling light and uproar. Round the tar barrels one could now clearly see people moving. The flickering of the fire gave their red faces and forms a strange, almost fantastic, appear- ance. Occasionally among the heads and faces one glimpsed the muzzles of horses, as motionless as if cast in red copper.
'Thcy'll be singing the Easter Canon in a moment . . .' said leronim, 'but Nikolay isn't there, so there's no one to really take it in . . . Nothing that was written was sweeter to him than that canon. He would enter mto every word of it! You're going to be there, sir, so you listen closely to what they sing: it'll take your breath away!'
'Aren't you going to be in the church yourself?'
'I can't, sir .. .I've got to work the ferry .. .'
'But can't someone take over from you?'
'I don't know . . . Someone should have relieved me at eight, but they haven't, as you see! . . . And I must confess, I'd like to be in church . . .'
'You are a monk?'
'Yes . . . that is, I'm a lay-brother.'
The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck piece into leronim's hand and jumped ashore. Immediately, a cart with a little boy and a sleeping peasant woman in it trundled creakily onto the ferry. leronim, who was lit faintly by the fires, took up the rope, bent himself double, and set the ferry in motion . ..
I took a few steps through mud, then was able to walk on a soft, freshly trodden path. This footpath led to the dark, cavern-like gates of the monastery through clouds of smoke and a jumbled mass of people, unharnessed horses, cans and britchkas. The whole assort- ment was creaking, snorting and laughing, and over it all played a ruddy light and the billowy shadows of the smoke ... h was utter chaos! And to think that in this crush they could still find room to load a small cannon and to sell gingerbreads!
On the other side of the wall, in the precinct, no less of a commo- tion was going on, but there was a greatersense oforder and dignity. The air smelt of juniper leaves and benzoin incensc. People talked loud!y, but there was no sound of laughter or horses' snorting. Around the tombstones and crosses huddled people with Easter cakes and bundles. Evidently many of them had come from far away to have their Easter cakes blessed, and were now weary. Young lay-brothers scampered to and fro over the cast-iron slabs that lay in a solid strip from the gates to the church door, their boots ringingon the metal. In the belfry, too, they were bustling about and shouting.
'What a night of turmoil!' I thought. 'How superb!'
It was tempting to see the same turmoil and sleeplessness in everything around, from the night dark to the iron slabs, the crosses on the graves and the trees beneath which people were bustling. But nowhere were the excitement and turmoil so evident as inside the church. At the entrance a ceaseless struggle was going on between the ebb and the flow. Some were going in, others coming out and shortly returning, only to stand for a while and move off again. People were darting aimlessly all over the place, apparently looking for some- thing. A wave would start from the entrance and travel the length of the church, unsettling even the front rows where the solid, respect- able people were standing. There could be no question of concen- trated prayer. There were no prayers at all, only sheer, spontaneous childlike joy seeking a pretext to burst out and express itself in any form of movement, be it only the non-stop roaming and jostling.
The same extraordinary activity strikes you in the Easter service itself. The sanctuary gates are wide open in all the side-chapels, and dense clouds of incense float about the chandelier in the nave; all around you are lights and the blaze and crackle of candles . . . There is no provision for readings; the singing goes on briskly and cheer- fully to the very end of the service; after each hymn of the canon, the clergy change their vestments and come out to cense, and this is repeated nearly every ten minutes.