'How absurd! How absurd!' thought Ryabovi<:h, as he gazcd at the flowing water. 'How stupid it all is!'
Now that he was not expecting anything, he could see the incident of the kiss, his impaticnce, his vague hopcs and disappointment, in a dear hght. It no longer seemed strange that hc had waited in vain for the General's rider and that he would never see the girl who had a"identally kissed him instead of someone else; on the contrary, it would have been strange if he had seen her . . .
The water was flowing hc kncw not where or why. It had flowed |ust like this in May; from the small river it had poured in the month of May into a big one, from the big river into the sea, then had become vapour and turned into rain, and maybe what Ryabovich was looking at now was that very same water . . . Why? For what reason?
And the whole world, the whole of life, struck Ryabovich as an unintelligible, pointless joke . . . Raising his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of an unknown woman had accidentally been kind to him, he remembered the dreams and images of the summer, and his life struck him as extraordinarily barren, wret<:hed and drab . . .
When he returned to his hut, not one of his fellow officers was to be found. The batman informed him that they had all gone to the house of 'General Fontryabkin', who had sent a rider for them . . . For a brief moment a feeling of joy blazed up in Ryabovich, but he immediately extinguished it, got into bed, and in defiance of his fate, as if wanting to spite it, did not go to the General's.
No Comment
In the fifth century, just as now, every morning the sun rose, and every evening it retired to rest. In the morning, as the first rays kissed the dew, the earth would come to life and the air be filled with sounds of joy, hope and delight, while in the evening the same earth would grow quiet again and be swallowed up in grim darkness. Each day, each night, was like the one before. Occasionally a dark cloud loomed up and thundergrowled angrily from it, or a star would doze off and fall from the firmament, or a monk would run by, pale-faced, to tell the brethren that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger -and that would be all, then once again each day, each night, would be just like the one before.
The monks toiled and prayed, while their Abbot played the organ, composed music and wrote verses in Latin. This wonderful old man had an extraordinary gift. Whenever he played the organ, he did so with such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown dull as they neared the end of their lives, could not restrain their tears when the sounds of the organ reached them from his cell. Whenever he spoke about something, even the most commonplace things, such as the trees, the wild beasts, or the sea, it was impossible to listen to him without a smile or a tear; it seemed that the same chords were sounding in his soul as in the organ. Whereas if he was moved by anger, or by greatjoy, or if he was talking about something terrible or sublime, a passionate inspiration would take hold of him, his eyes would flash and fill with tears, his face flush and his voice rumble like thunder, and as they listened to him the monks could feel this inspiration taking over their souls; in those magnificent, won- derful moments his power was limitless, and if he had ordered the fathers to throw themselves into the sea, then, to a man, they would all have rushed rapturously to carry out his will.
1888
His music, his voice, and the verses in which he praised God, the heavens and the earth, were for the monks a source of constant joy. As life was so unvaried, there were times when spring and autumn, the flowers and the trees, beganto pall on them,theirearstiredofthe sound of the sea, and the song of the birds became irksome; but the talents of the old Abbot were as vital to them as their daily bread.
Many years passed, and still each day, each night, was just like the one before. Apan from the wild birds and beasts, not a single living soul showed itselfnearthe monastery. The nearest human habitation was faraway, and to get to it from the monasteryor vice versa, meant crossmg a hundre-d versts or so of wilderness on foot. The only people who ventured to cross the wilderness werethose who spumed hfe, had renounced it, and were going to the monastery as though to the grave.
Imagine the ^nks' astonishment, therefore, when one night a man knocked at their gates who, it transpired, came from the town and was the most ordinary of sinful monals who love life. Before askmg the Abbot's blessmg and offering up a prayer, this man called for f^^ and wine. 'IX'hen he was asked how he, a townsman, came to be in the wilder^^, he answered wnh a long sportsman's yam about how he had gone out hunung, had too much to drink, and lost his way. To the suggestion that he take the monastic vow and save his soul, he replied with a smile and the words: Tm no mate of yours.'
After he had eaten and drunk his fill, he looked around at the monks who had been waiting on him, and shaking his hcad reproachful'y, he said:
'What a way to arry on! All you monks bother about is eating and drinking. Is that the way to save your souls? Just think, whilst you're Sining here m peace and quiet, eaung, drinlung, and dreammg of heavenly bliss, your fellow humans are perishing and going down to hell. Why don't you look at what's gomg on in the town! Some are dying of hunger there, others have more gold than they know what to do with, and wallow in debauchery till they die like flies stuck to honey. People have no faith or pnnciples! Whose job is it to save them? To preach to them? Surely not mine, when I'm drunk from morning till night? Did God give you fairh. a humble spirit and a loving hea" just to Sit around here within four walls twiddling your thumbs?'
Although the townsman's drunken words were insolent and pro- fane, they had a strange effect upon the Abbot. The old man glanced round at his monks, paled, and said:
'Brothers, what he says is right! Through their folly and their frailry, rhose por ^»ple are mdeed perishing in sin and unbelief, whilst we sit back, as though it had nothing to do with us. Should I not be the one to go and recall them to Christ whom they have forgonen?'
The townsman's words had carried the old man away, and the very next morning he took his staff in his hand, bade the brethren farewell, and set off for the town. And the monks were left without his music, his verses, and his fine speeches.
A month ofboredom went by, then another, and still the old man did not return. At last, after the third month, they heard the familiar tapping of his staff. The monks rushed to meet him and showered him with questions, but he, instead of being glad to see them again, broke into bitter tears and would not say a single word. The monks saw he had aged greatly and grown much thinner; his face was strained and full of a deep sorrow, and when he broke into tears he looked like a man who had been mortally offended.
The monks too burst into tears and began begging him to tell them why he was weeping, why he looked so downcast, but he would not say a word and locked himself away in his cell. Seven days he stayed there, would not eat or drink or play the organ, and just wept. When the monks knocked at his door and implored him to come out and share his grief with them, they were met with a profound silence.
At last he came out. Gathering all the monks about him, he began with a tear-stained face and an expression of sorrow and indignation to tell them what had happened to him in the past three months. His voice was calm and his eyes smiled while he described his journey from the monastery to the town. As he went along, he said, the birds had sung to him and the brooks babbled, and tender young hopes had stirred in his soul; as he walked, he felt like a soldier going into battle, confident of victory; and in his reverie he walked along composing hymns and verses and did not notice when his journey was over.