Arseny headed right out of the village, squeaking along the freshly fallen snow. A short while later that sound attracted his attention and he looked at his squeaking feet: they were wearing bast shoes.
And they were in birch bark before, Arseny remembered. Now that is transformation for you.
The bag with Christofer’s manuscripts was swinging behind his back.
Arseny went from village to village and his memory did not abandon him again. His head ached less; sometimes it did not ache at all. Arseny answered all questions by saying he was Ustin, for that was all that seemed essential at present. It was, however, also obvious to everyone what sort of person he was and how he could be helped. Arseny was no longer the former Arseny. During his time of wanderings, he acquired an appearance that required no explanations whatsoever. Without saying a word, people would give him—or not give him—a place in a shed (a cowshed). They would bring him a piece of bread from warm houses, or not bring it. More often, they brought it. And he grasped that life was possible without words.
Arseny did not know what direction he was moving in, or even if he was moving in one direction. Strictly speaking, he did not need a direction because he was not striving to go anywhere specific. He also did not know how much time had passed since he left Belozersk. Judging from the easing of the cold weather, spring was coming. Then again, that did not particularly concern him, either. As if dwelling in the body of another, Arseny had grown used to the cold. When he was given a holey but warm homespun coat in the village of Krasnoe, he was already unsure if this thing was necessary. He left the coat by one of the houses in the village of Voznesenskoe, saying to Ustina:
You know, with all this hoarded junk, we will not rise in the wake of our risen Savior. A person has, my love, a lot of unnecessary property and attachments that drag him down. If you happen to be concerned regarding my health, then I am pleased to inform you that—though it may still be cold now—a warming spring is already on the way.
Arseny correctly recognized spring’s arrival as he traveled along a road that was softening but not yet fully thawed. He was remembering the joy he had experienced in his previous life at the change in the air. And from the sunbeams, filled with strength, that he felt falling on his face.
One time he began to weep when he saw his own face in a spring puddle. His snarled hair no longer had any color. Clumps of beard were emerging from his sunken cheeks. It was not even a beard but tangled fluff that stuck to his skin in some places, and hung like icicles in others. Arseny cried not for himself but for a time gone by. He understood that now it would not return. Arseny was not even certain of the existence of the earth where he had lived during previous springs. It did, however, still stand in its former place.
Weeping, Arseny came to the city of Pskov. This was the largest of the cities he had seen. And the most beautiful. Arseny did not know its name for he did not ask anyone. As residents of a large city, the Pskovians did not ask Arseny anything, either, and that gladdened Arseny. He had the sense he could get lost here.
He walked along the wall of Pskov’s kremlin (krom) and was surprised at the might of the wall. Behind a wall like that, Arseny thought, life would go on, by all appearances, calmly and placidly. It was difficult to anticipate that an external enemy could get over its walls. I cannot picture ladders of dimensions large enough for these walls. Or, let us imagine, weapons capable of breaking through that thickness. But (Arseny threw back his head and it felt as if the wall had slowly begun bending toward him) even a wall like that did not preclude the danger of an internal enemy if he were to appear behind that wall. You might say that would be the worst possible thing: now that would truly be a critical situation.
The wall led Arseny to the Velikaya River. Chunks of ice were still drifting along the river, but it was generally open. Ferrymen were assembling people on the shore. Arseny felt drawn to the other shore and boarded the ferry, too.
And did you pay the fare? one of the ferrymen asked Arseny.
Arseny did not answer.
Do not ask him for money, people said to the ferryman, for this is a person of God before you, can you not see?
So I see, acknowledged the ferryman, I asked just in case.
He pressed his pole into the shore and the ferry cast off, its bottom rasping along the sand. In the middle of the river, Arseny lifted his head. Cupolas that had not been visible before showed from behind the kremlin’s walls. The setting sun gave them a double gilding. When the main bell struck, it became clear it was ringing from the water because the cupolas on the water were more alive than the cupolas in the sky. Their fine quivering reflected the strength of the sound they generated.
For a long time after getting off the ferry, Arseny admired the view that unfolded in front of him.
You know, my love, I had simply grown unaccustomed to beauty in my life, he told Ustina. And it unfolds so unexpectedly when crossing a river that I cannot even find the right words. And so on one side of the river I am wallowing in scabs and lice, but on the other there is this beauty. And I am glad to accentuate its grandeur with my wretchedness, since in doing so it is almost as if I am a party to its creation.
After it had grown dark, Arseny wandered along the shore. Finally, he stumbled upon a wall. He began walking along the wall and noticed it had a narrow gap. The darkness in the gap was even thicker than the surrounding darkness. Arseny crawled through, groping at the edges of the gap. In front of him there glimmered several oil lamps. The outlines of crosses could be discerned in their dull light. It was a cemetery. What a wonderful place, all the same, thought Arseny. You could not come up with anything better. It is just the right thing for the moment. He took one of the lamps and held his hands over it. The warmth spread through his whole body. Arseny placed his bag under his head and went to sleep. He shuddered in his sleep for a while but then Christofer’s manuscripts rustled under his cheek.
He was woken by birdsong. This was real spring singing, though spring’s arrival was not yet obvious. Snow lay on some graves. The birds assisted the thaw. To the sound of their song, snow turned to water and seeped down to the deceased, bringing glad tidings of spring to them, too. Spring came earlier to Pskov than to Belozersk. Residents of Belozersk have always considered Pskovians southerners. To this day they continue to consider them southerners.
The cemetery where Arseny had spent the night belonged to a convent. He grasped that when he saw nuns walking around the cemetery. When the sisters asked him who he was, Arseny called himself Ustin, in his usual way. Of course he said no more to them. The sisters informed him that he was on the land of the Convent of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist. They were not certain Arseny understood them. After conferring, they brought Arseny a dish of fish soup. After Arseny had eaten the soup, they took him by the arms and led him outside the fence.
Arseny wandered along the bank of the Velikaya River all day. When he saw an approaching ferry, he decided to cross the river in the other direction. This time the ferryman did not ask him for money. He said: