Easter Eve

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Easter Eve

Anton Chekhov

W o r k r e r o d

u c e d w i t h n o

e d i t o r i a l r e s

o n s i b i l i t



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I was standing on the bank of the River Goltvwaiting for the ferry-boat from the other sidAt ordinary times the Goltva is a humb

stream of moderate size, silent and pensivgently glimmering from behind thick reeds; bunow a regular lake lay stretched out before mThe waters of spring, running riot, had oveflowed both banks and flooded both sides o

the river for a long distance, submerging vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so that was no unusual thing to meet poplars anbushes sticking out above the surface of th

water and looking in the darkness like grimsolitary crags.

The weather seemed to me magnificent. It wadark, yet I could see the trees, the water and th

people. . . . The world was lighted by the starwhich were scattered thickly all over the sky.don't remember ever seeing so many stars. Lierally one could not have put a finger in between them. There were some as big as



goose's egg, others tiny as hempseed. . . . Thehad come out for the festival procession, everone of them, little and big, washed, renewe

and joyful, and everyone of them was softltwinkling its beams. The sky was reflected ithe water; the stars were bathing in its dardepths and trembling with the quivering eddies. The air was warm and still. . . . Here an

there, far away on the further bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright red lighwere gleaming. . . .

A couple of paces from me I saw the dark sihouette of a peasant in a high hat, with a thicknotted stick in his hand.

"How long the ferry-boat is in coming!" I said.

"It is time it was here," the silhouette answered

"You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?"



"No I am not," yawned the peasant—"I amwaiting for the illumination. I should havgone, but to tell you the truth, I haven't the fiv

kopecks for the ferry."

"I'll give you the five kopecks."

"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that fiv

kopecks put up a candle for me over there ithe monastery. . . . That will be more interesing, and I will stand here. What can it mean, nferry-boat, as though it had sunk in the water!

The peasant went up to the water's edge, toothe rope in his hands, and shouted; "IeronimIeron—im!"

As though in answer to his shout, the slow pe

of a great bell floated across from the furthebank. The note was deep and low, as from ththickest string of a double bass; it seemed athough the darkness itself had hoarsely uttereit. At once there was the sound of a canno



shot. It rolled away in the darkness and endesomewhere in the far distance behind me. Thpeasant took off his hat and crossed himself.

'"Christ is risen," he said.

Before the vibrations of the first peal of the behad time to die away in the air a second soun

ded, after it at once a third, and the darkneswas filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh lights flashedand all began moving together and twinklinrestlessly.

"Ieron—im!" we heard a hollow prolongeshout.

"They are shouting from the other bank," sai

the peasant, "so there is no ferry there eitheOur Ieronim has gone to sleep."

The lights and the velvety chimes of the bedrew one towards them. . . . I was already be



ginning to lose patience and grow anxious, bubehold at last, staring into the dark distance,saw the outline of something very much like

gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It movetowards us with such deliberation that if it hanot been that its lines grew gradually mordefinite, one might have supposed that it wastanding still or moving to the other bank.

"Make haste! Ieronim!" shouted my peasan"The gentleman's tired of waiting!"

The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch an

stopped with a creak. A tall man in a monkcassock and a conical cap stood on it, holdinthe rope.

"Why have you been so long?" I asked jumpin

upon the ferry.

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Ieronim answered gently. "Is there no one else?"



"No one. . . ."

Ieronim took hold of the rope in both handbent himself to the figure of a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat creaked angave a lurch. The outline of the peasant in thhigh hat began slowly retreating from me—sthe ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew

himself up and began working with one hanonly. We were silent, gazing towards the banto which we were floating. There the illumination for which the peasant was waiting habegun. At the water's edge barrels of tar werflaring like huge camp fires. Their reflectioncrimson as the rising moon, crept to meet us ilong broad streaks. The burning barrels lighteup their own smoke and the long shadows o

men flitting about the fire; but further to onside and behind them from where the velvetchime floated there was still the same unbrokeblack gloom. All at once, cleaving the darknesa rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up th



sky; it described an arc and, as though broketo pieces against the sky, was scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from th

bank like a far-away hurrah.

"How beautiful!" I said.

"Beautiful beyond words!" sighed Ieronim

"Such a night, sir! Another time one would pano attention to the fireworks, but to-day onrejoices in every vanity. Where do you comfrom?"

I told him where I came from.

"To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . ." Ieronimwent on in a weak sighing tenor like the voicof a convalescent. "The sky is rejoicing and th

earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind siwhy, even in the time of great rejoicing, a macannot forget his sorrows?"



I fancied that this unexpected question was tdraw me into one of those endless religiouconversations which bored and idle monks ar

so fond of. I was not disposed to talk muchand so I only asked:

"What sorrows have you, father?"

"As a rule only the same as all men, kind sibut to-day a special sorrow has happened ithe monastery: at mass, during the reading othe Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died."

"Well, it's God's will!" I said, falling into thmonastic ton"We must all die. To my mind, you ought trejoice indeed. . . They say if anyone dies at Easter he goe

straight to the kingdomof heaven."

"That's true."



We sank into silence. The figure of the peasanin the high hat melted into the lines of the bankThe tar barrels were flaring up more and more

"The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanitof sorrow and so does reflection," said Ieronimbreaking the silence, "but why does the heagrieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why doe

one want to weep bitterly?"

Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to mand said quickly:

"If I died, or anyone else, it would not be wortnotice perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is deadNo one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it's hard tbelieve that he is no more! I stand here on mferry-boat and every minute I keep fancyin

that he will lift up his voice from the bank. Halways used to come to the bank and call to mthat I might not be afraid on the ferry. He useto get up from his bed at night on purpose fo

that. He was a kind soul. My God! how kindl



and gracious! Many a mother is not so good ther child as Nikolay was to me! Lord, save hsoul!"

Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to magain at once.

"And such a lofty intelligence, your honour," h

said in a vibrating voice. "Such a sweet anharmonious tongue! Just as they will sing immediately at early matins: 'Oh lovely! oh sweis Thy Voice!' Besides all other human qualitiehe had, too, an extraordinary gift!"

"What gift?" I asked.

The monk scrutinized me, and as though hhad convinced himself that he could trust m

with a secret, he laughed good-humouredly.

"He had a gift for writing hymns of praise," hsaid. "It was a marvel, sir; you couldn't call anything else! You would be amazed if I te



you about it. Our Father Archimandrite comefrom Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior studied athe Kazan academy, we have wise monks an

elders, but, would you believe it, no one coulwrite them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, deacon, had not studied anywhere, and had noeven any outer appearance of it, but he wrotthem! A marvel! A real marvel!" Ieronim cla

ped his hands and, completely forgetting thrope, went on eagerly:

"The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty icomposing sermons; when he wrote the historof the monastery he worried all the brothehood and drove a dozen times to town, whiNikolay wrote canticles! Hymns of praisThat's a very different thing from a sermon or

history!"

"Is it difficult to write them?" I asked.

"There's great difficulty!" Ieronim wagged h

head. "You can do nothing by wisdom and ho



liness if God has not given you the gift. Thmonks who don't understand argue that yoonly need to know the life of the saint fo

whom you are writing the hymn, and to makit harmonize with the other hymns of praisBut that's a mistake, sir. Of course, anyone whwrites canticles must know the life of the sainto perfection, to the least trivial detail. To b

sure, one must make them harmonize with thother canticles and know where to begin anwhat to write about. To give you an instancthe first response begins everywhere with 'th

chosen' or 'the elect.' . . . The first line must aways begin with the 'angel.' In the canticle opraise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are inteested in the subject, it begins like this: 'Of angels Creator and Lord of all powers!' In the can

ticle to the Holy Mother of God: 'Of angels thforemost sent down from on high,' to Nikolaythe Wonder-worker— 'An angel in semblancthough in substance a man,' and so on. Everywhere you begin with the angel. Of course,



would be impossible without making themharmonize, but the lives of the saints and conformity with the others is not what matter

what matters is the beauty and sweetness of iEverything must be harmonious, brief ancomplete. There must be in every line softnesgraciousness and tenderness; not one worshould be harsh or rough or unsuitable. It mu

be written so that the worshipper may rejoice aheart and weep, while his mind is stirred anhe is thrown into a tremor. In the canticle to thHoly Mother are the words: 'Rejoice, O Tho

too high for human thought to reach! Rejoice, Thou too deep for angels' eyes to fathom!' Ianother place in the same canticle: 'Rejoice, tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is thfood of the faithful! Rejoice, O tree of graciou

spreading shade, under which there is sheltefor multitudes!'"



Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as thougfrightened at something or overcome with shme, and shook his head.

"Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . treof gracious spreading shade. . . ." he muttered"To think that a man should find words likthose! Such a power is a gift from God! Fo

brevity he packs many thoughts into onphrase, and how smooth and complete it all i'Light-radiating torch to all that be . . .' comes ithe canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet. 'Lighradiating!' There is no such word in conversation or in books, but you see he invented it, hfound it in his mind! Apart from the smoothness and grandeur of language, sir, every linmust be beautified in every way, there must b

flowers and lightning and wind and sun and athe objects of the visible world. And every exclamation ought to be put so as to be smootand easy for the ear. 'Rejoice, thou flower oheavenly growth!' comes in the hymn to Niko



lay the Wonder-worker. It's not simply 'heavenly flower,' but 'flower of heavenly growthIt's smoother so and sweet to the ear. That wa

just as Nikolay wrote it! Exactly like that! I cantell you how he used to write!"

"Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead," I said"but let us get on, father, or we shall be late."

Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they werbeginning to peal all the bells. Probably thprocession was already going on near the monastery, for all the dark space behind the tar ba

rels was now dotted with moving lights.

"Did Nikolay print his hymns?" I asked Ieronim.

"How could he print them?" he sighed. "Anindeed, it would be strange to print them. Whawould be the object? No one in the monastertakes any interest in them. They don't likthem. They knew Nikolay wrote them, but the



let it pass unnoticed. No one esteems new wriings nowadays, sir!"

"Were they prejudiced against him?"

"Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder pehaps the brethren would have been interestedbut he wasn't forty, you know. There wer

some who laughed and even thought his wriing a sin."

"What did he write them for?"

"Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the only one who read hhymns. I used to go to him in secret, that none else might know of it, and he was glad thaI took an interest in them. He would embrac

me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressinwords as to a little child. He would shut hcell, make me sit down beside him, and begito read. . . ."



Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.

"We were dear friends in a way," he whisperedlooking at me with shining eyes. "Where hwent I would go. If I were not there he woulmiss me. And he cared more for me than foanyone, and all because I used to weep over hhymns. It makes me sad to remember. Now

feel just like an orphan or a widow. You knowin our monastery they are all good people, kinand pious, but . . . there is no one with softnesand refinement, they are just like peasantThey all speak loudly, and tramp heavily whethey walk; they are noisy, they clear thethroats, but Nikolay always talked softly, caressingly, and if he noticed that anyone waasleep or praying he would slip by like a fly o

a gnat. His face was tender, compassionate. . .

Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold othe rope again. We were by now approachinthe bank. We floated straight out of the dark

ness and stillness of the river into an enchante



realm, full of stifling smoke, crackling lighand uproar. By now one could distinctly sepeople moving near the tar barrels. The flicke

ing of the lights gave a strange, almost fantatic, expression to their figures and red faceFrom time to time one caught among the headand faces a glimpse of a horse's head motionless as though cast in copper.

"They'll begin singing the Easter hymn directly. . ." said Ieronim, "and Nikolay is gone; there no one to appreciate it. . . . There was nothinwritten dearer to him than that hymn. He useto take in every word! You'll be there, sir, snotice what is sung; it takes your breath away!

"Won't you be in church, then?"

"I can't; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . ."

"But won't they relieve you?"



"I don't know. . . . I ought to have been relieveat eight; but, as you see, they don't come! . .And I must own I should have liked to be in th

church. . . ."

"Are you a monk?"

"Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother."

The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. thrust a five-kopeck piece into Ieronim's hanfor taking me across and jumped on land. Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping wo

man in it drove creaking onto the ferry. Ieronim, with a faint glow from the lights on hfigure, pressed on the rope, bent down to iand started the ferry back. . . .

I took a few steps through mud, but a little father walked on a soft freshly trodden path. Thpath led to the dark monastery gates, that looked like a cavern through a cloud of smokthrough a disorderly crowd of people, unha



nessed horses, carts and chaises. All this crowwas rattling, snorting, laughing, and the crimson light and wavering shadows from the smo

ke flickered over it all . . . . A perfect chaos! Anin this hubbub the people yet found room tload a little cannon and to sell cakes. There wano less commotion on the other side of the wain the monastery precincts, but there was mor

regard for decorum and order. Here there waa smell of juniper and incense. They talkeloudly, but there was no sound of laughter osnorting. Near the tombstones and crosse

people pressed close to one another with Eastecakes and bundles in their arms. Apparentlmany had come from a long distance for thecakes to be blessed and now were exhaustedYoung lay brothers, making a metallic soun

with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabthat paved the way from the monastery gates tthe church door. They were busy and shoutinon the belfry, too.



"What a restless night!" I thought. "How nice!"

One was tempted to see the same unrest ansleeplessness in all nature, from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses on the tomband the trees under which the people were moving to and fro. But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so marked as in th

church. An unceasing struggle was going on ithe entrance between the inflowing stream anthe outflowing stream. Some were going inothers going out and soon coming back agaito stand still for a little and begin movinagain. People were scurrying from place to place, lounging about as though they were lookinfor something. The stream flowed from thentrance all round the church, disturbing eve

the front rows, where persons of weight andignity were standing. There could be nthought of concentrated prayer. There were nprayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext t



break out and vent itself in some movemeneven in senseless jostling and shoving.

The same unaccustomed movement is strikinin the Easter service itself. The altar gates arflung wide open, thick clouds of incense float ithe air near the candelabra; wherever one lookthere are lights, the gleam and splutter of can

dles. . . . There is no reading; restless and lighhearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing. After each hymn the clergy change thevestments and come out to burn the incenswhich is repeated every ten minutes.

I had no sooner taken a place, when a wavrushed from in front and forced me back. A tathick-set deacon walked before me with a lon

red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite ihis golden mitre hurried after him with thcenser. When they had vanished from sight thcrowd squeezed me back to my former postion. But ten minutes had not passed before

new wave burst on me, and again the deaco



appeared. This time he was followed by thFather Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim hatold me, was writing the history of the mona

tery.

As I mingled with the crowd and caught thinfection of the universal joyful excitement, felt unbearably sore on Ieronim's account. Wh

did they not send someone to relieve him? Whcould not someone of less feeling and less suceptibility go on the ferry? 'Lift up thine eyes, Sion, and look around,' they sang in the choi'for thy children have come to thee as to a beacon of divine light from north and south, anfrom east and from the sea. . . .'

I looked at the faces; they all had a lively ex

pression of triumph, but not one was listeninto what was being sung and taking it in, annot one was 'holding his breath.' Why was noIeronim released? I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly somewhere by the wall, bendin

forward and hungrily drinking in the beauty o



the holy phrase. All this that glided by the earof the people standing by me he would haveagerly drunk in with his delicately sensitiv

soul, and would have been spell-bound to estasy, to holding his breath, and there woulnot have been a man happier than he in all thchurch. Now he was plying to and fro over thdark river and grieving for his dead friend an

brother.

The wave surged back. A stout smiling monkplaying with his rosary and looking round bhind him, squeezed sideways by me, makinway for a lady in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery servant hurried after the lady, holdina chair over our heads.

I came out of the church. I wanted to have look at the dead Nikolay, the unknown canticwriter. I walked about the monastery walwhere there was a row of cells, peeped intseveral windows, and, seeing nothing, cam

back again. I do not regret now that I did no



see Nikolay; God knows, perhaps if I had seehim I should have lost the picture my imagination paints for me now. I imagine the lovab

poetical figure solitary and not understoodwho went out at nights to call to Ieronim ovethe water, and filled his hymns with flowerstars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man witsoft mild melancholy features. His eyes mu

have shone, not only with intelligence, but witkindly tenderness and that hardly restrainechildlike enthusiasm which I could hear iIeronim's voice when he quoted to me passage

from the hymns.

When we came out of church after mass it wano longer night. The morning was beginninThe stars had gone out and the sky was a mo

rose greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and the buds on the trees were coverewith dew There was a sharp freshness in thair. Outside the precincts I did not find thsame animated scene as I had beheld in th



night. Horses and men looked exhausteddrowsy, scarcely moved, while nothing was leof the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. Whe

anyone is exhausted and sleepy he fancies thanature, too, is in the same condition. It seemeto me that the trees and the young grass werasleep. It seemed as though even the bells wernot pealing so loudly and gaily as at night. Th

restlessness was over, and of the excitemennothing was left but a pleasant weariness, longing for sleep and warmth.

Now I could see both banks of the river; a fainmist hovered over it in shifting masses. Therwas a harsh cold breath from the water. Whenjumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some twdozen men and women were standing on

already. The rope, wet and as I fancied drowsystretched far away across the broad river and iplaces disappeared in the white mist.

"Christ is risen! Is there no one else?" asked

soft voice.



I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was ndarkness now to hinder me from seeing thmonk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered man o

five-and-thirty, with large rounded featurewith half-closed listless-looking eyes and aunkempt wedge-shaped beard. He had an extraordinarily sad and exhausted look.

"They have not relieved you yet?" I asked isurprise.

"Me?" he answered, turning to me his chilleand dewy face with a smile. "There is no one t

take my place now till morning. They'll all bgoing to the Father Archimandrite's to breathe fast directly."

With the help of a little peasant in a hat of red

dish fur that looked like the little wooden tubin which honey is sold, he threw his weight othe rope; they gasped simultaneously, and thferry started.



We floated across, disturbing on the way thlazily rising mist. Everyone was silent. Ieronimworked mechanically with one hand. He slowl

passed his mild lustreless eyes over us; then hglance rested on the rosy face of a young mechant's wife with black eyebrows, who wastanding on the ferry beside me silently shrinking from the mist that wrapped her about. H

did not take his eyes off her face all the way.

There was little that was masculine in that prolonged gaze. It seemed to me that Ieronim walooking in the woman's face for the soft antender features of his dead friend.

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