Chapter 31 easter night

easter night I stood on the bank of the Gortva River, waiting for the ferry to come from the other side.Ordinarily the Gortva is a medium-sized stream, silent, brooding, and gleaming softly beyond the dense reeds, but now a large lake spread out before me.The mighty spring tide overflowed the two banks, flooded to far places on both sides of the bank, submerged the vegetable gardens, pastures and swamps, so on the turbulent water, from time to time, you can see poplars and bushes standing alone, standing in the dark sky. It looks like a steep cliff. I think the weather is fine.It was getting dark, but I could still see the trees, the river, the people. ...the whole sky is full of stars, and the stars light up the world.I can't think of a time when I've seen so many stars before.The stars are so dense that you can't even stick a finger in it.Some of the stars are as big as goose eggs, while others are as small as hemp seeds. … They were big and small, none of them remained, and they all came to the sky to participate in the grand ceremony of the festival. They were cleansed, refreshed, smiling, and each one of them was shining softly.The sky was reflected in the water, and the stars were immersed in the dark depths, trembling with slight ripples.The air is warm and serene. ... In the distance, on the opposite bank, in the pitch blackness where you can't see your fingers, there are a few bright red fires shining here and there. ... Two steps away from me there was the dark figure of a peasant, wearing a large hat, and holding a thick, knotted cane in his hand.

"Hey, the ferry hasn't come in so long!" I said. "It's time to come!" The black figure answered me. "Are you waiting for the ferry too?" "No, I'll just stand here for a while..." the farmer yawned. "I'm waiting to see the festive fireworks. I'd like to cross the river, but, to be honest, I'm short of the five kopecks for the ferry." "I'll give you five kopecks." "No, thank you very much. . . . You might as well buy me a candle for the five kopeks and put it in the monastery over there. . But it's strange that the ferry hasn't come yet! It seems to have sunk into the water!"

The peasant went to the water's edge, reached for a cable, and shouted, "Yeronim! Yeronim!" As if in answer to his call, there was the long-pitched tinkling of a big bell on the opposite bank.The chime was rich and deep, as if someone had plucked the thickest strings of a double bass, and it sounded like the dark itself was making a hoarse cry. Suddenly, the cannon sounded.The sound of the cannon kept rolling in the darkness, rolled somewhere far behind me, and stopped.The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself. "Christ is risen!" he said. Before the sound wave of the first bell had time to stop, there was a second sound, and immediately after that, a third sound came, and the dark night was filled with the continuous and trembling sound of the pendant.Next to the red ones came new ones, and then they moved in unison, flickering restlessly.

"Yeronim!" came a low and drawn-out cry. "It's the people on the other side calling," said the farmer. "It can be seen that the ferry is not over there. Our Yeronim fell asleep. " Both the light of the fire and the soft chiming of the bell beckoned people to go thither. ... I was beginning to lose patience and get excited, but then I gazed into the dark distance, and at last I saw the outline of something that looked like a gallows.That's the ferry I've been waiting for.It moved so slowly that one might have thought it had stopped where it was, or was heading for the opposite bank, had it not become more and more distinct.

"Hurry up! Yeronim!" cried the peasant beside me. "There is a master waiting for the boat!" The ferry crept up to the shore, wobbled, and stopped with a creak.On the ferry stood a tall man holding a cable.He wears a monk's vestment and a conical hat. "Why the delay?" I asked, jumping on the ferry. "For Christ's sake, please forgive me," Yeronim replied softly, "is there anyone else?" "There's no one left..." Yeronim stretched out both hands to grab the cable, bent his body into a question mark, and made a forceful sound in his throat.The ferry creaked and shook.The figure of the peasant wearing a tall hat began to recede slowly in front of me, showing that the ferry had already left the shore.Soon Yeronim straightened up and worked with only one hand.We didn't speak, and looked up to the opposite bank where the ferry was swimming.The "fireworks" that the farmers were looking forward to had already started there.Some buckets filled with resin were lit near the water, like huge bonfires.The firelight reflected in the water was as red as the rising moon, forming long and wide bands, crawling towards us.Burning barrels illuminated their own smoke and the long shadows of people walking near the firelight.However, looking at the distance, behind the firelight, on the side where the soft bells sounded, it was still dark and there was no light at all.Suddenly, a rocket pierced the darkness and circled straight up into the sky like a golden ribbon.It drew an arc in the air, as if it hit the sky and was smashed into pieces, and with a click, it scattered and scattered thousands of gold stars.There was a shout from the river bank, like a distant cheer.

"How beautiful!" I said. "It's so beautiful that I can't say it!" Ye Luonimu sighed. "Such a good evening, sir! At other times nobody pays attention to such rockets, but today everyone is happy to see anything nonsense. Where are you from?" I said where I come from. "Yes, sir. . . . Today is a joyful day..." Yeronim continued in a low, sighing tenor voice, like that of a patient who has just recovered. "Whether it's in the sky, on the ground, or underground, everyone rejoices. All living things celebrate festivals.But tell me, good sir, how it is that people do not forget their sorrows even in their joys? "

I felt that this unexpected question was meant to lead me into one of those goofy "soul-saving" conversations which are so dearly loved by idle monks. But I was not in the mood for a long conversation, so I merely asked One sentence: "So, priest, what sorrow do you have? " "As usual, my grief is the same as everyone else's, good sir. But today in the monastery something very sad happened: during Mass, just before the reading, the deacon Nicholas died. . . . " "What can you do?" Well, this is the will of God!" I said imitating the tone of a monk. "Everyone is going to die. You ought to be glad, I think. . . . It is said that anyone who dies on Easter Eve or on that day is bound to go to heaven."

"It's real." We were silent.The silhouette of a peasant in a tall hat merges with the silhouette of the river bank.The vats of resin burned hotter and hotter. "Whether it is scriptures or general principles, it is clear that sorrow is useless," Yeronim broke the silence, "but why is my heart sad and unwilling to obey the control of reason? Why do I want to cry bitterly? How about one game?" Yeronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me, and said quickly: "If I or someone else died, it might not attract attention, but you know, it was Nicholas who died! Not someone else. It's Nikolai! It's unbelievable that he's no longer alive! I'm standing on the ferry, and I always feel like he's about to raise his voice on the bank. He's afraid that I'll be scared on the ferry , always comes to the shore and calls me. For this he often rises from bed at night. Good soul! God, how kind and merciful he is! Some mothers do not treat their children as well as this Nico You treat me so well!

Save his soul, Lord! " Yeronimu held the cable, but immediately turned to me again. "Besides, sir, what a brain he has!" he said in a singing voice. "How sweet and melodious he was talking! It was almost as if they had sung it at morning prayers a little later: "O sweet voice!Ah, your most melodious voice! 'He has, besides all the other qualities of a human being, extraordinary talents! " "What kind of talent?" I asked. The monk looked at me carefully, as if he believed he could tell me his secret, and smiled happily. "He had a talent for writing hymns, . . . " he said. "Sir, it's a sheer miracle! If I tell you, you'll be surprised! Our monk-priest-priest is from Moscow, the vicar is a graduate of the Kazan Academy, and we have some clever monks here." Priests and elders, but, strange to say, none of them could write hymns. Nicholas was an ordinary monk, a deacon, never went to any school, and he was not even impressive in appearance, but he I can write! A miracle! It is indeed a miracle!"

Yeronim clapped his hands together, completely forgot to pull the cable, and continued fascinated: "The vice priest found it difficult to write a sermon. Once he wrote the history of our monastery, which made us monks tormented." Terrible, I have entered the domain ten times before and after. But Nicholas can write hymns! Hymns! This is nothing compared to writing sermons or academic history!" "Aren't hymns difficult to write?" I asked. "It's very rare..." Ye Luonimu shook his head and said. "Writing this kind of thing, if God didn't give you the ability, you can't do it with a clever mind and a holy heart. Some monks who don't know anything say that to write this kind of thing, you only need to understand the life experience of the saints you are writing about, and then refer to others. That's the pattern of the hymn. But, sir, that's not right. Of course, the man who writes the hymn knows the history of the saint, and knows it so well that he can't miss the smallest detail. Well, another hymn Also have to refer to, such as how to start, where to start, and what to write. To give you an example, the first stanza always starts with "God's chosen people" or "chosen people".  … The first line Always start with the angels. In the hymn to dearest Jesus, if you're interested, it begins: "Creator of the angels and Almighty Lord, and in the hymn to the most holy Virgin is It is: "The guardian angel sent from heaven to the lower world, in the song of praise to Nicholas the miracle worker is: "Appearing angels are actually human beings, and so on.Everywhere begins with angels.Of course, it doesn’t work without referring to other hymns, but you must know that the main thing is not about life experience, nor is it conforming to the format of other hymns, but about beauty and euphemism.Everywhere must be written in proportion, concise and meticulous.Let every line be soft, kind, and gentle, not a word rough, harsh, or inappropriate.It should be written in such a way that the praying people are happy in their hearts, weeping, imagining, and trembling all over.There is such a sentence in the hymn he wrote for the Virgin Mary: "Be happy, it is difficult for human thoughts to climb your lofty! Be happy, even the eyes of angels cannot see through your depths!" In this hymn There is another place where it is written: "Be happy, big tree full of bright fruits, believers rely on your fruits to continue their lives!Be merry, tree that spreads its canopy of kindness, how many are under your shade! '" Yeronim covered his face with his palms as if he was afraid or ashamed of something, and shook his head.

"'Tree full of bright fruits, . . . tree with canopy of mercy, . . . '" he murmured. "He actually found such a word! This ability was given to him by the Lord! For the sake of brevity, he packed many words and many thoughts into one word, and how smooth and detailed he wrote! He is praising the dearest Jesus The song said: "Send the torch of light to all things in the world,...'Send light! Such words were not found in the conversation or in the books, but he just figured them out, found them out of his brain!In addition to being clear and good at diction, sir, you also need to add various decorations to each line of lyrics, such as flowers, lightning, wind, sun, and everything in the world.Every word of admiration should be written naturally and pleasant to the ear.In his song praising the miracle worker Nicholas, he wrote: "Be merry, lily that grows in heaven!" Lily'! This is more natural and more pleasing to the ear. That's what Nikolai wrote!That's exactly what it says!I can't even express his way of writing to you! " "Yes, in that case, it's a pity he's dead," I said, "but, priest, row your boat, or we'll be late. . . . " Yeronim came to his senses and headed for the cable run away.At this time, the bells on the shore rang together.Probably the procession of crosses had come close to the monastery, for behind the vats of resin the vast dark space was now dotted with ever-moving torches. "Has Nicholas printed his hymns?" I asked Yeronim. "How did it get printed?" he said, with a sigh. "Besides, it would be strange if it were printed. What's the use of printing it? No one in our monastery is interested in such things. Everyone doesn't like it. They know that Nicholas is writing, but no one will." Don't take it to heart. No one respects new work these days, sir!" "Do you have any prejudice against him?" "Exactly. If Nicholas were an elder, the monks might be interested, but you know he's not even forty years old. Some people laugh at him and even think it's a crime for him to write." "Then what is he writing about?" "Nothing, mostly to comfort myself. Of all the monks, I was the only one who read his hymns. I used to sneak into his room so that no one could see me. He saw that I was interested. Happy too. He hugged me, stroked my head, called me affectionately, like a child. He closed the cell door, made me sit down beside him, and we read with gusto. ..." Yeronim put down the cable and walked towards me. "The two of us are like best friends," he whispered, looking at me with bright eyes. "Wherever he went, I went too. He missed me when I was away. He loved me more than anyone else, and it was all because I often cried reading his hymns. I think back, Touched! Now I am almost like an orphan or a widow. You know, the people in our monastery are very nice, kind, and pious, but... there is no one who is gentle and considerate, they are like rough people. They talk loudly, They walked loudly, they were always shouting and coughing hard, but Nikolai spoke softly and kindly, and if he found someone sleeping or praying, he would go around like a fly or a mosquito. His face is always gentle and kind..." Yeronim sighed deeply and pulled the cable.We're already on shore. Gradually we swam straight out of the dark night and silent river toward a demonic kingdom of choking smoke, crackling lights, and tumultuous voices.It was now clearly visible that people were walking around the vats of resin.The flickering fire gave a strange, almost grotesque look to their red faces and bodies.Among those heads and faces, occasionally flashed the face of a horse, motionless, as if cast in red copper. "They're going to be singing the Easter hymns soon..." said Yeronim. "But Nicholas is away, and no one has come to understand it. . . . For him, there is nothing more lovely than this hymn. He always thinks over every word! After a while you will Go there, sir, and listen to what they sing: you'll be choking!" "Don't you go to church?" "I can't go, sir. . . . I have to ferry people. . . . " "Is there no one to meet you?" "I don't know. . . . Someone was supposed to come to take my shift at eight o'clock, but you see, no one has come! . . . To be honest, I'd rather go to church. . . . " "You're a monk Bar?" "Yes, sir. . . . That is to say, I am a novice. . . . " The ferry hit the shore and stopped.I gave Yeronim five kopeks for the ferry and jumped ashore.Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping peasant woman creaked aboard the ferry.Yeronim was slightly painted red by the firelight. He leaned on the cable, bent down, and rowed the ferry back. ... I took a few steps in the dirt, and then a soft, freshly trodden path.The smoke-filled path led to the dark, cave-like gate of the monastery, and there was a motley crowd, unloaded horses, peasants' carts, and stately carriages.There was the creaking of vehicles, the snorting of horses, and the laughter of people.On the men and horses there shone purple fire and flickering shadows of smoke. ...it's a mess!But in such a crowded place, someone found an open space to install a small cannon, and someone was selling honey biscuits! Inside the walls of the monastery, there were also bustling people, but those people were more solemn and orderly.It smells of juniper and benzoin. People were talking loudly, but the laughter and snorting were inaudible.There were many people crowding around tombstones and crosses, carrying Easter rolls or carrying bundles.Many of them, it seemed, had come from afar to consecrate their Easter bread, and they were all weary by this time.The young trainee monks ran along the pavement from the gate to the church gate, running around on the iron board like a wide strip, with hurried and crisp footsteps from their leather boots.The bell tower is also busy, and some people are shouting. "What a restless night!" I thought. "How wonderful!" One cannot help thinking that all over nature, from the darkness of the night to iron plates, crosses on graves, and trees with many people walking about under them, this scene of restlessness and sleeplessness can be seen.Nowhere, however, was the excitement and uneasiness so intense as in the church.At the door of the church, there was an endless struggle between the influx of people and the crowd of people who squeezed out.Some people squeezed in, some squeezed out, and then walked back in order to stand a little longer and then go away.People were running from place to place, walking around, as if they were looking for something.The crowd poured into the church like a wave, and ran around the whole church, even disturbing the rows of solemn and heavy people standing in front. When it comes to concentrating on prayer, it is simply impossible.And there's no one praying here at all, all there's is a continual, innocent joy that's looking for a chance, trying to show it, into some kind of action, even if it's a rampage, a shoving. . Even at the time of the Easter prayers, this unusual activity was still evident.The doors of those holy barriers are all open.In the air, around the candelabra, the thick smoke of incense floated.Everywhere you looked, there was candle flame, light, and the bursting of wicks. ... It was completely impossible to recite the scriptures, only the hasty and cheerful singing continued until the end of the ceremony.After each hymn, the priests changed their vestments and came out to shake their hand-held censers, and this was repeated almost every ten minutes. Before I could take my place, the wave of the crowd in front receded, pushing me to the back.A tall and sturdy deacon walked past me holding a slender red candle.Immediately afterwards, a gray-haired monk high priest, wearing a golden crown on his head, walked over in a hurry, shaking a portable censer.When they were gone and out of sight, the crowd pushed me back to my original spot.But within ten minutes, a new wave came, and the deacon appeared again.This time he was followed by the abbot, who Jeronim said had written the history of the monastery. I was in the midst of the crowd, feeling the general euphoria, but the thought of Yeronim made me unbearably sad.Why did no one go to change shifts with him?Why not send a man on the ferry who is not so emotional, not so sensitive to things? "Lift up your eyes, O Zion, and look round..." sang the choir, "for your sons and daughters come to you from the west and the north, from the sea, and from the east, and adore you Bright divine light..." I looked at everyone's faces.All the faces showed lively and happy expressions, but no one listened to the song carefully, no one seriously tried to figure out the words and sentences in the song, and no one "suffered to hear it".Why is no one going to replace Yeronimo?I can imagine that if this Jeronim came here, he would stand docilely in a place by the wall, bowing his body, devouring the beautiful words of this hymn.What the man standing next to me is deaf to, he swallows with his sensitive soul, and chokes with intoxication, and there will never be a happier man in the whole church than he.But now, he was swimming up and down the black river, remembering his dead brothers and friends. A wave of people came from behind.A buxom, smiling monk sidled past me, fiddled with his rosary, and kept looking back to make way for a lady in a bonnet and velvet coat.A servant of the monastery followed hurriedly behind the lady, holding a chair in his hand, and lifting it over our heads. I come out of church.I want to see the dead Nicholas, the unknown hymn writer.I walked around the wall along which there was a long row of monks' cells.I looked in several windows, but I didn't see anything, so I stepped back.Now I am not sorry that I did not see Nikolay.God only knows, if I had seen him, I might have lost the image my imagination now paints of me.This lovely and poetic man often goes out late at night to call Yeronim, embellishing his hymns with flowers, stars, and sunshine. He is incomprehensible and lonely. For this reason, I imagine him as a shy On the other hand, a pale person has delicate features, a mild and melancholy expression.Besides the intelligence in his eyes, there must have been a caress gleam in his eyes, and a kind of irrepressible and childish fascination, which I heard in the tone of Yeronim's voice when he read me the hymn verses. By the time we finished mass and walked out of the church, the night was over.The morning began.The stars were extinguished, and the sky was a dark blue-gray.Those iron plates, tombstones, and young shoots on the trees were covered with a layer of dew.There was a particularly fresh breath in the air.There was no liveliness outside the walls that I had seen at night.Both horse and man looked tired and sleepy, barely moving around.All that remained of those barrels of resin were piles of black ash.Weary and drowsy, man always feels that the same is going on in nature.It seems to me that the trees and young grass are also sleeping.It seemed that even the bells were not so loud and cheerful as in the night.The turmoil was over, and the former excitement was now nothing but pleasant ennui and a longing for sleep and warmth. Now I can see the river and its banks clearly.The mist on the surface of the river fluttered here and there, constantly.The river was cool and chilly.I hopped on the ferry, and there was already an unknown carriage on board, with about twenty men and women standing there.The cable, wet and sleepy to my eye, stretched far away, across the broad river, lost in places in white mist. "Christ is risen! Is there no one else?" asked a soft voice. I recognized Yeronim's voice.Now there is no darkness to prevent me from seeing the monk clearly.He was a tall, narrow-shouldered man of about thirty-five, with a large, round face, half-closed eyes lolling about everything, and a wedge-shaped beard that was not smooth.He looked strangely sad and tired. "Is there no one to replace you yet?" I asked in surprise. "Replace me?" he asked back, turning to me, a smile on his frozen face with dew. "There will be no one to take over now, until it is daylight. Now everyone is going to break the fast with the high priest of the monks, sir." Beside him stood a small farmer wearing a reddish-brown fur hat that looked like a wooden jar for selling honey. He and the farmer leaned on the cable together, making a sound of force in their throats, and the ferry left the river bank. . Our boat swam out, disturbing the languidly rising mists all the way.Everyone was silent.Yeronim worked absent-mindedly with one hand.He looked at us for a long time with mild, absent eyes, then rested on the face of a young merchant's wife, rosy and with black eyebrows.She stood beside me on the ferry, huddled in silence as the morning fog surrounded her.All the way his eyes never left her face. There is very little masculinity in this prolonged gaze.It seemed to me that Yeronim was looking for the delicate and gentle features of his late friend in the faces of women. "Notes" ①The name of the mountain near Jerusalem, which refers to Christ here.