A.P. Chekhov - Easter Eve
I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the
ferry-boat from the other side. At ordinary times the Goltva is
a humble stream of moderate size, silent and pensive, gently
glimmering from behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay
stretched out before me. The waters of spring, running riot, had
overflowed both banks and flooded both sides of the river for a
long distance, submerging vegetable gardens, hayfields and
marshes, so that it was no unusual thing to meet poplars and
bushes sticking out above the surface of the water and looking
in the darkness like grim solitary crags.
The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could
see the trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was
lighted by the stars, which were scattered thickly all over the
sky. I don't remember ever seeing so many stars. Literally one
could not have put a finger in between them. There were some as
big as a goose's egg, others tiny as hempseed. . . . They had
come out for the festival procession, every one of them, little
and big, washed, renewed and joyful, and everyone of them was
softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water;
the stars were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the
quivering eddies. The air was warm and still. . . . Here and
there, far away on the further bank in the impenetrable
darkness, several bright red lights were gleaming. . . .
A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette of a peasant
in a high hat, with a thick knotted 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 am waiting for the
illumination. I should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I
haven't the five kopecks for the ferry."
"I'll give you the five kopecks."
"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a
candle for me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be
more interesting, and I will stand here. What can it mean, no
ferry-boat, as though it had sunk in the water!"
The peasant went up to the water's edge, took the rope in his
hands, and shouted; "Ieronim! Ieron--im!"
As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal of a great bell
floated across from the further bank. The note was deep and low,
as from the thickest string of a double bass; it seemed as
though the darkness itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once
there was the sound of a cannon shot. It rolled away in the
darkness and ended somewhere in the far distance behind me. The
peasant took off his hat and crossed himself.
'"Christ is risen," he said.
Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell had time to
die away in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third,
and the darkness was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour.
Near the red lights fresh lights flashed, and all began moving
together and twinkling restlessly.
"Ieron--im!" we heard a hollow prolonged shout.
"They are shouting from the other bank," said the peasant, "so
there is no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep."
The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew one towards
them. . . . I was already beginning to lose patience and grow
anxious, but behold at last, staring into the dark distance, I
saw the outline of something very much like a gibbet. It was the
long-expected ferry. It moved towards us with such deliberation
that if it had not been that its lines grew gradually more
definite, one might have supposed that it was standing still or
moving to the other bank.
"Make haste! Ieronim!" shouted my peasant. "The gentleman's
tired of waiting!"
The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and stopped with a
creak. A tall man in a monk's cassock and a conical cap stood on
it, holding the rope.
"Why have you been so long?" I asked jumping 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 hands, bent himself to the
figure of a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat
creaked and gave a lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high
hat began slowly retreating from me -- so the ferry was moving
off. Ieronim soon drew himself up and began working with one
hand only. We were silent, gazing towards the bank to which we
were floating. There the illumination for which the peasant was
waiting had begun. At the water's edge barrels of tar were
flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson as the
rising moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks. The burning
barrels lighted up their own smoke and the long shadows of men
flitting about the fire; but further to one side and behind them
from where the velvety chime floated there was still the same
unbroken black gloom. All at once, cleaving the darkness, a
rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up the sky; it described an
arc and, as though broken to pieces against the sky, was
scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank
like a far-away hurrah.
"How beautiful!" I said.
"Beautiful beyond words!" sighed Ieronim. "Such a night, sir!
Another time one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but
to-day one rejoices in every vanity. Where do you come from?"
I told him where I came from.
"To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . ." Ieronim went on in
a weak sighing tenor like the voice of a convalescent. "The sky
is rejoicing and the earth and what is under the earth. All the
creatures are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even
in the time of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his
I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one
of those endless religious conversations which bored and idle
monks are so fond of. I was not disposed to talk much, and so I
"What sorrows have you, father?"
"As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a
special sorrow has happened in the monastery: at mass, during
the reading of the Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died."
"Well, it's God's will!" I said, falling into the monastic tone.
"We must all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . .
They say if anyone dies at Easter he goes straight to the
kingdom of heaven."
We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat
melted into the lines of the bank. The tar barrels were flaring
up more and more.
"The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity of sorrow and
so does reflection," said Ieronim, breaking the silence, "but
why does the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why
does one want to weep bitterly?"
Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and said quickly:
"If I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth notice
perhaps; but, you see, Nikolay is dead! No one else but Nikolay!
Indeed, it's hard to believe that he is no more! I stand here on
my ferry-boat and every minute I keep fancying that he will lift
up his voice from the bank. He always used to come to the bank
and call to me that I might not be afraid on the ferry. He used
to get up from his bed at night on purpose for that. He was a
kind soul. My God! how kindly and gracious! Many a mother is not
so good to her child as Nikolay was to me! Lord, save his soul!"
Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me again at once.
"And such a lofty intelligence, your honour," he said in a
vibrating voice. "Such a sweet and harmonious tongue! Just as
they will sing immediately at early matins: 'Oh lovely! oh sweet
is Thy Voice!' Besides all other human qualities, he had, too,
an extraordinary gift!"
"What gift?" I asked.
The monk scrutinized me, and as though he had convinced himself
that he could trust me with a secret, he laughed
"He had a gift for writing hymns of praise," he said. "It was a
marvel, sir; you couldn't call it anything else! You would be
amazed if I tell you about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes
from Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior studied at the Kazan academy,
we have wise monks and elders, but, would you believe it, no one
could write them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, a deacon, had
not studied anywhere, and had not even any outer appearance of
it, but he wrote them! A marvel! A real marvel!" Ieronim clasped
his hands and, completely forgetting the rope, went on eagerly:
"The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in composing sermons;
when he wrote the history of the monastery he worried all the
brotherhood and drove a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote
canticles! Hymns of praise! That's a very different thing from a
sermon or a history!"
"Is it difficult to write them?" I asked.
"There's great difficulty!" Ieronim wagged his head. "You can do
nothing by wisdom and holiness if God has not given you the
gift. The monks who don't understand argue that you only need to
know the life of the saint for whom you are writing the hymn,
and to make it harmonize with the other hymns of praise. But
that's a mistake, sir. Of course, anyone who writes canticles
must know the life of the saint to perfection, to the least
trivial detail. To be sure, one must make them harmonize with
the other canticles and know where to begin and what to write
about. To give you an instance, the first response begins
everywhere with 'the chosen' or 'the elect.' . . . The first
line must always begin with the 'angel.' In the canticle of
praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested in the
subject, it begins like this: 'Of angels Creator and Lord of all
powers!' In the canticle to the Holy Mother of God: 'Of angels
the foremost sent down from on high,' to Nikolay, the
Wonder-worker -- 'An angel in semblance, though in substance a
man,' and so on. Everywhere you begin with the angel. Of course,
it would be impossible without making them harmonize, but the
lives of the saints and conformity with the others is not what
matters; what matters is the beauty and sweetness of it.
Everything must be harmonious, brief and complete. There must be
in every line softness, graciousness and tenderness; not one
word should be harsh or rough or unsuitable. It must be written
so that the worshipper may rejoice at heart and weep, while his
mind is stirred and he is thrown into a tremor. In the canticle
to the Holy Mother are the words: 'Rejoice, O Thou too high for
human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep for angels'
eyes to fathom!' In another place in the same canticle:
'Rejoice, O tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is
the food of the faithful! Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading
shade, under which there is shelter for multitudes!' "
Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though frightened at
something or overcome with shame, and shook his head.
"Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . tree of
gracious spreading shade. . . ." he muttered. "To think that a
man should find words like those! Such a power is a gift from
God! For brevity he packs many thoughts into one phrase, and how
smooth and complete it all is! 'Light-radiating torch to all
that be . . .' comes in the canticle to Jesus the Most Sweet.
'Light-radiating!' There is no such word in conversation or in
books, but you see he invented it, he found it in his mind!
Apart from the smoothness and grandeur of language, sir, every
line must be beautified in every way, there must be flowers and
lightning and wind and sun and all the objects of the visible
world. And every exclamation ought to be put so as to be smooth
and easy for the ear. 'Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly growth!'
comes in the hymn to Nikolay the Wonder-worker. It's not simply
'heavenly flower,' but 'flower of heavenly growth.' It's
smoother so and sweet to the ear. That was just as Nikolay wrote
it! Exactly like that! I can't tell 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 were beginning to peal
all the bells. Probably the procession was already going on near
the monastery, for all the dark space behind the tar barrels was
now dotted with moving lights.
"Did Nikolay print his hymns?" I asked Ieronim.
"How could he print them?" he sighed. "And indeed, it would be
strange to print them. What would be the object? No one in the
monastery takes any interest in them. They don't like them. They
knew Nikolay wrote them, but they let it pass unnoticed. No one
esteems new writings nowadays, sir!"
"Were they prejudiced against him?"
"Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder perhaps the brethren
would have been interested, but he wasn't forty, you know. There
were some who laughed and even thought his writing a sin."
"What did he write them for?"
"Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the
only one who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that
no one else might know of it, and he was glad that I took an
interest in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, speak to
me in caressing words as to a little child. He would shut his
cell, make me sit down beside him, and begin to read. . . ."
Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.
"We were dear friends in a way," he whispered, looking at me
with shining eyes. "Where he went I would go. If I were not
there he would miss me. And he cared more for me than for
anyone, and all because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes
me sad to remember. Now I feel just like an orphan or a widow.
You know, in our monastery they are all good people, kind and
pious, but . . . there is no one with softness and refinement,
they are just like peasants. They all speak loudly, and tramp
heavily when they walk; they are noisy, they clear their
throats, but Nikolay always talked softly, caressingly, and if
he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying he would slip by
like a fly or a gnat. His face was tender, compassionate. . . ."
Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We
were by now approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the
darkness and stillness of the river into an enchanted realm,
full of stifling smoke, crackling lights and uproar. By now one
could distinctly see people moving near the tar barrels. The
flickering of the lights gave a strange, almost fantastic,
expression to their figures and red faces. From time to time one
caught among the heads and 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 is no one to appreciate it.
. . . There was nothing written dearer to him than that hymn. He
used to take in every word! You'll be there, sir, so notice 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 relieved at eight;
but, as you see, they don't come!. . . And I must own I should
have liked to be in the church. . . ."
"Are you a monk?"
"Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother."
The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck
piece into Ieronim's hand for taking me across and jumped on
land. Immediately a cart with a boy and a sleeping woman in it
drove creaking onto the ferry. Ieronim, with a faint glow from
the lights on his figure, pressed on the rope, bent down to it,
and started the ferry back. . . .
I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther walked on a
soft freshly trodden path. This path led to the dark monastery
gates, that looked like a cavern through a cloud of smoke,
through a disorderly crowd of people, unharnessed horses, carts
and chaises. All this crowd was rattling, snorting, laughing,
and the crimson light and wavering shadows from the smoke
flickered over it all. . . . A perfect chaos! And in this hubbub
the people yet found room to load a little cannon and to sell
cakes. There was no less commotion on the other side of the wall
in the monastery precincts, but there was more regard for
decorum and order. Here there was a smell of juniper and
incense. They talked loudly, but there was no sound of laughter
or snorting. Near the tombstones and crosses people pressed
close to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their
arms. Apparently many had come from a long distance for their
cakes to be blessed and now were exhausted. Young lay brothers,
making a metallic sound with their boots, ran busily along the
iron slabs that paved the way from the monastery gates to the
church door. They were busy and shouting on the belfry, too.
"What a restless night!" I thought. "How nice!"
One was tempted to see the same unrest and sleeplessness in all
nature, from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses
on the tombs and the trees under which the people were moving to
and fro. But nowhere was the excitement and restlessness so
marked as in the church. An unceasing struggle was going on in
the entrance between the inflowing stream and the outflowing
stream. Some were going in, others going out and soon coming
back again to stand still for a little and begin moving again.
People were scurrying from place to place, lounging about as
though they were looking for something. The stream flowed from
the entrance all round the church, disturbing even the front
rows, where persons of weight and dignity were standing. There
could be no thought of concentrated prayer. There were no
prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly
irresponsible joy, seeking a pretext to break out and vent
itself in some movement, even in senseless jostling and shoving.
The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service
itself. The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of
incense float in the air near the candelabra; wherever one looks
there are lights, the gleam and splutter of candles. . . . There
is no reading; restless and lighthearted singing goes on to the
end without ceasing. After each hymn the clergy change their
vestments and come out to burn the incense, which is repeated
every ten minutes.
I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front
and forced me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me
with a long red candle; the grey-headed archimandrite in his
golden mitre hurried after him with the censer. When they had
vanished from sight the crowd squeezed me back to my former
position. But ten minutes had not passed before a new wave burst
on me, and again the deacon appeared. This time he was followed
by the Father Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim had told me,
was writing the history of the monastery.
As I mingled with the crowd and caught the infection of the
universal joyful excitement, I felt unbearably sore on Ieronim's
account. Why did they not send someone to relieve him? Why could
not someone of less feeling and less susceptibility go on the
ferry? 'Lift up thine eyes, O Sion, and look around,' they sang
in the choir, 'for thy children have come to thee as to a beacon
of divine light from north and south, and from east and from the
sea. . . .'
I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expression of
triumph, but not one was listening to what was being sung and
taking it in, and not one was 'holding his breath.' Why was not
Ieronim released? I could fancy Ieronim standing meekly
somewhere by the wall, bending forward and hungrily drinking in
the beauty of the holy phrase. All this that glided by the ears
of the people standing by me he would have eagerly drunk in with
his delicately sensitive soul, and would have been spell-bound
to ecstasy, to holding his breath, and there would not have been
a man happier than he in all the church. Now he was plying to
and fro over the dark river and grieving for his dead friend and
The wave surged back. A stout smiling monk, playing with his
rosary and looking round behind him, squeezed sideways by me,
making way for a lady in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery
servant hurried after the lady, holding a chair over our heads.
I came out of the church. I wanted to have a look at the dead
Nikolay, the unknown canticle writer. I walked about the
monastery wall, where there was a row of cells, peeped into
several windows, and, seeing nothing, came back again. I do not
regret now that I did not see Nikolay; God knows, perhaps if I
had seen him I should have lost the picture my imagination
paints for me now. I imagine the lovable poetical figure
solitary and not understood, who went out at nights to call to
Ieronim over the water, and filled his hymns with flowers, stars
and sunbeams, as a pale timid man with soft mild melancholy
features. His eyes must have shone, not only with intelligence,
but with kindly tenderness and that hardly restrained childlike
enthusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim's voice when he quoted
to me passages from the hymns.
When we came out of church after mass it was no longer night.
The morning was beginning. The stars had gone out and the sky
was a morose greyish blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and
the buds on the trees were covered with dew There was a sharp
freshness in the air. Outside the precincts I did not find the
same animated scene as I had beheld in the night. Horses and men
looked exhausted, drowsy, scarcely moved, while nothing was left
of the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. When anyone is
exhausted and sleepy he fancies that nature, too, is in the same
condition. It seemed to me that the trees and the young grass
were asleep. It seemed as though even the bells were not pealing
so loudly and gaily as at night. The restlessness was over, and
of the excitement nothing was left but a pleasant weariness, a
longing for sleep and warmth.
Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint mist hovered
over it in shifting masses. There was a harsh cold breath from
the water. When I jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two
dozen men and women were standing on it already. The rope, wet
and as I fancied drowsy, stretched far away across the broad
river and in places disappeared in the white mist.
"Christ is risen! Is there no one else?" asked a soft voice.
I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no darkness now to
hinder me from seeing the monk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered
man of five-and-thirty, with large rounded features, with
half-closed listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped
beard. He had an extraordinarily sad and exhausted look.
"They have not relieved you yet?" I asked in surprise.
"Me?" he answered, turning to me his chilled and dewy face with
a smile. "There is no one to take my place now till morning.
They'll all be going to the Father Archimandrite's to break the
With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish fur that
looked like the little wooden tubs in which honey is sold, he
threw his weight on the rope; they gasped simultaneously, and
the ferry started.
We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily rising mist.
Everyone was silent. Ieronim worked mechanically with one hand.
He slowly passed his mild lustreless eyes over us; then his
glance rested on the rosy face of a young merchant's wife with
black eyebrows, who was standing on the ferry beside me silently
shrinking from the mist that wrapped her about. He 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 was looking in the woman's face for
the soft and tender features of his dead friend.
hymns of praise: akafisty, canticles; those quoted by Ieronim
are standard accepted Russian Orthodox canticles every monk
would know well