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A.P. Chekhov - A Story Without a Title
IN the fifth century, just as now, the sun rose every morning
and every evening retired to rest. In the morning, when the
first rays kissed the dew, the earth revived, the air was filled
with the sounds of rapture and hope; while in the evening the
same earth subsided into silence and plunged into gloomy
darkness. One day was like another, one night like another. From
time to time a storm-cloud raced up and there was the angry
rumble of thunder, or a negligent star fell out of the sky, or a
pale monk ran to tell the brotherhood that not far from the
monastery he had seen a tiger -- and that was all, and then each
day was like the next.
The monks worked and prayed, and their Father Superior played on
the organ, made Latin verses, and wrote music. The wonderful old
man possessed an extraordinary gift. He played on the organ with
such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown
somewhat dull towards the end of their lives, could not restrain
their tears when the sounds of the organ floated from his cell.
When he spoke of anything, even of the most ordinary things --
for instance of the trees, of the wild beasts, or of the sea --
they could not listen to him without a smile or tears, and it
seemed that the same chords vibrated in his soul as in the
organ. If he were moved to anger or abandoned himself to intense
joy, or began speaking of something terrible or grand, then a
passionate inspiration took possession of him, tears came into
his flashing eyes, his face flushed, and his voice thundered,
and as the monks listened to him they felt that their souls were
spell-bound by his inspiration; at such marvellous, splendid
moments his power over them was boundless, and if he had bidden
his elders fling themselves into the sea, they would all, every
one of them, have hastened to carry out his wishes.
His music, his voice, his poetry in which he glorified God, the
heavens and the earth, were a continual source of joy to the
monks. It sometimes happened that through the monotony of their
lives they grew weary of the trees, the flowers, the spring, the
autumn, their ears were tired of the sound of the sea, and the
song of the birds seemed tedious to them, but the talents of
their Father Superior were as necessary to them as their daily
bread.
Dozens of years passed by, and every day was like every other
day, every night was like every other night. Except the birds
and the wild beasts, not one soul appeared near the monastery.
The nearest human habitation was far away, and to reach it from
the monastery, or to reach the monastery from it, meant a
journey of over seventy miles across the desert. Only men who
despised life, who had renounced it, and who came to the
monastery as to the grave, ventured to cross the desert.
What was the amazement of the monks, therefore, when one night
there knocked at their gate a man who turned out to be from the
town, and the most ordinary sinner who loved life. Before saying
his prayers and asking for the Father Superior's blessing, this
man asked for wine and food. To the question how he had come
from the town into the desert, he answered by a long story of
hunting; he had gone out hunting, had drunk too much, and lost
his way. To the suggestion that he should enter the monastery
and save his soul, he replied with a smile: "I am not a fit
companion for you!"
When he had eaten and drunk he looked at the monks who were
serving him, shook his head reproachfully, and said:
"You don't do anything, you monks. You are good for nothing but
eating and drinking. Is that the way to save one's soul? Only
think, while you sit here in peace, eat and drink and dream of
beatitude, your neighbours are perishing and going to hell. You
should see what is going on in the town! Some are dying of
hunger, others, not knowing what to do with their gold, sink
into profligacy and perish like flies stuck in honey. There is
no faith, no truth in men. Whose task is it to save them? Whose
work is it to preach to them? It is not for me, drunk from
morning till night as I am. Can a meek spirit, a loving heart,
and faith in God have been given you for you to sit here within
four walls doing nothing?"
The townsman's drunken words were insolent and unseemly, but
they had a strange effect upon the Father Superior. The old man
exchanged glances with his monks, turned pale, and said:
"My brothers, he speaks the truth, you know. Indeed, poor people
in their weakness and lack of understanding are perishing in
vice and infidelity, while we do not move, as though it did not
concern us. Why should I not go and remind them of the Christ
whom they have forgotten?"
The townsman's words had carried the old man away. The next day
he took his staff, said farewell to the brotherhood, and set off
for the town. And the monks were left without music, and without
his speeches and verses. They spent a month drearily, then a
second, but the old man did not come back. At last after three
months had passed the familiar tap of his staff was heard. The
monks flew to meet him and showered questions upon him, but
instead of being delighted to see them he wept bitterly and did
not utter a word. The monks noticed that he looked greatly aged
and had grown thinner; his face looked exhausted and wore an
expression of profound sadness, and when he wept he had the air
of a man who has been outraged.
The monks fell to weeping too, and began with sympathy asking
him why he was weeping, why his face was so gloomy, but he
locked himself in his cell without uttering a word. For seven
days he sat in his cell, eating and drinking nothing, weeping
and not playing on his organ. To knocking at his door and to the
entreaties of the monks to come out and share his grief with
them he replied with unbroken silence.
At last he came out. Gathering all the monks around him, with a
tear-stained face and with an expression of grief and
indignation, he began telling them of what had befallen him
during those three months. His voice was calm and his eyes were
smiling while he described his journey from the monastery to the
town. On the road, he told them, the birds sang to him, the
brooks gurgled, and sweet youthful hopes agitated his soul; he
marched on and felt like a soldier going to battle and confident
of victory; he walked on dreaming, and composed poems and hymns,
and reached the end of his journey without noticing it.
But his voice quivered, his eyes flashed, and he was full of
wrath when he came to speak of the town and of the men in it.
Never in his life had he seen or even dared to imagine what he
met with when he went into the town. Only then for the first
time in his life, in his old age, he saw and understood how
powerful was the devil, how fair was evil and how weak and
faint-hearted and worthless were men. By an unhappy chance the
first dwelling he entered was the abode of vice. Some fifty men
in possession of much money were eating and drinking wine beyond
measure. Intoxicated by the wine, they sang songs and boldly
uttered terrible, revolting words such as a God-fearing man
could not bring himself to pronounce; boundlessly free,
self-confident, and happy, they feared neither God nor the
devil, nor death, but said and did what they liked, and went
whither their lust led them. And the wine, clear as amber,
flecked with sparks of gold, must have been irresistibly sweet
and fragrant, for each man who drank it smiled blissfully and
wanted to drink more. To the smile of man it responded with a
smile and sparkled joyfully when they drank it, as though it
knew the devilish charm it kept hidden in its sweetness.
The old man, growing more and more incensed and weeping with
wrath, went on to describe what he had seen. On a table in the
midst of the revellers, he said, stood a sinful, half-naked
woman. It was hard to imagine or to find in nature anything more
lovely and fascinating. This reptile, young, longhaired,
dark-skinned, with black eyes and full lips, shameless and
insolent, showed her snow-white teeth and smiled as though to
say: "Look how shameless, how beautiful I am." Silk and brocade
fell in lovely folds from her shoulders, but her beauty would
not hide itself under her clothes, but eagerly thrust itself
through the folds, like the young grass through the ground in
spring. The shameless woman drank wine, sang songs, and
abandoned herself to anyone who wanted her.
Then the old man, wrathfully brandishing his arms, described the
horse-races, the bull-fights, the theatres, the artists' studios
where they painted naked women or moulded them of clay. He spoke
with inspiration, with sonorous beauty, as though he were
playing on unseen chords, while the monks, petrified, greedily
drank in his words and gasped with rapture. . . .
After describing all the charms of the devil, the beauty of
evil, and the fascinating grace of the dreadful female form, the
old man cursed the devil, turned and shut himself up in his
cell. . . .
When he came out of his cell in the morning there was not a monk
left in the monastery; they had all fled to the town.
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