The Man Who Was Afraid [140]
voice and sing-song speech reminded Foma of the wonderful fairy-tales of Aunt Anfisa. He felt as though, after a long journey on a hot day, he drank the clear, cold water of a forest brook, water that had the fragrance of the grasses and the flowers it has bathed. Even wider and wider grew the pictures as they unfolded upon him; here is a path through the thick, slumbering forest; the fine sunbeams penetrate through the branches of the trees, and quiver in the air and under the feet of the wanderer. There is a savoury odour of fungi and decaying foliage; the honeyed fragrance of the flowers, the intense odour of the pine-tree invisibly rise in the air and penetrate the breast in a warm, rich stream. All is silence: only the birds are singing, and the silence is so wonderful that it seems as though even the birds were singing in your breast. You go, without haste, and your life goes on like a dream. While here everything is enveloped in a gray, dead fog, and we are foolishly struggling about in it, yearning for freedom and light. There below they have started to sing something in scarcely audible voices; it was half song, half prayer. Again someone is shouting, scolding. And still they seek the way:
"Seven and a half. Seven!"
"And you have no care," spoke the pilgrim, and his voice murmured like a brook. "Anybody will give you a crust of bread; and what else do you need in your freedom? In the world, cares fall upon the soul like fetters."
"You speak well," said Foma with a sigh.
"My dear brother!" exclaimed the pilgrim, softly, moving still closer toward him. "Since the soul has awakened, since it yearns toward freedom, do not lull it to sleep by force; hearken to its voice. The world with its charms has no beauty and holiness whatever, wherefore, then, obey its laws? In John Chrysostom it is said: 'The real shechinah is man!' Shechinah is a Hebrew word and it means the holy of holies. Consequently--"
A prolonged shrill sound of the whistle drowned his voice. He listened, rose quickly from the lounge and said:
"We are nearing the harbour. That's what the whistle meant. I must be off! Well, goodbye, brother! May God give you strength and firmness to act according to the will of your soul! Goodbye, my dear boy!"
He made a low bow to Foma. There was something feminine, caressing and soft in his farewell words and bow. Foma also bowed low to him, bowed and remained as though petrified, standing with drooping head, his hand leaning against the table.
"Come to see me when you are in town," he asked the pilgrim, who was hastily turning the handle of the cabin door.
"I will! I will come! Goodbye! Christ save you!"
When the steamer's side touched the wharf Foma came out on the deck and began to look downward into the fog. From the steamer people were walking down the gang-planks, but Foma could not discern the pilgrim among those dark figures enveloped in the dense gloom. All those that left the steamer looked equally indistinct, and they all quickly disappeared from sight, as though they had melted in the gray dampness. One could see neither the shore nor anything else solid; the landing bridge rocked from the commotion caused by the steamer; above it the yellow spot of the lantern was swaying; the noise of the footsteps and the bustle of the people were dull.
The steamer put off and slowly moved along into the clouds. The pilgrim, the harbour, the turmoil of people's voices--all suddenly disappeared like a dream, and again there remained only the dense gloom and the steamer heavily turning about in it. Foma stared before him into the dead sea of fog and thought of the blue, cloudless and caressingly warm sky--where was it?
On the next day, about noon, he sat In Yozhov's small room and listened to the local news from the mouth of his friend. Yozhov had climbed on the table, which was piled with newspapers, and, swinging his feet, narrated:
"The election campaign has begun. The merchants are putting your godfather up as mayor--that old devil! Like the devil, he is immortal, although he must
"Seven and a half. Seven!"
"And you have no care," spoke the pilgrim, and his voice murmured like a brook. "Anybody will give you a crust of bread; and what else do you need in your freedom? In the world, cares fall upon the soul like fetters."
"You speak well," said Foma with a sigh.
"My dear brother!" exclaimed the pilgrim, softly, moving still closer toward him. "Since the soul has awakened, since it yearns toward freedom, do not lull it to sleep by force; hearken to its voice. The world with its charms has no beauty and holiness whatever, wherefore, then, obey its laws? In John Chrysostom it is said: 'The real shechinah is man!' Shechinah is a Hebrew word and it means the holy of holies. Consequently--"
A prolonged shrill sound of the whistle drowned his voice. He listened, rose quickly from the lounge and said:
"We are nearing the harbour. That's what the whistle meant. I must be off! Well, goodbye, brother! May God give you strength and firmness to act according to the will of your soul! Goodbye, my dear boy!"
He made a low bow to Foma. There was something feminine, caressing and soft in his farewell words and bow. Foma also bowed low to him, bowed and remained as though petrified, standing with drooping head, his hand leaning against the table.
"Come to see me when you are in town," he asked the pilgrim, who was hastily turning the handle of the cabin door.
"I will! I will come! Goodbye! Christ save you!"
When the steamer's side touched the wharf Foma came out on the deck and began to look downward into the fog. From the steamer people were walking down the gang-planks, but Foma could not discern the pilgrim among those dark figures enveloped in the dense gloom. All those that left the steamer looked equally indistinct, and they all quickly disappeared from sight, as though they had melted in the gray dampness. One could see neither the shore nor anything else solid; the landing bridge rocked from the commotion caused by the steamer; above it the yellow spot of the lantern was swaying; the noise of the footsteps and the bustle of the people were dull.
The steamer put off and slowly moved along into the clouds. The pilgrim, the harbour, the turmoil of people's voices--all suddenly disappeared like a dream, and again there remained only the dense gloom and the steamer heavily turning about in it. Foma stared before him into the dead sea of fog and thought of the blue, cloudless and caressingly warm sky--where was it?
On the next day, about noon, he sat In Yozhov's small room and listened to the local news from the mouth of his friend. Yozhov had climbed on the table, which was piled with newspapers, and, swinging his feet, narrated:
"The election campaign has begun. The merchants are putting your godfather up as mayor--that old devil! Like the devil, he is immortal, although he must