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| [COLOR=#NaNNaNNaN]A Dead Body[/COLOR] Astill August night. A mist is rising slowly from the fields and castingan opaque veil over everything within eyesight. Lighted up by the moon,the mist gives the impression at one moment of a calm, boundless sea,at the next of an immense white wall. The air is damp and chilly.Morning is still far off. A step from the bye-road which runs along theedge of the forest a little fire is gleaming. A dead body, covered fromhead to foot with new white linen, is lying under a young oak-tree. Awooden ikon is lying on its breast. Beside the corpse almost on theroad sits the “watch”—two peasants performing one of the mostdisagreeable and uninviting of peasants’ duties. One, a tall youngfellow with a scarcely perceptible moustache and thick black eyebrows,in a tattered sheepskin and bark shoes, is sitting on the wet grass,his feet stuck out straight in front of him, and is trying to whileaway the time with work. He bends his long neck, and breathing loudlythrough his nose, makes a spoon out of a big crooked bit of wood; theother—a little scraggy, pock-marked peasant with an aged face, a scantymoustache, and a little goat’s beard—sits with his hands dangling looseon his knees, and without moving gazes listlessly at the light. A smallcamp-fire is lazily burning down between them, throwing a red glow ontheir faces. There is perfect stillness. The only sounds are the scrapeof the knife on the wood and the crackling of damp sticks in the fire. “Don’t you go to sleep, Syoma …” says the young man. “I … I am not asleep …” stammers the goat-beard. “That’s all right.… It would be dreadful to sit here alone, one would be frightened. You might tell me something, Syoma.” “I … I can’t.…” “Youare a queer fellow, Syomushka! Other people will laugh and tell a storyand sing a song, but you—there is no making you out. You sit like ascarecrow in the garden and roll your eyes at the fire. You can’t sayanything properly … when you speak you seem frightened. I dare say youare fifty, but you have less sense than a child.… Aren’t you sorry thatyou are a simpleton?” “I am sorry,” the goat-beard answers gloomily. “Andwe are sorry to see your foolishness, you may be sure. You are agood-natured, sober peasant, and the only trouble is that you have nosense in your head. You should have picked up some sense for yourselfif the Lord has afflicted you and given you no understanding. You mustmake an effort, Syoma.… You should listen hard when anything good’sbeing said, note it well, and keep thinking and thinking.… If there isany word you don’t understand, you should make an effort and think overin your head in what meaning the word is used. Do you see? Make aneffort! If you don’t gain some sense for yourself you’ll be a simpletonand of no account at all to your dying day.” All at once a longdrawn-out, moaning sound is heard in the forest. Something rustles inthe leaves as though torn from the very top of the tree and falls tothe ground. All this is faintly repeated by the echo. The young manshudders and looks enquiringly at his companion. “It’s an owl at the little birds,” says Syoma, gloomily. “Why, Syoma, it’s time for the birds to fly to the warm countries!” “To be sure, it is time.” “Itis chilly at dawn now. It is co-old. The crane is a chilly creature, itis tender. Such cold is death to it. I am not a crane, but I amfrozen.… Put some more wood on!” Syoma gets up and disappears inthe dark undergrowth. While he is busy among the bushes, breaking drytwigs, his companion puts his hand over his eyes and starts at everysound. Syoma brings an armful of wood and lays it on the fire.The flame irresolutely licks the black twigs with its little tongues,then suddenly, as though at the word of command, catches them andthrows a crimson light on the faces, the road, the white linen with itsprominences where the hands and feet of the corpse raise it, the ikon.The “watch” is silent. The young man bends his neck still lower andsets to work with still more nervous haste. The goat-beard sitsmotionless as before and keeps his eyes fixed on the fire.… “Yethat love not Zion … shall be put to shame by the Lord.” A falsettovoice is suddenly heard singing in the stillness of the night, thenslow footsteps are audible, and the dark figure of a man in a shortmonkish cassock and a broad-brimmed hat, with a wallet on hisshoulders, comes into sight on the road in the crimson firelight. “Thywill be done, O Lord! Holy Mother!” the figure says in a huskyfalsetto. “I saw the fire in the outer darkness and my soul leapt forjoy.… At first I thought it was men grazing a drove of horses, then Ithought it can’t be that, since no horses were to be seen. ‘Aren’t theythieves,’ I wondered, ‘aren’t they robbers lying in wait for a richLazarus? Aren’t they the gypsy people offering sacrifices to idols? Andmy soul leapt for joy. ‘Go, Feodosy, servant of God,’ I said to myself,‘and win a martyr’s crown!’ And I flew to the fire like a light-wingedmoth. Now I stand before you, and from your outer aspect I judge ofyour souls: you are not thieves and you are not heathens. Peace be toyou!” “Good-evening.” “Good orthodox people, do you know how to reach the Makuhinsky Brickyards from here?” “It’sclose here. You go straight along the road; when you have gone a mileand a half there will be Ananova, our village. From the village,father, you turn to the right by the river-bank, and so you will get tothe brickyards. It’s two miles from Ananova.” “God give you health. And why are you sitting here?” “We are sitting here watching. You see, there is a dead body.…” “What? what body? Holy Mother!” Thepilgrim sees the white linen with the ikon on it, and starts soviolently that his legs give a little skip. This unexpected sight hasan overpowering effect upon him. He huddles together and stands asthough rooted to the spot, with wide-open mouth and staring eyes. Forthree minutes he is silent as though he could not believe his eyes,then begins muttering: “O Lord! Holy Mother! I was going along not meddling with anyone, and all at once such an affliction.” “What may you be?” enquires the young man. “Of the clergy?” “No… no.… I go from one monastery to another.… Do you know Mi … MihailPolikarpitch, the foreman of the brickyard? Well, I am his nephew.… Thywill be done, O Lord! Why are you here?” “We are watching … we are told to.” “Yes, yes …” mutters the man in the cassock, passing his hand over his eyes. “And where did the deceased come from?” “He was a stranger.” “Suchis life! But I’ll … er … be getting on, brothers.… I feel flustered. Iam more afraid of the dead than of anything, my dear souls! And onlyfancy! while this man was alive he wasn’t noticed, while now when he isdead and given over to corruption we tremble before him as before somefamous general or a bishop. … Such is life; was he murdered, or what?” “The Lord knows! Maybe he was murdered, or maybe he died of himself.” “Yes, yes. … Who knows, brothers? Maybe his soul is now tasting the joys of Paradise.” “His soul is still hovering here, near his body,” says the young man. “It does not depart from the body for three days.” “H’m, yes! … How chilly the nights are now! It sets one’s teeth chattering. … So then I am to go straight on and on? …” “Till you get to the village, and then you turn to the right by the river-bank.” “By the river-bank. … To be sure. … Why am I standing still? I must go on. Farewell, brothers.” The man in the cassock takes five steps along the road and stops. “I’ve forgotten to put a kopeck for the burying,” he says. “Good orthodox friends, can I give the money?” “Youought to know best, you go the round of the monasteries. If he died anatural death it would go for the good of his soul; if it’s a suicideit’s a sin.” “That’s true. … And maybe it really was a suicide!So I had better keep my money. Oh, sins, sins! Give me a thousandroubles and I would not consent to sit here. … Farewell, brothers.” The cassock slowly moves away and stops again. “Ican’t make up my mind what I am to do,” he mutters. “To stay here bythe fire and wait till daybreak. … I am frightened; to go on isdreadful, too. The dead man will haunt me all the way in the darkness.… The Lord has chastised me indeed! Over three hundred miles I havecome on foot and nothing happened, and now I am near home and there’strouble. I can’t go on. …” “It is dreadful, that is true.” “Iam not afraid of wolves, of thieves, or of darkness, but I am afraid ofthe dead. I am afraid of them, and that is all about it. Good orthodoxbrothers, I entreat you on my knees, see me to the village.” “We’ve been told not to go away from the body.” “Noone will see, brothers. Upon my soul, no one will see! The Lord willreward you a hundred-fold! Old man, come with me, I beg! Old man! Whyare you silent?” “He is a bit simple,” says the young man. “You come with me, friend; I will give you five kopecks.” “Forfive kopecks I might,” says the young man, scratching his head, “but Iwas told not to. If Syoma here, our simpleton, will stay alone, I willtake you. Syoma, will you stay here alone?” “I’ll stay,” the simpleton consents. “Well, that’s all right, then. Come along!” Theyoung man gets up, and goes with the cassock. A minute later the soundof their steps and their talk dies away. Syoma shuts his eyes andgently dozes. The fire begins to grow dim, and a big black shadow fallson the dead body. Download: http://dosyam.net/?id=erezy3 44.50 KB / Word |
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