《Silence》


 One

    I


    One moonlit night of May full of nightingale singing, Fr. Ignaty¡¯s study was visited by his wife. Her face was bearing grief, and the little lamp was trembling in her hand. Coming up, she touched her husband¡¯s shoulder and said with a sob: ¡°Father, let¡¯s go and see Verochka!¡±


    Not moving, Fr. Ignaty gave her a frowning look over the glasses and stared hardly until she waved her empty hand hopelessly and sat on the low sofa.


    ¡°You both are so... ruthless!¡± she uttered slowly, pushing the last syllables, pain and bitterness distorting her kind, plumpy face as a testimony to how cruel they were, the husband of hers, and her daughter.


    Fr. Ignaty chuckled and got up. Closing the book, he took off his glasses, put them in the case, and lingered, musing. His big black beard with silver threads in it curved beautifully on his chest, rising slowly as he breathed.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, then!¡± he said.


    Olga Stepanovna got up quickly and said in a fawny, timid voice: ¡°Just don¡¯t chide her, Father! You know what she¡¯s like...¡±


    Vera¡¯s room was up in the mezzanine, and the narrow wooden staircase bent and moaned under the heavy steps of Fr. Ignaty. Tall and stout, he lowered his head to avoid hitting it against the ceiling, wincing repulsively each time his wife¡¯s white cardigan touched his face. He knew that talking to Vera was useless.


    ¡°What is it?¡± said Vera, lifting a bare arm to her eyes. Her other arm lay on top of the white summer blanket, almost blending in, so white and transparent and cold.


    ¡°Verochka...¡± the mother started but sobbed and went silent.


    ¡°Vera!¡± the father said, trying to soften his cold, firm voice. ¡°Vera, tell us what is wrong with you.¡±


    Vera was silent.


    ¡°Vera! Don¡¯t we deserve your trust, your mother and I? Don¡¯t we love you? And do you have anyone closer than us? Tell us what your grief is about, and trust me, a man of age and experience, you¡¯ll feel better. And we will, too. Look at your old mother, she¡¯s tormented...¡±


    ¡°Verochka!..¡±


    ¡°And me...¡± the cold voice faltered, as if something had broken in it. ¡°Do you think it¡¯s easy for me? As if I can¡¯t see that something¡¯s taking a toll on you... But what is it? I don¡¯t know. And I am your father. Is this the way it is supposed to be?"


    Vera was silent. Fr. Ignaty stroked his beard very lightly, as if he feared of letting his fingers dig in it, and continued: ¡°You went to St. Petersburg against my wishes¡ªand did I curse you, disobedient girl? Or haven¡¯t I been giving money? And would you say I was unkind? Why are you keeping silent? So much for your beloved St. Petersburg!¡±


    Fr. Ignaty went silent, imagining something big, granite, frightful, filled with obscure dangers and alien, apathetic people. And there she was, his Vera, lonely and helpless, and they destroyed her there. Angry hatred rose in Fr. Ignaty¡¯s soul for the frightful, inscrutable city, along with furor toward his daughter for being silent, adamantly silent.


    ¡°St. Petersburg has nothing to do with this,¡± Vera said grimly, closing her eyes. ¡°And I¡¯m fine. Go to bed. It¡¯s late.¡±


    ¡°Verochka!¡± groaned the mother. ¡°Don¡¯t shun me, sweetheart!¡±


    ¡°Oh, Mama!¡± said Vera, impatiently, cutting her off.


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    Fr. Ignaty sat down on the chair and laughed. ¡°So, you¡¯re fine, then?¡± he said wryly.


    ¡°Father,¡± Vera said sharply, lifting up a little in her bed, ¡°you know that I love you and Mommy. But... I¡¯m a bit bored, that¡¯s all. I¡¯ll get over it. You two should be sleeping, really, and so should I. And tomorrow or sometime, we¡¯ll talk.¡±


    Fr. Ignaty stood up abruptly, the chair banging the wall, and he took his wife by the hand. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°Verochka...¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, I¡¯m telling you!¡± shouted Fr. Ignaty. ¡°If she¡¯s forgotten God, then us... Who are we?¡±


    He almost forced her to go out, and Olga Stepanovna whispered angrily, slowing her pace as they walked down the stairs: ¡°Ooh, priest! It¡¯s you who made her be this way. She picked it up from you, that manner. And you¡¯ll be held responsible. Woe is me...¡±


    And she began to cry, blinking often, unable to see the steps and treading as if there was an abyss below she wanted to fall into.


    From that day on, Fr. Ignaty wouldn¡¯t talk to his daughter, to which she seemed oblivious though. As before, she used to stay in her room either lying, or pacing the floor, frequently wiping her eyes with her palms as if there was dust in them.


    And the priest¡¯s wife, who was fond of a joke and a laugh, felt timid and lost, squeezed between the two silent people, not knowing what to say and do.


    Vera went out sometimes. A week after that conversation, she went for an evening walk as she used to. It was the last time they saw her alive because she threw herself under a train that evening, and the train cut her in two.


    Fr. Ignaty buried her by himself. His wife missed the rite, for she had a stroke at the news of Vera¡¯s death. Having lost the use of her legs, arms, and tongue, she lay motionless in the dim room, while the bells in the bell tower rang next to her. She heard everybody leaving the church, choristers singing in front of the house, and she tried to raise her hand and cross, but the hand disobeyed; she tried saying ¡°Good-bye, Vera!¡± but the tongue sat huge and heavy in her mouth. Her posture was so peaceful that anyone would assume she was having a rest, or asleep. Only her eyes were open.


    At the funeral, the church was full of people, familiar to Fr. Ignaty and not, and everybody rued Vera who died so horribly, and they looked for the signs of a deep grieving in the way Fr. Ignaty moved and spoke. They didn¡¯t like Fr. Ignaty for his severe and haughty ways, his hating and condemning sinners while himself being envious and greedy and using every chance to take some extra from a parishioner. Everybody wanted to see him hurting, broken, and realizing his double guilt in his daughter¡¯s death¡ªof being a harsh father and a bad cleric who couldn¡¯t save his own blood from sin. And everybody watched him curiously; and feeling their looks on his back, he tried to keep it straight, his broad and tough back, saving his face on his mind instead of his dead daughter.


    ¡°Stiff priest!¡± said Karzenov, a woodworker who never got his five rubles for frames from him.


    Thus, straight and stern, Fr. Ignaty walked to the cemetery and thus he came back. His back only bent a little at the door to his wife¡¯s bedroom, but again, it could be that most doors were low for his height. Coming in from bright daylight, he could barely see her face, but when he did, the face surprised him with calm expression and tearless eyes. No grief, no anger in them¡ªthe mute eyes kept silent somberly, tenaciously, as well as her entire body did, obese, impotent, pressed into the feather bed.


    ¡°So, how are you feeling?¡± asked Fr. Ignaty.


    But mute were the lips; the eyes kept silent too. Fr. Ignaty put his hand to her forehead; the forehead was cold and damp, and Olga Stepanovna gave no sign that she had felt the touch. When Fr. Ignaty removed his hand, the two deep, gray eyes were looking at him, unblinking, almost black because of widened pupils, no rage, no sorrow in them.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m going to my room,¡± said Fr. Ignaty, who suddenly felt cold and frightened.


    He came into the living room, where everything was clean and tidy as usual, and the high-backed armchairs in white wrappers stood like dead men in shrouds. A wire cage hung from one of the windows, but it was empty, its door open.


    ¡°Nastasija!¡± shouted Fr. Ignaty. The voice sounded rude, and he was embarrassed to be shouting so loudly in these quiet rooms, just after his daughter''s funeral. ¡°Nastasija!¡± he called out again, quieter. ¡°Where¡¯s the canary?¡±


    The cookmaid, who had been crying so much that her nose got swollen and beet-red, replied rudely: ¡°Out there. Flying away.¡±


    ¡°Why did you let it out?¡± Fr. Ignaty furrowed his brows menacingly.


    Nastasija began to cry, and said through tears, wiping them with the tips of her chintz headscarf: ¡°Young lady¡¯s... sweetest soul... How can you keep it in?¡±


    Right away Fr. Ignaty thought the gay little yellow canary, that used to sing with her head tilted, was indeed Vera¡¯s soul, and had it not flown away, you couldn¡¯t say that Vera was dead. That made him hate the cookmaid even more.


    ¡°Out!¡± he yelled, and added when Nastasija missed the doorway, ¡°Dunce!¡±

 Two

    II


    Their little house had fallen into silence since the funeral. It was not the quiet, which is just the absence of sound, but silence¡ªwhen those who kept it could talk but wouldn¡¯t. This was Fr. Ignaty¡¯s thought each time he entered his wife¡¯s bedroom to meet the tenacious look, so heavy that the air seemed turning into lead and weighing down onto his head and shoulders. This was his thought when he looked at his daughter¡¯s musical notations with her voice within them, her books, and her portrait¡ªthe large painting of her she brought from St. Petersburg. When contemplating the portrait, Fr. Ignaty used to begin with its highlighted, painted cheek, imagining the scratch he saw on Vera¡¯s dead one, unable to figure out where it had come from. Each time he pondered the reasons; had it been from the train, the train would have crashed the head, but the head of dead Vera was fully unharmed.


    Maybe someone¡¯s boot hit it, or a fingernail, by accident, when they took the body away?


    It was scary though, thinking at length of the detail of Vera¡¯s death, and Fr. Ignaty would move to the portrait¡¯s eyes. They were black, beautiful, the long lashes casting a thick shadow, so the whites seemed even brighter, and the eyes looked held in a black mourning frame. It was strange, the expression an unknown but talented artist gave them¡ªas though a thin, translucent film was placed between the eyes and what they were looking at. It was a bit like that invisible, delicate layer of summer dust sitting on top of a black grand piano, soothing the shine of the polished wood. And however Fr. Ignaty displayed the portrait, the eyes followed him relentlessly but spoke of nothing, keeping silent, and their silence was so clear that it seemed audible. Eventually, Fr. Ignaty began to think he could hear silence.


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    Every morning after the service, Fr. Ignaty would come into the living-room, take in the empty cage and the familiar furniture, sit down in an armchair, close his eyes, and listen to the house being silent. It was something strange. The cage kept silent quietly and gently, some sadness in it, and tears, and the distant, forever gone laugh. The silence of his wife, soothed by the walls, was tenacious, lead-heavy, and frightful¡ªso frightful that the hottest day made Fr. Ignaty freeze. Lingering, cold like grave, and mysterious like death was the silence of his daughter. It seemed to torment itself, that silence, longing to turn into a word, but something strong and dumb, like a machine, kept it still and drew it out like a wire. And somewhere at the far end, the wire would start vibrating and tingling quietly, meek and piteous. Fr. Ignaty, joyful and scared, would catch the incipient sound and waited for it to come closer, holding on to the armrests and craning his neck. But the sound would snap and fall silent.


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± Fr. Ignaty would say, annoyed, and he would get up from the armchair, still straight and tall.


    Through the window, he could see a public square full of sun, its roundish, even cobble, and the blind stone wall of a long shed across from it. A cabby waited at the corner, looking like a clay statue, and why he was there with no one passing by for hours remained unknown.

 Three

    III


    Outside the house, Fr. Ignaty had to talk plenty, handling his duties with the church¡¯s clergy and parishioners, performing rites, and playing Preferance sometimes with some acquaintances; coming back home however, he thought he had been silent all day long. This was because Fr. Ignaty could speak with neither of them of that essential and the most important thing he was thinking about each night¡ªof why Vera died.


    He refused to make sense of the fact that he couldn¡¯t possibly know it at this point, thinking he still might find out. Every night¡ªand all of them were sleepless for him now¡ªhe went back to that moment, that breathless night when he and his wife stood beside Vera¡¯s bed with him begging her ¡°Tell us!¡±, and all the rest that happened after those words was made in his memory the opposite of what it really had been. Closed eyes of his, their darkness keeping the vivid and unfading picture of that night, saw Vera lifting in her bed, smiling, and speaking... But what was she saying? Vera¡¯s unspoken word meant to bring closure seemed so near¡ªjust cock your ear and hold the heartbeat to hear it¡ªand yet so hopelessly far. Fr. Ignaty would get out of bed, reach out his folded hands and beg, shaking them: ¡°Vera!..¡±


    And silence was his answer.


    One evening Fr. Ignaty came to Olga Stepanovna¡¯s room after he hadn¡¯t seen her for about a week. He sat down at the head of the bed and said, turning away from the persistent, heavy look: ¡°Mother! I want to talk to you about Vera. You hear me?¡±


    The eyes were silent, and Fr. Ignaty began to speak loudly, his tone strict and dominant, the way he talked to confessants.


    ¡°I know you see me as the cause of Vera¡¯s death. But think: did I love her any less than you did? That¡¯s a strange way of looking at it... I was strict, but did that ever stop her from doing whatever she wanted? I denied a father¡¯s dignity, I bent my neck humbly when she ignored my curse and went... that place. And you? Didn¡¯t you beg her to stay, old woman, and didn¡¯t you cry until I told you to stop? Was it me, who brought her forth with such a cruel heart? Haven¡¯t I been telling her of God, of humility, of love?


    Fr. Ignaty quickly looked into his wife¡¯s eyes¡ªand turned away.


    ¡°What could I do to her if she refused to let it out? Command, I commanded; begging, I begged. You think I should¡¯ve knelt before the girl and cried, like an old cow? Her head... How do I know what¡¯s in her head! What a cruel, heartless daughter!¡±


    Fr. Ignaty thumped his fist upon his knee.


    ¡°Tell you what, she had no love! And I don¡¯t mean for me, a tyrant, as we know... But did she love you? You, who have been crying... and lowering yourself!"


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    Fr. Ignaty gave a voiceless laugh.


    ¡°She did! And chose to die this way to bring you comfort. A cruel, shameful way. To die on grit, in dirt... like a d-dog being kicked in the face.¡±


    Fr. Ignaty¡¯s voice went quiet and hoarse.


    ¡°Ashamed is what I am! Ashamed to go outside! Ashamed to leave the altar! Ashamed before God! Cruel, indecent daughter! I wish I cursed you in your grave..."


    When Fr. Ignaty looked at his wife, she was unconscious, coming back to her senses only a few hours later. And when she did, her eyes were silent, no way of telling if she remembered Fr. Ignaty¡¯s speech.


    That same night¡ªit was a moonlit night of July, peaceful, warm, and soundless¡ªFr. Ignaty tiptoed up the stairs to Vera¡¯s room, making sure that his wife and the nurse wouldn¡¯t hear him. The mezzanine window was closed ever since she died, and the air was dry and hot, with a slight smell of burning from the iron roof overheated during the day. The breath of something uninhabited and abandoned dwelled in the room devoid of a human for so long, where the wood of walls, the furniture, and other things gave off a subtle odor of continuous decay. A bright bar of moonlight came down on the floor; reflected by the nicely washed white planks, it illuminated the corners with dim semi-light, so the clean white bed with two pillows, big and small, looked airy and phantom. Fr. Ignaty opened the window; fresh air came pouring widely into the room, smelling of dust, of a nearby river, and of blossoming linden, a barely audible choiring getting through¡ªapparently, people were boating and singing. Treading quietly barefoot, looking like a white ghost, Fr. Ignaty came up to the empty bed, bent his knees, and fell face down onto the pillows where Vera¡¯s face should have been, cuddling them. He lay like this for a long time; the song grew louder and then fell silent, but he was still lying, his long black hair scattered over his shoulders and the bed.


    The moon had moved on, making the room darker, when Fr. Ignaty raised his head and whispered, putting all the power of a long held-back and long unconscious love in his voice, listening to the words as if it were not him who listened but Vera.


    ¡°Vera, my daughter! Do you know what this means, a daughter? My baby! My heart, my blood, my life. Your old¡ª Your poor old father, all weak, all gray... ¡±


    Fr. Ignaty¡¯s shoulders began to tremble, and his entire bulky figure went rocking. Fighting the shudder, Fr. Ignaty whispered softly, as though to a child: ¡°Your poor old father... begs you. No, Verochka, he¡¯s craving. Crying. He¡¯s never cried. Your grief, sweetheart, your pain, they¡¯re mine. They¡¯re more than that!¡±


    Fr. Ignaty shook his head.


    ¡°They¡¯re more, Verochka. What is death to me, to an old man? But you... If only you knew how delicate you are, how weak and shy! Remember how you pricked your tiny finger and blood dripped and you cried? My baby! And you do love me. I know you love me so much. You kiss my hand every morning. Do tell what frets your little head, and I will suffocate your grief. With my two hands. They¡¯re still strong, Vera, these hands.¡±


    Fr. Ignaty tossed his head up.


    ¡°Tell me!¡±


    He pierced the wall with his eyes and reached his hands out.


    ¡°Tell me!¡±


    The room was quiet; from afar, a long and choppy whistle of a train came whooshing through.


    Eyes roving, widened, as if the crippled corpse¡¯s dreadful ghost appeared before him, Fr. Ignaty slowly got up off his knees and put a hand to his head erratically, the fingers spread out and tensely straightened. Stepping back to the door, Father Ignaty whispered abruptly: ¡°Tell me!¡±


    And silence was his answer.

 Four

    IV


    The next day, after his early and lonely lunch, Fr. Ignaty went to the cemetery, for the first time since his daughter¡¯s death. It was hot, deserted, and quiet, as though the summer day was just a lighted night, and yet, out of habit, Fr. Ignaty would straighten his back with diligence, throwing harsh glances, thinking he was still the same as before; he noticed neither the new, tremendous weakness in his legs, nor the fact that his long beard was now completely white, as though a cruel frost had struck it. The road to the cemetery followed a long straight street that climbed slightly upward, with the arch of the cemetery gate gleaming white at the end of it, looking like a black, ever-open mouth edged with shiny teeth.


    Vera''s grave was in the back of the cemetery where the sandy paths ended, and Fr. Ignaty had to wander through the narrow trails that followed a broken line between the green mounds all forgotten and all abandoned. Some crooked monuments came up here and there, green with old age, along with some broken fences and heavy big tombstones grown into the ground, pushing it with a sullen, senile anger. Squeezing up to one of these stones, there was Vera¡¯s grave. New sod on it turned yellow, but everything around it was in green. A rowan hugged a maple, and a wide-spread hazel stretched its pliant, bushy-leaved branches over the grave. Fr. Ignaty sat on the neighboring mound, taking a break. He looked around after a while and glanced at the sky, clear and deserted, the torrid hot disc hanging absolutely still; only then did he realize the deep, incomparable quiet that is essential to a graveyard, when there is no wind to rustle with dead leaves. Once again Fr. Ignaty thought that it was no quiet, but silence. It spread all the way down to the brick walls of the cemetery, crawled heavily over, and flooded the city to stop in a single possible place¡ªthe tenaciously, stubbornly silent gray eyes.


    Fr. Ignaty shrugged, his shoulders getting cold, and he put his eyes down, on Vera¡¯s grave. Staring at the short yellow stalks of grass uprooted somewhere out of a vast and windy field, yet to get used to the alien soil, he couldn¡¯t imagine Vera lying down there, beneath that grass, two arshins below him. Her being that close seemed unfathomable, bringing confusion and strange anxiety to his soul. She, who disappeared forever in the dark deep of infinity as Fr. Ignaty used to think, was here, nearby... making it impossible to grasp that yet she¡¯s not here and never would be. It seemed to Fr. Ignaty that saying some word his lips almost sensed or moving someway would make Vera rise from the grave, tall and beautiful as she had been. And not only Vera would rise but all the dead people, so frightfully palpable in their solemnly cold silence.


    Fr. Ignaty took off his wide-brimmed black hat, tidied his wavy hair, and whispered: ¡°Vera!¡±


    Embarrassed that a random stranger could hear him, Fr. Ignaty stood up at the mound and looked over crosses. No one was around, and he said again, louder this time: ¡°Vera!¡±


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    It was his old voice, cold and demanding, and strange it was that a demand so strong would go unanswered.


    ¡°Vera!¡±


    The call was loud and persistent, and each time it faded, there was a minute when Fr. Ignaty thought he could hear a faint answer from down below. After looking around once again, Fr. Ignaty removed his hair out the way and pressed his ear to the sod¡¯s bristles.


    ¡°Vera, tell me!¡±


    The next horrific moment Father Ignaty sensed something grave and cold pouring into his ear and freezing his brain; he felt Vera¡¯s talking, and her talk was that same long silence. It becomes more and more anxious and terrifying, and when Fr. Ignaty tears his dead-pale head off the ground, the air seems to shudder and tremble with booming silence, as if a wild storm has broken at this horrendous sea. Silence is choking him; it rolls its icy waves over his head and moves his hair; it crashes against his chest groaning under the blows. Whole body shaking, eyes casting glances sharply and aimlessly, Fr. Ignaty slowly gets up and makes a lasting, agonizing effort to straighten his back and to pull down his shoulders. He pulls it off. Lingering by intention, Fr. Ignaty dusts off his knees, puts on his hat, triply crosses the grave, and walks steadily until he stops recognizing the familiar cemetery and loses his way.


    ¡°Lost!¡± chuckles Fr. Ignaty, stopping where the path forks.


    But he wastes just a second, and then takes a left, for standing and waiting is out of the question. Silence is haunting him. Exuded by green graves, breathed out by gray crosses, in suffocating wisps it comes out of the pores of the earth, fertile with corpses. Fr. Ignaty walks faster and faster. Stunned, he circles around the same paths, jumping over the graves, bumping into the bars, his hands getting caught in the scratchy tin wreaths, soft fabric tearing to shreds. The only thought of escape remains in his head. He dashes from side to side and, finally, runs soundlessly, tall and terrific, his cassock flying and hair streaming in the air. Even a corpse risen from the grave would have been less scary than this wild figure of a man was, running and jumping, his arms swinging, his face mad and distorted, the muffled wheezing coming out of his open mouth.


    At full speed Fr. Ignaty popped up at the open space, the small cemetery church gleaming white on the edge of it. On the bench by the narthex, a little old man sat dozing, a pilgrim apparently; two beggar women quarreled beside him, pouncing at each other and cursing.


    When Fr. Ignaty came up to the house, it was getting dark, and he saw the light in Olga Stepanovna¡¯s window. Dusty and ragged, boots and hat on, Fr. Ignaty went straight to her room and fell on his knees.


    ¡°Mother... Olya... Take pity on me!¡± he sobbed. ¡°I¡¯m losing my mind.¡±


    Banging his head on the edge of the table, he sobbed violently, bitterly, like a man who never cried. Then he looked up, believing a miracle would happen, and his wife would speak and pity him.


    ¡°Darling!¡±


    With all of his big body he reached for his wife; the look of gray eyes met him. It bore no regret or anger. She may have forgiven and pitied him, but there was no pity or forgiveness in her eyes. They were mute and silent.


    The entire dark and empty house was silent too.


    May 1¨C5, 1900