“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 sorrows?”

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 only asked: 

“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.”

“That’s true.”

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 good-humouredly.