not listen to me! He would not listen!’ he murmured dejectedly.

‘Though indeed,’ he added at last. ‘He would have had, to be sure, to languish his whole life long in an awful prison! At any rate, he is out of suffering now! He is better off now! Such was bound to be his fate, I suppose!

‘And yet I am sorry, from humane feeling!’

And the kind soul continued to sob inconsolably over the fate of his misguided friend.

Dec. 1878.

CHRIST

I saw myself, in dream, a youth, almost a boy, in a low-pitched wooden church. The slim wax candles gleamed, spots of red, before the old pictures of the saints.

A ring of coloured light encircled each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church…. But there stood before me many people. All fair-haired, peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling, rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat, when the wind of summer passes in slow undulation over them.

All at once some man came up from behind and stood beside me.

I did not turn towards him; but at once I felt that this man was Christ.

Emotion, curiosity, awe overmastered me suddenly. I made an effort … and looked at my neighbour.

A face like every one’s, a face like all men’s faces. The eyes looked a little upwards, quietly and intently. The lips closed, but not compressed; the upper lip, as it were, resting on the lower; a small beard parted in two. The hands folded and still. And the clothes on him like every one’s.

‘What sort of Christ is this?’ I thought. ‘Such an ordinary, ordinary man!

It can’t be!’

I turned away. But I had hardly turned my eyes away from this ordinary man when I felt again that it really was none other than Christ standing beside me.

Again I made an effort over myself…. And again the same face, like all men’s faces, the same everyday though unknown features.

And suddenly my heart sank, and I came to myself. Only then I realised that just such a face—a face like all men’s faces—is the face of Christ.

Dec. 1878.

II

[1879-1882]

THE STONE

Have you seen an old grey stone on the seashore, when at high tide, on a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon it on all sides—break and frolic and caress it—and sprinkle over its sea-mossed head the scattered pearls of sparkling foam?

The stone is still the same stone; but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colours.

They tell of those far-off days when the molten granite had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with the hues of fire.

Even so of late was my old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of fresh girls’ souls … and under their caressing touch it flushed with long-faded colours, the traces of burnt-out fires!

The waves have ebbed back … but the colours are not yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them.

May 1879.

THE DOVES

I stood on the top of a sloping hillside; before me, a gold and silver sea of shifting colour, stretched the ripe rye.

But no little wavelets ran over that sea; no stir of wind was in the stifling air; a great storm was gathering.

Near me the sun still shone with dusky fire; but beyond the rye, not very far away, a dark-blue storm-cloud lay, a menacing mass over full half of the horizon.

All was hushed … all things were faint under the malignant glare of the last sun rays. No sound, no sight of a bird; even the sparrows hid themselves. Only somewhere close by, persistently a great burdock leaf flapped and whispered.

How strong was the smell of the wormwood in the hedges! I looked at the dark-blue mass … there was a vague uneasiness at my heart. ‘Come then, quickly, quickly!’ was my thought, ‘flash, golden snake, and roll thunder! move, hasten, break into floods, evil storm-cloud; cut short this agony of suspense!’

But the storm-cloud did not move. It lay as before, a stifling weight upon the hushed earth … and only seemed to swell and darken.

And lo, over its dead dusky-blue, something darted in smooth, even flight, like a white handkerchief or a handful of snow. It was a white dove flying from the direction of the village.

It flew, flew on straight … and plunged into the forest. Some instants passed by—still the same cruel hush…. But, look! Two handkerchiefs gleam in the air, two handfuls of snow are floating back, two white doves are winging their way homewards with even flight.

And now at last the storm has broken, and the tumult has begun!

I could hardly get home. The wind howled, tossing hither and thither in frenzy; before it scudded low red clouds, torn, it seemed, into shreds; everything was whirled round in confusion; the lashing rain streamed in furious torrents down the upright trunks, flashes of lightning were blinding with greenish light, sudden peals of thunder boomed like cannon-shots, the air was full of the smell of sulphur….

But under the overhanging roof, on the sill of the dormer window, side by side sat two white doves, the one who flew after his mate, and the mate he brought back, saved, perhaps, from destruction.

They sit ruffling up their feathers, and each feels his mate’s wing against his wing….

They are happy! And I am happy, seeing them…. Though I am alone … alone, as always.

May 1879.

TO-MORROW! TO-MORROW!

How empty, dull, and useless is almost every day when it is spent! How few the traces it leaves behind it! How meaningless, how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another!

And yet it is man’s wish to exist; he prizes life, he rests hopes on it, on himself, on the future…. Oh, what blessings he looks for from the future!

But why does he imagine that other coming days will not be like this day he has just lived through?

Nay, he does not even imagine it. He likes not to think at all, and he does well.

‘Ah, to-morrow, to-morrow!’ he comforts himself, till ‘to-morrow’ pitches him into the grave.

Well, and once in the grave, thou hast no choice, thou doest no more thinking.

May 1879.

NATURE

I dreamed I had come into an immense underground temple with lofty arched roof. It was filled with a sort of underground uniform light.

In the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe of green colour. Her head propped on her hand, she seemed buried in deep thought.

At once I was aware that this woman was Nature herself; and a thrill of reverent awe sent an instantaneous shiver through my inmost soul.

I approached the sitting figure, and making a respectful bow, ‘O common Mother of us all!’ I cried, ‘of what is thy meditation? Is it of the future destinies of man thou ponderest? or how he may attain the highest possible perfection and happiness?’

The woman slowly turned upon me her dark menacing eyes. Her lips moved, and

I heard a ringing voice like the clang of iron.

‘I am thinking how to give greater power to the leg-muscles of the flea, that he may more easily escape from his enemies. The balance of attack and defence is broken…. It must be restored.’

‘What,’ I faltered in reply, ‘what is it thou art thinking upon? But are not we, men, thy favourite children?’

The woman frowned slightly. ‘All creatures are my children,’ she pronounced, ‘and I care for them alike, and all alike I destroy.’

‘But right … reason … justice …’ I faltered again.

‘Those are men’s words,’ I heard the iron voice saying. ‘I know not right nor wrong…. Reason is no law for me—and what is justice?—I have given thee life, I shall take it away and give to others, worms or men … I care not…. Do thou meanwhile look out for thyself, and hinder me not!’

I would have retorted … but the earth uttered a hollow groan and shuddered, and I awoke.

August 1879.

‘HANG HIM!’

‘It happened in 1803,’ began my old acquaintance, ‘not long before

Austerlitz. The regiment in which I was an officer was quartered in

Moravia.

‘We had strict orders not to molest or annoy the inhabitants; as it was, they regarded us very dubiously, though we were supposed to be allies.

‘I had a servant, formerly a serf of my mother’s, Yegor, by name. He was a quiet, honest fellow; I had known him from a child, and treated him as a friend.

‘Well, one day, in the house where I was living, I heard screams of abuse, cries, and lamentations; the woman of the house had had two hens stolen, and she laid the theft at my servant’s door. He defended himself, called me to witness…. «Likely he’d turn thief, he, Yegor Avtamonov!» I assured the woman of Yegor’s honesty, but she would not listen to me.

‘All at once the thud of horses’ hoofs was heard along the street; the commander-in-chief was riding by with his staff. He was riding at a walking pace, a stout, corpulent man, with drooping head, and epaulettes hanging on his breast.

‘The woman saw him, and rushing before his horse, flung herself on her knees, and, bare-headed and all in disorder, she began loudly complaining of my servant, pointing at him.

‘»General!» she screamed; «your Excellency! make an inquiry! help me! save me! this soldier has robbed me!»

‘Yegor stood at the door of the house, bolt upright, his cap in his hand, he even arched his chest and brought his heels together like a sentry, and not a word! Whether he was abashed at all the general’s suite halting there in the middle of the street, or stupefied by the calamity facing him, I can’t say,