"LET THE DEAD BURY THE DEAD."—Matthew, ch. vii.
It was night time when Prince Constantine arrived at his brother's little cabin. Young Vilyashev himself opened the door, and throughout the brief conversation that ensued they remained in darkness—not even a candle was lighted. Tall, lean, cadaverous, dressed in a much- worn day suit, his cap under his arm, Constantine listened to Vilyashev's account of their sister's last moments.
"She died peacefully," the young man told his brother, "and she was quite calm to the end, for she believed in God. But she could not rid herself of memories of the past. How could she when the present shows such an awful contrast? Famine, , typhus, sorrow brood over the countryside. Our old home is the hands of strangers: we ourselves are outcasts living in a peasant's cabin. Imagine what this meant to a delicately woman! Men are wild beasts, brother."
"There were three of us," Constantine said with quiet bitterness— "you, Natalia, and myself. It is ended! I travelled here in a cattle- truck, walking from the station on foot—and was too late for the funeral."
"She was buried yesterday. She knew from the first she was dying, and would not stir a step from here."
"Poor girl," sighed Constantine. "She had lived here all her life."
He left without a word of farewell, and they did not meet again until the next evening: both had spent the day wandering about the valleys.
At dawn the following morning Vilyashev a steep hill; on the flat summit of a tumulus that crowned it he observed an eagle tearing a pigeon to pieces. At his approach the bird flew up into the clear, empty sky, towards the east, emitting a low, deep, unforgettable cry that echoed dolefully over the fields.
From the hill and tumulus could be seen a vast of meadows, , villages, and white steeples of churches. A golden sun rose and swung slowly above the hill, the horizon, the clouds, hill-ridges, and the tumulus; steeping them in wave upon wave of yellow light.
Below, in wisps and long slender ribbons, a mist crept over the fields; it covered everything with the softest of warmly light. There was a morning frost, and thin sheets of ice crackled in the . An invigorating breeze stirred gently, as if but half- , and tenderly of bracken, sliding softly upward from and roots, tremulously the sweet-smelling grass, to sweep grandly over the hill- in and , increasing in volume as it sped.
The earth was : it panted like a thirsty wood-spirit. Cranes sent their , mournful cries echoing over the undulating plains and valleys; birds of passage were a-wing. It was the of , tumultuous, spring.
Bells mournfully over the fragrant earth. Typhus, famine, death spread like a poisonous vapour through the villages, through the peasants' tiny cabins. The windowless huts waved the rotting straw of their in the wind as they had done five hundred years ago, when they had been taken down every spring to be carried further into the forests—ever eastward—to the Chuvash tribe.
In every hut there was hunger. In every hut there was death. In every one the fever-stricken lay under holy ikons, surrendering their souls to the Lord in the same calm, stoical and wise spirit in which they had lived.
Those who survived bore the dead to the churches, and went in and through the fields carrying crosses and banners. They dug round the villages and sprinkled the dykes with Holy Water; they prayed for bread and for from death, while the air with the of bells.
Nevertheless, at eventide the came to the tumulus arrayed in their home-woven dresses, and sang their old, old songs, for it was spring and the mating season for all living things. Yet they sang alone, for their youths had been given to the Moloch of war: they had gone to Uralsk, to Ufa, and to Archangel. Only old men were left to plough the fields in the spring.
Vilyashev stood dejectedly on the crest of the hill, a , lonely figure outlined darkly against the clear blue background of sky and distance. He gazed unseeingly into space; thought and movement alike were suspended. He was only conscious of pain. He knew all was ended. Thus his errant forbear from the north may have stood five hundred years ago, leaning upon his lance, a sword in his chain girdle.
Vilyashev pictured him with a beard like Constantine's. He had had glory and conquest awaiting him; he strode the world a ! But now—little Natalya who had died of famine-typhus had realized that they were no longer needed, neither she, nor Constantine, nor himself! She was calling to him across the great ; it was as if her words were trembling on the air, telling him the hour had struck. The Vilyashev's power had been great; it had been achieved by force; by force it had been , the vulture- nest was torn to pieces. Men had become .
The Prince and made his way to the river Oka, ten miles distant, wandering all day through the fields and dales—a giant full seven feet high, with a beard to his waist. The heavy earth clung to his boots. At last he flung himself on to the ground, burying his face in his hands, and lay motionless, abandoning himself to an anxious, sorrowful reverie.
Snow still lay on the lowlands, but the sky was warm, , expansive. The Oka broadened out rushing in a , towards its , and its banks. Purling danced and sang their way through the valleys. The wind breathed a feeling of expectancy—sweet, tender, evanescent, like the day-dream of a Russian who has not yet known the secrets of love. With delicate fingers it gently the barren hill that frowned above the Oka, uttering its gentle poignantly-stirring song at the same time.
warbled. From all around echoed the happy cries of birds; the vernal air thrilled and vibrated in great running arpeggios to the wonder-music of the winds. The river alone preserved a silence.
Vilyashev brooded a long while beside the swiftly running waters; but at sunset's approach he rose hastily, and returned to the tumulus. The sky was wrapped in its evening of deep, mysterious darkness. Set brightly against the sombre background of the tumulus- crowned hill stood shining silver birch trees and dark shaggy firs: they now looked and in the fading light. For a moment the world glowed like a huge golden ball; then the whole countryside was one vast of green, finally into a deep illimitable purple. Down the valley crept the mist, trailing its filmy veils over point and peak and . The air with the cries of geese and bitterns. The of the spring-time night set in and covered the world—that hush that is more than thunder, that gathers the forest sounds and to itself, and weaves them all into a tense, vernal harmony.
Prince Constantine's gaunt form struck a sharp note of as he walked straight up to the tumulus. His presence breathed conflict and stress that accorded ill with the universal peace of nature.
He greeted his brother, and began to smoke; the light from his cigarette illumined his eagle nose and bony brow; his quiet grey eyes gleamed with a wintry look.
"One longs to fly away like a bird in the spring," he murmured; then added with a sharp change of tone; "How did Natalya die?"
"In her right mind, thank God! But, she had lived torn by a madness of and contempt, all, despising all."
"What wonder, look around you!" cried Constantine. He hesitated a moment then said softly: "To-morrow is the Annunciation—the recollection of that festival made me think. Look around!"
The tumulus stood out sheer and , a grim of a bygone age. There was a faint through last year's wormwood. The air arose from the plains in a of quivering chords, upward like a welling spring. There was the of decaying . The sky beyond had darkened, charged to the brim with mystery. The atmosphere became moist and cold; the valley lay beneath—empty, , a region of illimitable space.
"Do you hear?" Constantine asked.
"Hear what?"
"The earth's ."
"Yes, it is waking. Do you hear the soft stir and among the roots of the flowers and grass? The whisper of the trees, the of leaves and fronds? It is the earth's welcome to the Spring."
Constantine shook his head: "Not joy … sorrow. The air is with the scent of decay. To-morrow will see the Annu............