Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow by Irina Reyfman (top 10 novels of all time .txt) 📕

however they want. But as soon as anyone unmoved by the grossest superstition turns up in the crowd of worshippers, their deceptions are exposed. Such clairvoyants do not dwell in the places where they work their wonders. In the same way, anyone who dares to expose the sorcery of grandees should also beware.

But how could I catch up with His Excellency? He raised a column of dust which disappeared as soon as he flew past, and on arriving in Klin I found that even the memory of him had perished with the noise he made.

* See the manuscript Court Grammar of Fonvizin.

KLIN

“It was in Rome, the city, Prince Euphemius there lived once upon a time….” This singer of this folk song titled “Alexei the Man of God” was a blind old man sitting by the gate of the post station and surrounded by a crowd mostly of children and youths. His hoary head, closed eyes, the look of calm visible on his face compelled those looking at the bard to stand before him in awe. While his tune was artless, its accompanying tenderness of elocution penetrated the hearts of his listeners. They were better attuned to take in nature than the ears of inhabitants of Moscow and Petersburg, trained in harmony, take in the ornate chant of Gabrielli, Marchesi, or Todi. None of those present remained unaffected by a deep shiver when the singer of Klin, as he reached the departure of his hero, barely recited his narrative, his voice breaking moment by moment. The place where his eyes used to be filled with tears emanating from a soul made sensitive by misfortunes, and streams of these poured down his cheeks. O Nature, how powerful you are! Looking at the old man cry, women began to weep; from the lips of youth flew off its habitual companion, the smile; on the face of adolescence appeared diffidence, a true sign of a painful if unknown feeling. Even a manly age, so habituated to cruelty, acquired а solemn appearance. “O Nature!,” I cried out again.

How sweet is a benign feeling of grief! How it renews the heart and its sensitivity. I wept after the gathering at the post station, and my tears were as sweet to me as tears wrenched from my heart by Werther…. O my friend, my friend! Why did not you too see this picture? You would shed tears with me, and the deliciousness of shared feeling would have been far sweeter.

At the end of the recital, everyone present gave the old man something, as it were, in reward for his labor. He received rather indifferently all the half- and quarter-kopecks, all the pieces and chunks of bread, each time augmenting his thanks with a bow, crossing himself, and saying to the giver: “May God grant you health.” I did not want to leave without being sent on my way with a prayer by this elder who was, of course, agreeable to heaven. I wanted his blessing for the fulfillment of my journey and my aspiration. It seemed to me—and I always have this wish—that the benediction of sensitive souls facilitates the path of progress and removes the thorn of doubt. Drawing near him, I placed a ruble in his trembling hand, my hand also trembling from the doubt whether I was acting from vanity. Crossing himself, he did not have a chance to utter his usual blessing to the donor, distracted as he was by the unusual sensation produced by what was in his palm. And this wounded my heart. “How much more a quarter-kopeck given to him pleases him!” I told myself. “He feels in it an ordinary human sympathy for sorrows; in my ruble he perhaps senses my arrogance. He does not offer his blessing to it.” Oh, how petty I then seemed to myself, how I envied those who gave the old man after his singing a quarter-kopeck and a chunk of bread! “Is not this a five-kopeck coin?” he said, directing his speech vaguely, just like his every word. “No, grandfather, this here is a ruble,” a boy standing close to him said.—“Why such alms?” the old man said, lowering the hollow spots of his eyes and seemingly trying to imagine in his head what was lying in his palm. “What good is it to a man who cannot use it. If I were not deprived of sight, how great would be my gratitude. If I had no need, I could provide it to an indigent. Ah, if I had had it after a fire that took place here, the wail of my neighbor’s hungry chicks would have ceased if only for one day. But what’s it to me now? I can’t even see where to put it. It might even provide the occasion for a crime. There is not much gain in stealing a quarter-kopeck, but many people would willingly pocket a ruble. Take it back, kind sir: with your ruble you and I might create a thief.” O truth! when you are a rebuke how harsh you are to a feeling heart. “Take it back, I really do not need it, and I am not worth it now, since I did not serve the sovereign portrayed on it. It pleased the Creator to deprive me of my bearings when I was still vigorous. I patiently abide His chastisement. He visited me for my sins…. I was a soldier, took part in many battles with the enemies of my fatherland, and I always fought boldly. But one should be a warrior only out of necessity. Rage always filled my heart at the beginning of a battle. I never spared an enemy lying at my feet and did not grant mercy to the disarmed when he asked for it. Exalted by the victory of our arms, as I aimed for punishment and spoils, I fell, deprived of sight and feeling by the cannonball that flew past my eyes while still in