Easter Eve

"Easter Eve" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into themes of love, loss, and human connections. Set on the eve of the Easter holiday, the narrative offers a glimpse into the lives of its characters as they reflect on their relationships and the passage of time. Through Chekhov's characteristic style, the story captures the quiet, often unspoken emotions that define their experiences, highlighting the bittersweet nature of life and the significance of moments shared with others. The interplay between the festive backdrop of Easter and the characters' internal struggles underscores Chekhov's mastery in portraying the complexities of the human condition.

								
I was standing on the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the ferry-
boat from the other side. At ordinary times the Goltva is a humble
stream of moderate size, silent and pensive, gently glimmering from
behind thick reeds; but now a regular lake lay stretched out before me.
The waters of spring, running riot, had overflowed both banks and
flooded both sides of the river for a long distance, submerging
vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so that it was no unusual
thing to meet poplars and bushes sticking out above the surface of the
water and looking in the darkness like grim solitary crags.

The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could see the
trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was lighted by the
stars, which were scattered thickly all over the sky. I don't remember
ever seeing so many stars. Literally one could not have put a finger in
between them. There were some as big as a goose's egg, others tiny as
hempseed. . . . They had come out for the festival procession, every one
of them, little and big, washed, renewed and joyful, and everyone of
them was softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water;
the stars were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the
quivering eddies. The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, far
away on the further bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright
red lights were gleaming. . . .

A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette of a peasant in a
high hat, with a thick knotted stick in his hand.

"How long the ferry-boat is in coming!" I said.

"It is time it was here," the silhouette answered.

"You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?"

"No I am not," yawned the peasant--"I am waiting for the illumination. I
should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I haven't the five kopecks
for the ferry."

"I'll give you the five kopecks."

"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle
for me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be more interesting,
and I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had
sunk in the water!"

The peasant went up to the water's edge, took the rope in his hands, and
shouted; "Ieronim! Ieron--im!"

As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal of a great bell floated
across from the further bank. The note was deep and low, as from the
thickest string of a double bass; it seemed as though the darkness
itself had hoarsely uttered it. At once there was the sound of a cannon
shot. It rolled away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the far
distance behind me. The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself.

'"Christ is risen," he said.

Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell had time to die away
in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third, and the darkness
was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh
lights flashed, and all began moving together and twinkling restlessly.

"Ieron--im!" we heard a hollow prolonged shout.

"They are shouting from the other bank," said the peasant, "so there is
no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep."

The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew one towards them. . .
. I was already beginning to lose patience and grow anxious, but behold
at last, staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of something
very much like a gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It moved
towards us with such deliberation that if it had not been that its lines
grew gradually more definite, one might have supposed that it was
standing still or moving to the other bank.

"Make haste! Ieronim!" shouted my peasant. "The gentleman's tired of
waiting!"

The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and stopped with a creak. A
tall man in a monk's cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the
rope.

"Why have you been so long?" I asked jumping upon the ferry.

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Ieronim answered gently. "Is there no
one else?"

"No one. . . ."

Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, bent himself to the figure
of a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat creaked and gave
a lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat began slowly
retreating from me--so the ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew
himself up and began working with one hand only. We were silent, gazing
towards the bank to which we were floating. There the illumination for
which the peasant was waiting had begun. At the water's edge barrels of
tar were flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson as the
rising moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks. The burning barrels
lighted up their own smoke and the long shadows of men flitting about
the fire; but further to one side and behind them from where the velvety
chime floated there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All at
once, cleaving the darkness, a rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up
the sky; it described an arc and, as though broken to pieces against the
sky, was scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank
like a far-away hurrah.

"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:

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