Why all
these strange letterings--so unnecessary, so dangerous to the life of an
orthodox Christian? What one brother has to tell another--why write it
down?
He saw the straw pallet destined for his nocturnal repose. It reminded
him dimly of a similar resting-place during his monastic life. Then,
too, he had slept on a couch near the floor. Flickering visions came to
him of those days, so long ago, ere yet the First Revelation was given
to the world. A breath of old Russia was wafted into his nostrils. He
remembered the lusty, jovial country folk, the songs and dances at
hay-making, the fragrance of the land, the sluggish rivers rolling
their brown mud about the plains, the mild long-drawn evenings. He felt
again that all-pervading charm of sadness, of tender yearning, that
hangs in the pale Russian sky and penetrates to the very soul of the
endless country.
Gloomy autumn days--wet leaves and lowering horizons. The long winter
within doors. Faces appeared to him, faces of old, an endless
procession of faces clear-cut as ever .
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