re
were some who laughed and even thought his writing a sin."

"What did he write them for?"

"Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the
only one who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that
no one else might know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest
in them. He would embrace me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressing
words as to a little child. He would shut his cell, make me sit
down beside him, and begin to read. . . ."

Ieronim left the rope and came up to me.

"We were dear friends in a way," he whispered, looking at me with
shining eyes. "Where he went I would go. If I were not there he
would miss me. And he cared more for me than for anyone, and all
because I used to weep over his hymns. It makes me sad to remember.
Now I feel just like an orphan or a widow. You know, in our monastery
they are all good people, kind and pious, but . . . there is no one
with softness and refinement, they are just like peasants. They all
speak loudly, and tramp heavily when they walk; they are noisy,
they clear their throats, but Nikolay always talked softly,
caressingly, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying
he would slip by like a fly or a gnat. His face was tender,
compassionate. . . ."

Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We were
by now approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the darkness
and stillness of the river into an enchanted realm, full of stifling
smoke, crackling lights and uproar. By now one could distinctly see
people moving near the tar barrels. The flickering of the lights
gave a strange, almost fantastic, expression to their figures and
red faces. From time to time one caught among the heads and faces
a glimpse of a horse's head motionless as though cast in copper.

"They'll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, . . ." said Ieronim,
"and Nikolay is gone; there is no one to appreciate it. . . . There
was nothing written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to take
in every word! You'll be there, sir, so notice what is sung; it
takes your breath away!"

"Won't you be in church, then?"

"I can't; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . ."

"But won't they relieve you?"

"I don't know. . . . I ought to have been relieved at eight; but,
as you see, they don't come! . . . And I must own I should have liked
to be in the church. . . ."

"Are you a monk?"

"Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother."

The ferry ran into