IV.
Peter had lost all interest in the books that Maxim used to read aloud to him, and nothing ever arrested his attention now, unless it bore directly or indirectly upon his own affairs. Once he interrupted the reading to ask,—
“Red ringing; carmine ringing,—what does that mean? Can one see colors in tones?”
“No,” replied Maxim; “but some sounds make an impression analogous to that of colors. I am not sure that I shall be doing right, or even if I shall succeed in explaining this analogy to you so that you will be able to understand it; but I have often thought of it myself, and this is the way it appears to me: Whenever I look upon a bright red surface of any considerable dimensions, it produces on me the impression of something flexible and quivering. It seems as if this red surface were changing every instant; rising from a substratum of a deeper color, it throbs, so to speak, with swift pulsations of a lighter shade, making a most vivid impression on the eyes. That may be the reason why a certain kind of ringing is called red.”
“Yes, yes! wait a moment,” said Peter, quickly opening the piano; and with practised hand he struck the key-board in imitation of the holiday bell-ringing. The illusion was unusually perfect. A chord in the middle register served as a background, while the clearer high notes rose over it as though leaping and bounding through the air.
“Is that it?” asked the blind man.
“Yes, that is like it; and I know persons who are as unpleasantly affected by those sounds as I myself am affected by the color. I believe the expression ‘carmine ringing’ refers to post-bells. After a bell has been ringing for a long time it grows monotonous,—the sound becomes deeper, softer, and more uniform, although it is still as distinct as ever. The same effect may be obtained by a skilful selection of the different tones.”
“Now, listen,” said Peter; and under his fingers the piano rang out like the spasmodic peals of a post-bell.
“No, that is not the way,” said Maxim. “You must play more softly.”
“Ah, yes, I remember!”
And now the instrument sent forth tones, low, rhythmical, and sad, like the music of a “set of bells” under the dugà of a Russian tròika, receding along the dusty road in the dim vista of evening,—a sound low and monotonous, growing softer and softer, until the last notes are lost amid the silence of the quiet fields.
“Ah, now you have it! You have caught the idea,” said Maxim. “Our language possesses certain definitions applicable to our conceptions of sound and light, as well as of touch. Thus we use the word ‘brilliant’ in regard to tones, and also in regard to colors; and the word ‘soft’ belonging primarily to the sense of touch, may also be applied to colors. We even say a ‘warm’ color, a ‘cold’ color. Of course this is only by way of analogy, but they show some points of resemblance. Some time ago, while you were still a child, your mother tried to explain colors to you by means of sounds.”
“Yes, I remember. Why did you forbid us to continue? Perhaps I might have succeeded in understanding.”
“No,” replied Maxim, “that would have been impossible, and all your labor would have been in vain. You can study an object by itself, as far as its form and the space it occupies are concerned,—and you seem able, in some inscrutable way, to perceive vague differences in color; but in order to gain any distinct ideas of form, size, and color the sense of sight is absolutely indispensable. The sooner you give up your vain efforts the better it will be for you.”
Peter made no reply; but afterward he returned to those musical experiments that had been given up in days gone by. While he by the sense of touch would examine bits of bright-colored cloth, his mother—her nerves strained to their utmost tension, and trembling with agitation—would try to represent the color by a correspondence in sound.
Maxim no longer opposed these performances; he realized that his influence was of no avail against that inward impulse, and felt that it would be better to allow the blind man to pursue his own course, that in the end he might be convinced that all his efforts to combine these separate impressions were utterly in vain. And that this result might be the sooner attained, Maxim lent his own assistance to promote the blind man’s researches.
“Uncle Maxim,” said Peter to him one day, “you once described red to me by means of words so vividly, I wish you would tell me about the other colors that you see in Nature.”
Maxim paused to consider. “That is a very difficult matter; but I will try. I will begin by describing to you something with which you are perfectly familiar, and that is blood. Blood courses through the veins, but it cannot be seen. It circulates through the body, diffused by the heart, which is constantly throbbing, beating, and burning with sorrow or joy. When a sudden thought occurs to you, or when from dreams you awake trembling and weeping, it is because the heart has given a more rapid impulse to the blood, and sent it coursing in bright streams to the brain. Well, this blood is red.”
“Red, warm,” said the young man, thoughtfully.
Maxim paused: was it well for him to go on with these fruitless illustrations? But when he saw the eagerness with which the blind man was hanging on his words, he sighed, and made up his mind to continue.
“First, I will tell you about the heavens. If you lift your arm above your head, you will describe with it a semi-circle in space. In the same way, infinitely far above us, we behold the vaulted semi-circle of the hemisphere. It is blue. We call it the sky. The sun crosses it from east to west,—that you already know. You can also tell when the sky is overcast; at such times its blue depths are hidden by the confused and portentous outlines of dense masses of clouds. You always perceive the approach of a threatening storm-cloud—”
“Yes, I am conscious of an influence that agitates the soul.”
“You are right. A blue sky is the symbol of serene and lasting happiness. We watch for the return of the dark-blue sky. The tempest will pass over, while the sky above remains ever the same; knowing this, we can wait patiently for the passage of the storm. The sky then is blue; and the sea when it is calm is of the same color. Your mother has blue eyes, and Evelyn’s eyes are also blue.”
“Like the sky,” murmured the blind man, tenderly.
“Blue eyes are said to be the token of a pure soul. Now I will tell you about the earth. A little while ago it was spring; now the summer has come, and the surface of the ground is nearly all covered with green grass. The earth is black; and in the early spring the trunks and branches of the trees look black too, and moist; but no sooner are these dark surfaces warmed by the rays of the sun than they send forth green grass and leaves. Vegetation requires light and warmth; but the amount must not be excessive. The reason why all that is green is so grateful to the eye, is that it seems like the union of warmth and cool moisture; it arouses sensations of calm contentment and health, but not those of passion, or what the world calls happiness. Do you understand?”
“No, it is not quite clear. But please go on.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can make that clearer; but I will tell you more. The summer grows hotter and brighter as it goes on. All vegetation seems to be oppressed with its own vitality; the leaves droop, and if the heat of the sun is not cooled by the refreshing rain, the green vegetation grows utterly parched and withers away. But with the approach of autumn, the juicy fruit begins to ripen among the brown and faded leaves, reddening most on the side next the sun, as if all the intensity and passion of vegetable nature were concentrated therein. You see that even here red is as ever the symbol of passion. It is the color of luxury and delight; the color of sin, anger, and madness; the emblem of unforgiving vengeance.—But you fail to follow me!”
“Never mind; go on, go on!”
“The autumn comes. The fruit has grown heavy; it drops and falls to the ground,—it dies; but the seed still lives,—and therein lies the germ of a ‘possibility’ of some future plant, with its luxuriant foliage and its fruit. The seed falls on the ground; and above this ground the cold sun hangs low, the cold wind sweeps over it, the cold clouds float overhead. So life and the passions die slowly, imperceptibly. Day by day the blackness of the soil shows more and more plainly through the green grass, until at last the day comes when the snowflakes fall by millions and cover the ground, humble and sorrowful in its widowhood, with a mantle of one uniform color,—cold, and white. The cold snow, the clouds that float in the inaccessible heights above our heads, the grand and sterile mountain-peaks, all are white. It is the emblem of a passionless nature, of the cold purity of holiness, and of the future spiritual life. As to black—”
“I know,” interrupted the blind man, “that signifies silence and quiescence. It is night.”
“Yes; and therefore the emblem of death.”
Peter shuddered, and said in a low tone: “Yes,—as you say yourself,—of death. And for me black is the prevailing color!”
“You are wrong to say that,” rejoined Maxim unhesitatingly, “when you have access to all the pleasures of sound, warmth and movement.”
“Yes,” replied the young man, thoughtfully, “that is true. Sounds also have their colors; and I have learned to know the red tones, the green and the majestic white ones, that soar aloft in inaccessible heights. But those nearest akin to me are the dark tones of grief, which reverberate close to the earth. I never rejoice when I play,—I weep.”
“Let me tell you,” said Maxim earnestly, “of one gift which you fail to appreciate at its proper value,—one that has been bestowed upon you with a generosity rarely found among mortals. We have already spoken of light, warmth, and sound. But you know still another joy,—you are surrounded by love. You take little heed of this, and the reason of your suffering may be ascribed to an egotistic cherishing of your own woes.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Peter, passionately, “I cherish them against my will! Where can I hide from them, when they are with me wherever I go?”
“Could you once realize that the world is full of sorrow a hundredfold harder to bear than yours,—sorrows in comparison with which your life, rich in consolations and sympathy, may well be called bliss,—then—”
“No, no! it is not so!” interrupted the blind man, angrily, in his former tone of passionate excitement. “I would change places with the lowest beggar; gladly would I wear his rags! He sees!”
“Very well,” said Maxim, coldly, “I will prove to you that you are mistaken.”