“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.”