THE EQUINOX
and was almost a genius in disgrace—‘ terribly clever” the
old men said—once told the little Piotr what it was to be
blind. Fortunately for the child’s mental equilibrium, he also
spoke of the compensation.
“What they mean, boy, when they call you blind, is that
you cannot see,” he said; “that is, your eyes have been given
unto you by the devil, and not by God. Your father must
have been rather a bad fellow, you know. When you hear the
women singing at the dance, it is that God has given you your
ears; if you didn’t enjoy the sounds it would mean that the
devil has given you your ears, as the Book says, which God
wrote in Russian for our people: “ They have ears and they
hear not.” However, you hear well, and smell well, and your
two other senses are all right. What you miss, it’s the colour
of things. I cannot explain it to you, and it would do you no
good if I did. Your compensation is that you do not see that
which is ugly, ugly like old Ivan Semenovich, and also that
you hear and’ feel and smell with more accuracy than we do.
Of course, it is nice to see as well, and I will pray Christ for
you, especially if you can give mea few coppers with which to
buy tapers. You must have plenty of them; people seem to
give you very freely.”
Thus the tiresome brute, who had but a few chances of
getting drunk in the place.
Happily, Piotr and little Ljubov taught one another a
simpler and more natural theory. She was now twelve, and
the boy fourteen years old. And I chanced to be staying in
the neighbourhood. I met them, as hand in hand they
cautiously crossed a lane, close to the spot where I was
meditating. The girl I had seen before the accident, and only
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