Petersburg (61 page)

‘If only he would stop!
…

‘Oh, if only!
…

‘And, oh, if only he would hear me out!
…’

But the sad, tall figure, without looking, without stopping, had already walked past.

The sound of his footsteps receded distinctly: this distinct sound proceeded from the fact that the feet of this passer-by were not shod, like those of the others, in galoshes.
Aleksandr Ivanovich turned round and tried to say something to him softly; he wanted softly to call out to this unknown Misha …

But that place to which Misha had already irrevocably gone – that place stood empty now in a bright, shimmering circle; and there was nothing, no one, except wind and slush.

And from there blinked the fiery yellow tongue of a street lamp.

None the less, he rang the doorbell again.
A Petersburg cockerel answered the bell again: the dampish sea wind whistled through the chinks; the wind moaned in the gateway and on the other side of the street struck with all its might against an iron sign that said ‘Cheap Public Dining-Room’; and the iron fell with a crash into the darkness.

Matvei Morzhov

At last the gate began to creak.

The bearded yardkeeper, Matvei Morzhov, Aleksandr Ivanovich’s friend of long standing, admitted him over the house’s threshold: retreat was cut off; and the gate closed.

‘Why so late?’

‘I had business …’

‘Is his honour still out looking for a job?’

‘Yes, that’s right, I am …’

‘Of course you are: there aren’t any jobs now … Except maybe, if there’s a vacancy at the police station …’

‘But they won’t have me at the police station, Matvei …’

‘Of course: why should you go to the police station …’

‘So you see?’

‘And there aren’t any jobs now …’

The bearded yardkeeper, Matvei Morzhov, sometimes sent his plump wife, who suffered permanently from an illness of the ear, to Aleksandr Ivanovich, now with a piece of pie, now with an invitation to visit; thus, they drank together on holidays, in the yardkeeper’s lodge: as a man who had gone underground, it was proper for Aleksandr Ivanovich to maintain the closest friendship with the house police.

And besides.

It was simply a good opportunity to come down from his cold garret without danger (as we have seen, Aleksandr Ivanovich hated his garret, and used to stay in it for weeks on end without going out, when to do so seemed risky).

Sometimes to their company were added: Voronkov the police clerk and Bessmertny the shoemaker.
And of late Styopka had been spending all his time in the yardkeeper’s lodge: Styopka was out of work.

Aleksandr Ivanovich, finding himself in the little courtyard, distinctly heard the same old song floating to his ears from the yardkeeper’s lodge:

Some girls

Don’t like a clerk, –

But I’d love one

Any day …

Eddicated

People

Know

Just what to say …
¹¹

‘Got visitors again?’

Matvei Morzhov scratched the nape of his neck with ferocious reflectiveness:

‘We’re having a bit of fun …’

Aleksandr Ivanovich smiled:

‘That’s the clerk from the police station, isn’t it?
…’

‘Who do you mean … Yes, that’s him …’

Suddenly Aleksandr Ivanovich remembered that the name of Voronkov the clerk had been pressingly mentioned – back there, by the
person
; how did the
person
know Voronkov the clerk, and about Voronkov the clerk, and about their meetings?
At the time, he was surprised, and had forgotten to ask.

Mamma buy me

For a dress

Some silk

That’s grey;

Now I shall

Respect

Vasyutka

Son of Aleksei! …

Morzhov the yardkeeper, perceiving that Aleksandr Ivanovich was undecided about something, snuffled with his nose, and gloomily snapped out:

‘Well, then … Into the lodge … Come on in …’

And Aleksandr Ivanovich would have gone: in the yardkeeper’s lodge it was warm and crowded and intoxicating; while in his garret it was lonely and cold.
And yet – no, no: Voronkov the police clerk was there; the
person
had spoken ambiguously about Voronkov the police clerk; and – the devil knew what he was!
But the main thing was: that to go into the lodge would have been a decided act of cowardice; would have been to run away from his own walls.

With a sigh, Aleksandr Ivanovich replied:

‘No, Matvei: it’s time I went to bed …’

‘Of course: as you think best!
…’

But how they were singing in there:

Mamma buy me

For a dress

Some silk

That’s blue:

Now it is

Vasilyev’s son

To whom I’ll be true!

‘Or wouldn’t you like a drink of vodka?’

And simply with a kind of despair, simply with a kind of fury he shouted out:

‘No, no, no!’

And hurled himself into flight towards the silvery cords of firewood.

Then Matvei Morzhov, walking away, threw open the door of the lodge for a moment: white vapour, a pencil of rays, a hubbub of voices, and a smell of warmed-up dirt that had been brought in from the street on boots came out from there in a sharp rush for an instant; and then – bang: the door slammed shut behind Matvei Morzhov.

Retreat was cut off a second time.

Again the moon lit up the distinct outlines of the little square courtyard and the silvery cords of aspen wood, between which Aleksandr Ivanovich flitted as he steered a course towards the black entrance porch.
At his back, words came floating across to him from the yardkeeper’s lodge; that was probably Bessmertny the shoemaker singing.

The rails of the long railway line! …

The embankment! … The signal’s hand!

As the train into washed-away clay

Flew plunging from sleepers to land.

A scene of shattered rail coaches!

A scene of unfortunate folk! …

The rest was not audible.

Aleksandr Ivanovich stopped: yes, yes, yes: it was starting; he had not yet managed to shut himself up in his dark yellow cube, yet already: it was starting, emerging – his inevitable, nightly torture.
And this time it had started outside the rear entrance door.

The same thing was still going on:
they
were keeping an eye on Aleksandr Ivanovich … It had started like this: once, as he returned home, he had seen a man whom he did not know coming down the staircase, and the man had said to him:

‘You are connected with Him …’

Who the man coming down the staircase was, and who
He
(with a capital letter) was, Who connected people to Himself, Aleksandr Ivanovich had not waited to find out, and had instead rushed up the staircase away from the stranger.
The stranger had not pursued him.

And – it had
happened
to Dudkin a second time: he had encountered in the street a man in a peaked cap pulled deep down over his eyes, and with a face so dreadful (inexpressibly dreadful) that a lady whom he did not know and who happened to be passing at the time had seized Aleksandr Ivanovich by the coat-sleeve in alarm:

‘Did you see?
That is horrible, why, it is horrible … That does not happen!
… Oh, what is it?
…’

Meanwhile, the man had passed by.

But in the evening, on the third-floor landing, Aleksandr Ivanovich had been seized by some kind of arms and shoved against the railings, in a manifest attempt to push him – there, down there … Aleksandr Ivanovich had defended himself, struck a match, and … there was no one on the staircase: footsteps neither descending nor ascending.
It was deserted.

Finally at night of late Aleksandr Ivanovich had heard inhuman shrieking … from the staircase: how someone shrieked!
… Shrieked, and then cried out no more.

But the tenants did not hear the shrieking.

Only once had he heard that shrieking – there, by the Bronze Horseman: that was exactly what the shrieking sounded like.
But that had been a motor car, lit up by reflectors.
Only once had Stepan, who was out of work, and sometimes whiled away the nights with him, heard … the shrieking.
But in response to all Aleksandr Ivanovich’s pestering, all he would say, morosely, was:

‘That’s
them
looking for you …’

As to who
they
were, about that Styopka kept mum.
And said not
another word.
Only this Styopka began to avoid Aleksandr Ivanovich’s company, and came to see him less frequently; and as for spending the night – not on your life … And neither to the yardkeeper, nor to Voronkov the police clerk, nor to the shoemaker did Styopka say a word.
And neither did Aleksandr Ivanovich …

But to be forcibly dragooned
into all this
, and not to be able to tell anyone about it!

‘That’s
them
looking for you …’

Who were
they
, and why were
they
looking?
…

There, right now, for example.

Aleksandr Ivanovich involuntarily cast his gaze aloft: to a small window on the fifth, attic floor; and there was light in the window: one could see some kind of angular shadow restlessly slouching about in the window.
In an instant he felt about in his pocket for the key to his room: he had the key with him.
Then who was up there in his locked room?

Was it perhaps a search?
Oh, if only that were all it were: he would fly to the search, like the happiest of men; even if they were to arrest him and put him in … the Peter and Paul Fortress, they would at least be human beings –
not them
.

‘That’s
them
looking for you …’

Aleksandr Ivanovich drew a deep breath and vowed to himself in advance not to be excessively frightened, because the events in which he might now be involved were simply an idle, cerebral game.

Aleksandr Ivanovich went in through the back entrance.

A Lifeless Ray Was Falling through the Window

Yes, yes, yes: there
they
stood; that was how
they
had stood at the time of his last nocturnal return.
And
they
were waiting for him.
Who
they
were, it was positively impossible to say: two outlines.
A lifeless ray was falling through the window from the third floor; it lay whitishly on the grey steps.

And in the most total darkness the whitish blotches lay there so horribly calmly – dauntlessly.

It was into this particular whitish blotch that the railings of the staircase ran; and next to the railings
they
stood: two outlines; they let Aleksandr Ivanovich through, standing to the right and the left of him; this was how they had let Aleksandr Ivanovich through on that occasion, too; had said nothing, had not moved a muscle, had not flinched; all he felt was someone’s evil eye, screwed up, but not blinking, trained on him out of the darkness.

Should he approach
them
, whisper in their ears the incantation that had arisen in his memory out of a dream?

‘Enfranshish, enfranshish!
…’

It was hard – to enter this whitish blotch under their fixed gaze: to be lit up by the moon, feeling on both sides the keen stare of an observer; and again – what was it, to feel the observers of the back staircase behind one’s back, ready for anything at any second; it was hard, was it not, to refrain from quickening one’s step and to cough indifferently?

For Aleksandr Ivanovich had only to rush suddenly, as swift as lightning, up the steps of the staircase, and the observers would rush up after him.

Here the whitish blotches became grey blotches and then began harmoniously to melt; and melted away altogether in the total darkness (a black cloud had evidently covered the moon).

Aleksandr Ivanovich calmly entered the place that had previously been white, and could no longer see the eyes, from which he concluded that his eyes too could not be seen (poor fellow, he consoled himself with the vain thought that he would be able to slip upstairs to his garret unseen).
Aleksandr Ivanovich did not quicken his step, and even – began to tweak his small moustache; and …

… Aleksandr Ivanovich could not endure it any longer.