Poor Folk and Other Stories (25 page)

Then there would seem to begin for him once again the soft, tranquil years of his early childhood with their luminousjoy, their inextinguishable happiness, their first sweet wonder at life, their hosts of radiant spirits which flew out from every flower he plucked, which played with him on the succulent green meadow in front of the little house surrounded with acacia, which smiled to him from the crystal waters of the vast lake by which he sat for hours on end, listening to wave lapping upon wave, and which rustled about him with their wings, lovingly strewing his little cradle-cot with bright, rainbow-coloured dreams, as his mother leaned over him, making the sign of the cross over him, kissing him and lulling him to sleep with a quiet lullaby in the long, peaceful nights. But then, suddenly, a being had started to appear which had disturbed him with an unchildlike horror, and had infused his life with the first, slow poison of bitterness and tears; he sensed obscurely that a mysterious old man held all his future years in his power and, trembling, he was unable to take his eyes off him. The evil old man followed him everywhere. The old man would look out from behind every bush in the shrubbery, deceitfully nodding his head, laughing, and teasing him; he would come to life in every one of the boy's dolls, making faces and chortling with laughter in his hands, like an evil, ugly gnome; he would incite every one of
the boy's heartless schoolfellows against him or, as he sat with those urchins on the schoolroom bench, pull yet more faces, and look out from behind every letter in his grammar-book. Later, as he slept, the evil old man would sit by the head of his bed… He chased away the swarms of bright spirits that rustled about his cradle-cot with their gold and sapphire wings, took his poor mother from him for ever and began at nights to whisper to him a long, strange story, unintelligible to the heart of a child, but tormenting and arousing him with horror and unchildlike passion. But the evil old man would not listen to his pleas and sobs, and would continue to talk to him until he sank into numbness and oblivion. Then the urchin suddenly woke up a man; whole years had passed over him unseen and unheeded. He suddenly realized his true position, suddenly began to understand that he was alone and estranged from the whole world, alone in an alien place among mysterious, suspicious people, among enemies, who kept huddling together and whispering in the corners of his dark room, nodding to the old woman who sat squatting on her heels by the fire as she warmed her decrepit old hands and pointed to him. He fell into confusion, into alarm; he kept wanting to know who these people were, why they were here, why he was in this room, and guessed that he had strayed into some dark den of villains, having been lured there by some powerful but inscrutable force, and having neglected to perceive who and what manner of people were those who lodged here, and who his landlords were. Suspicion began to gnaw at him – and suddenly in the darkness of the night the long, whispered story began once more, this time quietly, barely audibly, through the mouth of an old woman who was telling it to herself, sadly shaking her white and grey head in front of the dying fire. But – once again he was attacked by a sense of horror; the story came to life before him in forms and faces. He saw everything, beginning with the vague dreams of his childhood, and progressing to every thought and dream he had ever had, all that he had experienced in his life, that he had read in books, things he had long ago forgotten about – all of this came to life, acquired flesh and structure, arose before him in colossal forms and images, moving and swarming about him; he saw magic, luxuriant gardens unfolding before him, whole cities being created and destroyed in his sight, whole cemeteries giving up to him their dead,
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who began to live their lives all over again, whole peoples and races coming into being and dying away, and finally, around his sickbed, every one of
his thoughts, every incorporeal daydream he had ever had being embodied almost at the moment of its conception; at last he saw himself thinking not in disembodies ideas, but in whole worlds, whole universes, saw himself floating along like a grain of dust in this strange, infinite world from which there was no escape, and all this life, in its rebellious independence, crushing hi, weighing him down and pursuing him with its eternal, infinite irony; he sensed himself dying, being reduced to dust and ashes, without resurrection, to the end of time; he wanted to run away, but there was no refugefor him in the entire universe. At last, in a fit of despair, straining every nerve in his body, he uttered a shriek and woke up.

He woke up drenched in cold, icy sweat. Dead silence reigned all about him; it was deepest night. Yet still he fancied that somewhere his wonderful story was still continuing, that someone's hoarse voice was telling a long narrative about a subject that seemed familiar to him. He heard the voice talking about dark forests, about fearless bandits, aboutsome daring young blood who was possibly even Stenka Razin
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himself, about merry, drunken barge-haulers, about a certain beautiful maiden, and about Old Mother Volga. Was it not a fantasy? Could he really hear it? For a whole hour he lay with his eyes open, not moving a limb, in a state of agonized numbness. At last he got cautiously to his feet and with joy felt some strength in his body – it has not all been exhausted by his cruel illness. His delirium had passed, and now reality was at hand. He observed that he was still dressed as he had been at the time of his conversation with Katerina and that, consequently, only a short time could have passed since the morning when she had left him. The fire of resolve coursed through his veins. Mechanically he groped with his hands towards a large nail which had for some reason been hammered into the top of the partition against which his bed had been made up, seized hold of it and, letting it take all his weight, somehow managed to pull himself up to the chink through which a barely perceptible glow of light entered his room. He put an eye to the opening and began to look, hardly able to breathe from excitement.

In one corner of the landlord's room stood a bed. In front of the bed there was a table, covered with a rug and piled with books of a large, old-fashioned format, cased in bindings that resembled those of religious books. In this same corner there was an icon which was just as old as the one in his room; a lamp was burning in front of it. On the bad lay the old man, Murin; he was sick, emaciated with
suffering and as white as a sheet, and he was covered with a bedspread made of fur. An open book lay on his knees. On a bench beside the bed lay Katerina; she had her arm around the old man, and was leaning her head on his shoulder. She was looking at him with attentive, childishly wondering eyes, and also, it seemed, with insatiable curiosity, dying with expectation as she listened to what Murin was telling her. At times the voice of the narrator was raised, and his pale features were animated; he would knit his eyebrows, his eyes would begin to glitter, and Katerina seemed to turn pale with fear and agitation. Then something akin to a smile would appear on the face of the old man, and Katerina would quietly begin to laugh. Occasionally tears burned in her eyes; then the old man would tenderly stroke her head, as if she were a child, and she would hug him even more tightly with her bare arm that flashed white as snow, and press herself even more lovingly against him.

At times, as he watched all this, Ordynow thought he was still dreaming, indeed he was convinced of it; but the blood was rushing to his head and the veins were pounding in his temples, intensely and painfully. He let go of the nail, got down from his bed and, staggering and groping his way like a lunatic, not really understanding his own motive, which had flared up like a regular fire in his blood, he approached the door of his landlord's bedroom and pushed at it violently; the rusty bolt came away instantly, and with an ignominious bang he suddenly found himself in the midst of the room. He saw Katerina flutter and tremble all over, saw the old man's eyes begin to glitter from under his heavily knit eyebrows as a sudden fury distorted his features. He saw the old man quickly, not taking his eyes off him, reach with a wandering hand for the musket that hung on the wall; then he saw a flash come from the muzzle of the gun which was aimed, by an uncertain and rage-trembling hand, directly at him… A shot rang out, followed by a wild, almost inhuman shriek, and when the smoke had cleared a strange spectacle met Ordynov's eyes. Trembling all over, he bent down over the old man. Murin lay on the floor; he was being racked by convulsions, his face was distorted with agony, and foam was visible on his twisted lips. Ordynov realized that the unhappy man was suffering an acute fit of epilepsy. Together with Katerina, he rushed to help him…

‘Well, did you hear anything last night?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Who is that man? What sort of fellow is he?'

‘You're the one who's renting a place there, so you ought to know. It's not my business.'

‘Will you or will you not tell me?' Ordynov shouted, beside himself in a fit of morbid irritation.

‘What's it got to do with me? You're the one who's to blame – youfrightened the tenants. There's a coffin-maker lives on the first floor; he's deaf but he heard it all, and so did his old woman, and she's deaf, too. They heard it on the other side of the building, even though it's miles away. I'm going to see theinspector of police…'

‘I'm going to see him myself,' Ordynov replied, and set off towards the gate.

‘As you want; you're the one who's renting the room… Master, master, wait!'

Ordynov looked round; out of politeness the yardkeeper touched his cap.

‘Well?'

‘If you go to the police, I'll go to the owner.'

‘What?'

‘You'd do better to move.'

‘You're stupid,' Ordynov said, and again started to move away.

‘Master, master, wait!'

Again the yardkeeper touched his cap, this time baring his teeth in a grin.

‘Listen, master, have a heart – why cause a poor man a lot of trouble? It's a sin. God won't like it, do you hear?'

‘You listen, too: here, take this. Well, what sort of man is he, then?'

‘What sort of man?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't need to take money to tell you that.'

At this point the yardkeeper picked up his broom and took a couple of swipes with it; then he stood still, giving Ordynov an attentive, important stare.

‘You're a decent gent. If you don't want to live with good folk, it's up to you. That's what I think.'

Here the Tatar gave him an even more meaningful look, and again busied himself with his broom as though he were annoyed about something. Finally, with an air of having completed some task, he went up to Ordynov mysteriously and, making an especially meaning-laden gesture, said:

‘I'll tell you what sort of man he is.'

‘Yes? Tell me!'

‘He's lost his mind.'

‘What?'

‘It flew away. Yes, flew away,' he repeated, in an even more mysterious tone of voice.'He's ill. He had a barge, a big one, and several others besides, he used to navigate the Volga – I'm from the Volga myself, you know; he had a factory, too, but it burned down, and he lost his rocker.'

‘You mean he's insane?'

‘Oh – no!' the Tatar replied. ‘I wouldn't say that. He's a clever
man. He knows everything, he's read a lot of books; he's read and read and read, and he's told other people the truth. What he does is, when somebody comes and gives him two rubles, forty rubles, the more the better, he looks in one of his books, finds the right place and tells the person the truth. But you have to put your cash on the table right away – otherwise it's no deal!'

Here the Tatar, entering into Murin's interests with an excess of imaginative zeal, actually laughed out loud.

‘What is it that he does? Does he put spells on people, tell their fortunes?'

‘Hm…' the yardkeeper mumbled, with a quick shake of his head. ‘He tells the truth. He prays – he does a lot of praying. And sometimes it comes upon him, just like that.'

Here the Tatar made his meaningful gesture once more. Just then someone called to the yardkeeper from the yard at the other side of the house, and then a little, stooping, grey-haired man in a sheepskin coat appeared. As he walked he groaned and stumbled, looking at the ground and whispering something to himself. One might have supposed that he had lost his wits from senility.

‘The owner, the owner!' the yardkeeper whispered, hurriedly, nodding quickly to Ordynov and, tearing off his cap, he set off at a run towards the old man, whose face Ordynov thought was somehow familiar; at least, he had encountered it somewhere only a very short time ago. But reasoning that there was nothing so very strange about that, he walked out of the yard. The yardkeeper seemed to him a villain and upstart of the first order.'That loafer was almost bargaining with me!' he thought.'Lord knows what he was up to.'

When he said this, he was already out on the street.

Little by little, other thoughts began to preoccupy him. They were mostly of a cheerless sort: the day was grey and cold, with flurries of snow. The young man felt his limbs begin to ache with a feverish shiver again. Suddenly a familiar voice wished him good morning in an unpleasantly sweet, ringing tenor.

‘Yaroslav Ilyich!' said Ordynov.

Before him stood a cheerful, red-cheeked man who looked about thirty; he was short of stature, with grey, oily eyes and a little smile on his face, and he was dressed… in the way Yaroslav Ilyich always dressed. He extended his hand in a most pleasant manner. Ordynov had made Yaroslav llyich's acquaintance exactly a year before quite by chance, practically in the street. They had formed their acquaint-anceship very easily, partly because of its element of chance, and partly because of Yaroslav Ilyich's unusual propensity for everywhere seeking out good, decent people, who were above all educated and who were worthy, at least so far as talent and polite behaviour were concerned, of belonging to the highest society. Although Yaroslav llyich had an extremely sweet tenor voice, even in conversation with his most intimate friends there was in its tone something extraordinarily radiant, powerful and commanding, something that would countenance no procrastination and was probably the result of habit.

‘How is it possible?' Yaroslav IIyich exclaimed, with an expression of the most sincere, enthusiastic delight.

‘I live here.'

‘Have you lived here long?' Yaroslav Ilyich enquired, his voice steadily rising in pitch. ‘I didn't know! Why, we're neighbours! I'm back at the local station
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here now – got back from Ryazan a month ago. I've found you out, my old and trusted friend!' And Yaroslav Ilyich burst into the most good-natured laughter.

‘Sergeyev!' he cried in a sudden burst of inspiration.'Wait for me at Tarasov's, and don't let them lay a finger on those sacks until I get there. And winkle out the yardkeeper at Olsufyev's; tell him to report to the office immediately. I'll be there in an hour…'

Having quickly issued these instructions to the person concerned, the tactful Yaroslav Ilyich took Ordynov by the arm and led him off to the nearest pub.

‘I shall not rest easy in my mind until I've exchanged a few words alone with you after such a long time. Well, how are your studies?' he went on, lowering his voice mysteriously and almost reverently.'Still at your book learning?'

‘Yes, I'm still working on my project,' replied Ordynov, to whom a bright idea had just occurred.

‘Nobly done, Vasily Mikhailovich, nobly done!' At this point Yaroslav Ilyich shook Ordynov's hand firmly.'You will be the pride of our coterie. May the Lord grant you a prosperous passage on your chosen career… Goodness! How glad I am that I met you! How many times I have remembered you, how many times I have said: “Where is he, our good, magnanimous, sharp-witted Vasily Mikhailovich?”'

They engaged the snuggery. Yaroslav Ilyich ordered snacks, asked for vodka to be served and looked at Ordynov with feeling.

‘I've read a lot since I last saw you,' he began in a timid, slightly ingratiating tone of voice.'I've read the whole of Pushkin…'

Ordynov gave him a distracted look.

‘His depiction of human passion is remarkable, sir. But I should like to begin by expressing my gratitude to you. You have done so much for me by nobly instilling me with a sense of justice…'

‘Oh, please!'

‘No, sir, I insist. I always like to render justice where justice is due, and am proud that this feeling at least has not died in me.'

‘Please, you are not being fair to yourself, and to be honest, I…'

‘No, I am being perfectly fair,' Yaroslav Ilyich retorted with unusual vehemence.'What am I compared to you? Eh?'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!'

‘No, sir…'

There followed an interval of silence.

‘Following your advice, I have broken off many vulgar friendships and have to some extent modified the vulgarity of my habits,' Yaroslav Ilyich began again in his slightly timid, ingratiating voice.'In the time I have free from work I mostly stay at home; in the evenings I read an improving book, and… I have but one desire, Vasily Mikhailovich – to do what I can to help the fatherland…'

‘I have always considered you a most honourable man, Yaroslav Ilyich.'

‘You unfailingly bring balm to my soul… my noble young man…' said Yaroslav Ilyich.

And he warmly shook Ordynov's hand.

‘You aren't drinking?' he observed, his excitement waning somewhat.

‘I can't; I'm ill.'

‘Ill? You don't say. Have you been ill long? What kind of illness is it? If you like, I'll have a word… What sort of medico's looking after you? If you like, I'll have a word with our local doctor. I'll go and see him myself, in person. He's a very skilful man.'

Yaroslav Ilyich was already reaching for his hat.

‘Thank you, but I haven't got a doctor, and I don't want one – I don't care for them.'

‘What do you say? Is it possible? But this is a most skilful, educated man,' Yaroslav Ilyich went on, entreatingly.'The otherday – letme tell you about this, dear Vasily Mikhailovich – the other day a poor locksmith went to see him: “I've cut my hand on one of my
tools,” he said; “please do something to make it better…” Semyon Pafnutych, the doctor, seeing that the poor fellow was in danger of contracting gangrene, took the precautionary measure of amputating the infected member. I was there when he did it. But he did it in such a manner, so nob… I mean, so exquisitely, that I must confess that had it not been for one's compassion for suffering humanity, it would have been a pleasure to observe, simply out of curiosity. But where did you catch this illness, and how?'

‘Moving from one apartment into another… I've only just got up.'

‘But you're still very unwell, and you ought not to be out. So you're not living where you used to? What prompted you to move?'

‘My landlady had to leave St Petersburg.'

‘Domma Sawishna? Really?… A good-hearted, truly noble old lady! Do you know, I used to have an almost filial respect for her. Some of the exalted quality of our forefathers' days used to shine forth from that life which had almost run its course; as one looked at her, one seemed to see before one the living embodiment of our venerable, majestic past… I mean… there was something so poetic about her!' Yaroslav Ilyich concluded, utterly embarrassed and blushing to his ears.

‘Yes, she was a good woman.'

‘But allow me to ask where you have moved to now.'

‘Not far from here; I've a room in Koshmarov's Tenements.'
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‘I know him. A majestic old man! I may even make so bold as to say that I'm almost a good friend of his. A noble old man!'

Yaroslav Ilyich's mouth was almost trembling from the joy of his tender emotion. He ordered another glass of vodka and a pipe.

‘Do you rent the room direct?'

‘No, from a tenant.'

‘Who is that? Perhaps I know him, too.'

‘An artisan named Murin; he's an old, tall fellow…'

‘Murin, Murin. Yes, I know: he lives at the back of the building, on the floor above the coffin-maker, doesn't he?'

‘Yes, yes, right at the back of the building.'

‘Hm… are you happy living there?'

‘I've only just moved in.'

‘Hm… I only meant to say that, hm… so you haven't noticed anything unusual?'

‘Well…'

‘Oh, I'm sure you'll be all right at his place if you're satisfied with your accommodation… I didn't mean to imply anything like that, wasn't trying to warn you; but knowing the sort of chap you are… What did you think of that old artisan?'

‘Apparently he's a very sick man.'

‘Yes, he suffers a great deal… But didn't you notice anything? Did you speak to him?'

‘Very little; he's so irritable and withdrawn…'

‘Hm…' Yaroslav Ilyich thought for a moment.

‘An unhappy man!' he said, after this pause.

‘The old fellow, you mean?'

‘Yes, he's unhappy, yet at the same time he's an almost improbably strange and interesting character. Anyway, if you're all right with him… Forgive me for bringing the subject up, but I was just curious, that's all…'

‘I must say that you've made me curious, too… I'd very much like to know who he is. After all, I'm living in his apartment…'

‘Listen, I'll tell you something: they say that this man was once very rich. As I expect you've heard, he used to be in business. Through various unhappy circumstances, he became poor; several of his barges sank in a storm with all their loads. His factory, which had apparendy been entrusted to the care of a close and beloved relative, also met with an unhappy fate and burnt down – the relative was killed in the blaze. I think you will agree it was a terrible loss! They say that after that, Murin fell into a terrible depression; people were worried that he might lose his reason, and indeed in a quarrel with another merchant who also owned barges that plied the Volga, he suddenly showed himself in such a strange and unexpected light that people were compelled to regard the entire incident as a result of his having gone temporarily and violently insane, which I am inclined to believe. I have heard some detailed accounts of his strange behaviour; and there finally occurred such an event so extremely strange and, in a manner of speaking, fateful, that it could only be explained in terms of the malevolent influence of angry fortune.'