Poor Folk and Other Stories (30 page)

Meditatively and with a kind of sad curiosity the old man looked at his Katerina. His heart had been wounded, the words had been said. But not a muscle of his face moved. When she finished, he merely smiled.

‘You want to know a great many things all at once, my fully fledged little bird, my startled pigeon! You had better fill my cup deep; let us drink first to reconciliation and good will; otherwise someone's black and unclean eye will spoil my prediction. The devil is powerful! Sin is ever near!'

He raised his cup and drained it. The more wine he drank, the paler he grew. His eyes became red as live coals. It was evident that
their hectic lustre and the sudden, corpse-like blueness of his face heralded a fresh attack of his infirmity. The wine was strong, and after only one cup of it Ordynov's head was reeling more and more. His feverishly inflamed blood could restrain itself no longer: it flooded his heart, obscuring his reason and confusing it. His agitation grew worse and worse. He went on pouring wine for himself and gulping down mouthfuls of it, not knowing what to do in order to quell his increasing excitement, and the blood hurtled ever more swiftly through his veins. He was in a kind of delirium, and even though he strained his attention to the uttermost he could hardly follow what was going on between his strange landlord and landlady.

The old man brought his silver cup down on the table with a loud clang.

‘Fill my cup, Katerina!' he cried.'Fill it again, wicked daughter, and again, until I collapse! Lay the old man to rest, and have done with him! That's right, fill my cup again, go on, fill it, you beautiful girl! Let's drain our cups together! Why aren't you drinking? Or have I not been looking…'

Katerina made some reply, but Ordynov could not hear what it was: the old man would not let her finish; he seized her by the arm, as though he were no longer able to contain all the emotions that were jostling within his breast. His face was pale; at one moment his eyes grew dim and lustreless, at the next they flared with a brilliant light; his white lips trembled, and in an unsteady, confused voice, in which at moments there flashed a kind of strange ecstasy, he said to her:

‘Give me your hand, beautiful girl! Let me tell your fortune – I will tell you the whole truth. I am indeed a sorcerer; you are not mistaken, Katerina! Your little golden heart did not deceive you when it told you that I am its sorcerer, and I shall not conceal the truth from it, simple and artless as it is! But there is one thing which you have not understood: it is not for me, a sorcerer, to teach you intellect and reason! Reason does not bring a maiden freedom; she can hear the truth in its entirety, yet still not seem to know or understand. Her head is a cunning serpent, even though her heart is flooded with tears. She will find her own path, snake her way through calamity on her belly, preserve her cunning freedom! Where she can, she will take by intelligence, and where she cannot, she will cloud the mind with beauty, intoxicate it with her evil eye – beauty destroys strength; even a heart of iron will crack down the middle!
You ask me if you will know sadness and sorrow? Heavy is human sadness! But calamity does not strike feeble hearts. It is strong hearts that grow acquainted with calamity; they melt quietly with bloody tears but do not go begging for sympadiy from people in sweet shame: your suffering, maiden, will be like a footprint in thesand – dierain will wash it, the sun will dry it, the stormy wind will blow it and sweep it away! Let me say this, too, with the advantage of the second sight: whoever falls in love with you, you will be his slave, you will surrender your freedom to him and give it to him as a pledge, never to reclaim it; you will not be able to fall out of love with him again when the allotted term is up; you will plant one single grain, but your undoer will harvest a whole ear! My tender child, my head of gold, you buried your pearl-like tear in my wine-cup, but you were not able to endure its loss, and at once you shed a hundred more, wasted your beautiful words in boasting of your life's sufferings! And yet there is no need for you to grieve for your tear, your heavenly dewdrop! It will return to you with interest, your pearly tear, in the long, miserable night when cruel sorrow and unclean thoughts will gnaw at you – then because of that same tear someone else's tear will drop on to your passionate heart, a tear that is mingled with blood, not warm, but like molten lead; it will inflame your white breast until the blood comes, and as you wait for morning, the kind of gloomy, depressing morning that comes on wet days, you will toss and turn in your little bed, shedding your scarlet blood, and your fresh wound will not heal until the morning after that. Fill my cup again, Katerina, fill it, my little dove, fill it for my wise advice; and let us waste no more words…'

His voice grew weak, and began to tremble: an attack of sobbing seemed about to burst from his breast… He filled his cup with wine again and greedily drank it down; then, as before, he clanged his cup on the table. His clouded gaze flared up once again.

‘Ha! Live and let live,' he cried. ‘What's done is done! Fill my cup, fill it again, keep refilling my heavy cup so that my turbulent head is cut from its shoulders, and my soul goes numb! Put me to sleep for the long night that has no morning, and take my consciousness away for ever. What's drunk is finished with and gone! The merchant's goods have grown rotten from lying around too long, he's giving them away for nothing! He shouldn't have been so stupid as to sell them for less than they were worth, he should have spilt the blood of his enemies, the blood of the innocent, and made that
buyer lay down his lost soul into the bargain! Fill my cup, fill it for me again, Katerina!…'

But his hand, with the cup in it, seemed to grow paralysed and stopped moving; he was breathing heavily and with difficulty, his head involuntarily sagging. One final time he fixed his dim gaze on Ordynov, but this, too, faded at last, and his eyelids fell as though they were made of lead. A deathly pallor spread over his face… His lips continued to move and twitch for some time, as though they were trying to say something – and suddenly a tear, hot and large, swelled on his eyelashes, broke free and slowly rolled down his pale cheek… Ordynov could contain himself no longer. He got up, took a staggering step forward to Katerina, and seized her by the hand; but she did not even glance at him, as though she had not noticed him or did not recognize him…

She, too, seemed to have lost consciousness, as though a single thought, a single fixed idea had taken a complete hold of her. She pressed herself close to the sleeping old man, let her white arm snake around his neck and gazed at him with eyes that burned and were inflamed, seemingly riveted to him. She seemed not to notice when Ordynov took her by the hand. At last she turned her head towards him and gave him a long, penetrating look. It seemed that at last she had understood him, and an astonished smile of almost physical pain forced itself on to her lips…

‘Go, go away,' she whispered. ‘You're drunk and full of bad blood! You are no guest of mine!…' Here she again turned to the old man and fastened her eyes upon him a second time.

She seemed to be watching over every breath he took, and nurturing his sleep with her gaze. She herself seemed afraid to breathe, holding in check the seething eruption of her heart. And so much frenzied devotion did that heart contain that Ordynov's soul was instantly seized by despair, rabid fury and inexhaustible, envious spite.

‘Katerina! Katerina!' he cried, gripping her hand as in a vice.

A spasm of pain traversed her face; again she raised her head and looked at him so mockingly, so contemptuously and brazenly that he could barely remain standing. Then she pointed towards the sleeping old man and – as though all his enemy's mockery had transferred itself into her eyes – again glanced at Ordynov with a look that tormented him and turned him to ice.

‘What's wrong? Does he want to slit my throat, is that it?' said Ordynov, beside himself with fury.

A demon seemed to whisper in his ear, telling him he had understood her meaning… His heart erupted in laughter at the idea that was evidently fixed in Katerina's mind.

‘I will buy you from your merchant, my beautiful girl, if you want my soul! He won't slit my throat, don't worry!…'

A frozen laugh, which numbed Ordynov's entire being, was fixed on Katerina's features. Its infinite mockery tore his heart asunder. Beside himself, almost unconscious of what he was doing, he reached across the wall and took down from its nail the old man's precious, antique dagger. Katerina's face seemed to express amazement; but simultaneously, for the first time with such vehemence, her eyes also seemed to display contempt and malice. As he looked at her, Ordynov began to feel faint… He felt as though someone was pulling, urging his bewildered arm to commit an act of madness; he unsheathed the dagger… Katerina watched him motionlessly, seeming to breathe no longer…

He glanced at the old man…

Just then it seemed to him that one of the old man's eyes slowly opened and looked at him, laughing. Their gazes met. Ordynov stared at him fixedly for several minutes… Suddenly he had the impression that the old man's face had broken into a laugh all over, and that a diabolical, icy, hope-destroying cackle detonated in the room. A hideous black thought slithered like a serpent into his brain. He shuddered; the dagger fell from his hands and landed with a clang on the floor. Katerina screamed, as though she had woken from oblivion, from a nightmare, from some terrible, fixed hallucination… Pale-featured, the old man slowly got up from the bed and, with hatred in his eyes, kicked the dagger into a corner of the room. Katerina stood deadly pale and motionless; her eyes were closing; a dull, unbearable agony was forcing itself in convulsions across her face; she hid her face in her hands and with a soul-rending cry fell practically lifeless at the old man's feet…

‘Alyosha! Alyosha!' were the words that escaped from her beleaguered breast…

The old man grasped her in his powerful arms, almost crushing her against him. But as she hid her face at his heart, every feature of the old man's face laughed with such naked, shameless mirth that a shock of horror passed through Ordynov's entire being. Deceit,
calculation, cold, jealous tyranny and horror at her poor, broken heart – that was what he heard in that shameless laugh, which no longer bothered to conceal itself…

‘Come in, come in,' he said, at last. ‘Come in, most dearly esteemed Vasily Mikhailovich, favour us with your presence and set your stamp… on all these ordinary objects…' said Yaroslav Ilyich, designating with his arm one corner of the room, blushing red as a beetroot, confused and deeply concerned because his most noble-sounding sentence had not come out as he had wanted it to, and thunderously dragged the chair into its very middle.

‘I don't want to disturb you, Yaroslav Ilyich, I just wanted to see you… for a couple of minutes.'

‘Please! How could you possibly disturb me… Vasily Mikhailovich? But – allow me to offer you some tea! Hey! Servant!…' Turning to Murin, he said: ‘I am sure that not even you will say no to a glass!'

Murin nodded, to indicate that he certainly would not.

Yaroslav Ilyich shouted to the servant who had entered the room, demanding in the sternest fashion that another three glasses be brought, and then sat down beside Ordynov. For some time he kept moving his head back and forth like a plaster kitten,
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now to the right, now to the left, from Murin to Ordynov and from Ordynov to Murin. It was rather an awkward position for him to be in. He evidently wanted to say something about a subject he considered to be a rather delicate one for at least one of the parties concerned. But try as he might he was totally unable to get a word out… Ordynov also seemed to be at a loss. At one point they both began to speak at the same time… The taciturn Murin, who was observing them with curiosity, slowly opened his mouth, showing every single one of his teeth…

‘I've come to tell you,' Ordynov suddenly began,'that because of a most unpleasant incident I've been compelled to leave my lodgings, and…'

‘Just imagine, what a strange thing to happen!' Yaroslav Ilyich said suddenly, interrupting.' I must admit that I was positively bowled over when this venerable old man informed me this morning of your decision. But…'

‘He
told you?' Ordynov asked in amazement, looking at Murin.

Murin smoothed his beard and laughed into his sleeve.

‘Yes,' Yaroslav Ilyich continued. ‘Though of course, I may still be mistaken. But I will tell you this – I vouch on my honour that this venerable old man had not a bad word to say about you!'

Here Yaroslav Ilyich blushed and managed to suppress his agitation only with an effort. Murin, who looked as though he had finally had all the entertainment there was to be had from observing the discomfiture of visitor and householder, took one step forward.

‘What I want to say is this, your honour,' he began, courteously bowing to Ordynov. ‘His honour has taken the liberty of giving himself a little trouble on your account… The way it's worked out, sir, well – you know it yourself – we, the mistress and I, that is, we'd have been right glad to have you, and we'd never have dared to say a word… but you know the sort of living I've got, sir, you've seen it for yourself! To be honest, sir, the Lord only just keeps us alive, for which we truly thank Him; and if it weren't for Him, well, you can see for yourself, sir, there wouldn't be much left for me to do except howl to the heavens, would there?'

Here Murin again wiped his beard with his sleeve.

Ordynov almost felt an attack of his old trouble coming on.

‘Yes, yes, I myself told you about him: he's ill, that's to say he suffers from
malheur
… I was going to carry on in French, but you must forgive me, my French is a little rusty, that's to say…'

‘Yes?'

‘Yes, that's to say…'

Ordynov and Yaroslav Ilyich bowed slightly to each other without rising from where they sat, and at a slight angle; both covered then-embarrassment with apologetic laughter. The level-headed Yaroslav Ilyich straightened up immediately.

‘Actually, I've questioned this honest chap pretty thoroughly,' he began. ‘He told me that the illness of this woman…'

Here the ever-delicate Yaroslav Ilyich, no doubt wishing to conceal a minor trace of embarrassment which had reappeared on his features, turned a swift, questioning glance in Murin's direction.

‘Yes, of our young lady…'

The tactful Yaroslav Ilyich did not press his enquiry.

‘Of the young lady, that is, of your former landlady, whom I must admit I havent…' well, yes! The fact is, you see, she's a sick woman. He says she's getting in your way… in the way of your
studies, and he himself… there's one important thing you didn't tell me about, Vasily Mikhailovich!'

‘What's that?'

‘The gun, dear chap,' Yaroslav Ilyich practically whispered in the most indulgent tone of voice, with perhaps one millionth part of reproach softly ringing in his cordial tenor. ‘But,' he added quickly, ‘I know all about it, he gave me an account of what happened – you acted nobly in turning a blind eye to the whole business, he didn't know what he was doing. In fact, I'll swear I saw tears in his eyes as he told me about it.'

Again, Yaroslav Ilyich blushed; his eyes lit up, and he moved in his chair with emotion.

‘I, that's to say, we, your honour, sir, that's to say, I, in a manner of speaking, and my mistress, we shall pray for you,' Murin began, turning to Ordynov and staring fixedly at him, while Yaroslav Ilyich made an effort to overcome his customary agitation. ‘Yes, sir, as you yourself know, she's a silly, ailing woman; and as for me, my legs will hardly carry me…'

‘But I'm prepared to move out,' Ordynov said impatiently. ‘Enough, I beg you; I'll go this very instant!…'

‘Oh, sir, we are not in any way displeased with Your Grace.' (Murin made a very deep bow.) ‘No, sir, that is not what I meant; what I wanted to tell you is that – well, you see, sir, she's practically one of my own family, or rather, that is, from a far-off branch of it, ‘from the seventh water' as they say, please don't laugh at our common speech, sir, we're dark folk – and she's been that way ever since she was a little child. A lively, mischievous little soul, she grew up in the forest like a muzhik's daughter, surrounded by barge haulers and mill-owners – but then their house burnt down; her mother lost her life in the fire, and so did her father – if you ask her she'll tell you heaven only knows what… I don't interfere in all that, but she was examined in Moscow by the Chir-chir-chirurgical Council… in short, sir, she went completely wrong in the head, that's what! I'm all she has left, and she lives with me. We do our best to get by, we say our prayers, place our trust in the Almighty; I never cross her in anything now…'

Ordynov's facial expression had changed. Yaroslav Ilyich looked now at one, now at the other.

‘But that's not what I'm trying to get at, sir… no!' Murin said, shaking his head solemnly. ‘She's such a flighty one, if you take my
meaning, a real whirlwind, such a passionate, stormy creature, always on the lookout for a lover – if you'll pardon theexpression – anda sweetheart: she's really obsessed with that. I try to cajole her with stories, but it doesn't really work. You see, sir, I couldn't help noticing how she – please excuse my silly talk,' Murin went on, bowing and wiping his beard with his sleeve – ‘after a manner of speaking, made friends with you; that's to say, after a manner of speaking, Your Excellency, how you were desirous of cleaving to her with regard to the matter of love…'

Yaroslav Ilyich turned bright red and gave Murin a reproachful look. Ordynov nearly leapt out of his seat.

‘No… that's to say, sir, that's not really what I'm driving at… Sir, I'm just an ordinary muzhik, you can do with me as you will… of course, we're dark folk, we're just your servants, sir,' he said, bowing low, ‘and how we shall pray for Your Grace, me and my wife!… What do we require? As long as we have our health and enough to eat, we don't grumble; but what am I to do, sir, put my head in the noose? You know yourself how it is, sir., it's just the way things are, don't be too hard on us, but think of what it would be like if she had a lover, too!… Please forgive me for using such a coarse word, sir… I'm a muzhik, sir, but you, master… you, Your Excellency, sir, are a young man, proud and hot-blooded, while she, sir, you know it yourself, is just a little child without muchsense – itwouldn't be long before she fell into sin! She's a charming, rosy, buxom lass, but I'm an old man, and am constantly plagued by infirmity. Well, what of it? The devil must simply have led Your Grace astray! I try to cajole her along with stories, Lord how I try! And how we shall pray for Your Grace, me and my wife, sir! How we shall pray! And anyway, what would you be wanting with her, Your Excellency, even if she is pretty? She's just a muzhik's daughter, an unwashed peasant woman, a stupid skirt, a match for my muzhik self! A man of your position wouldn't want to go hobnobbing with muzhik girls, would you, now, master? But how she and I will pray for Your Grace, Lord, how we'll pray!…'

Here Murin made his lowest bow yet, and for a long time remained bent double, incessantly wiping his beard with his sleeve. Yaroslav Ilyich did not know where to look.

‘Yes, this good man,' he observed, in utter embarrassment, ‘has told me about certain disorderly incidents he says took place between you; I do not presume to believe it, Vasily Mikhailovich…
I heard you were still unwell,' he added quickly, with tears of excitement in his eyes, looking at Ordynov in total confusion.

‘Yes… How much do I owe you?' Ordynov asked Murin, quickly.

‘What can you be thinking of, master? Enough! We are no sellers of Christ. What can you be thinking of, sir – you offend us! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir; have my spouse and I done anything to offend you? For pity's sake, sir!'

‘After all, this is a bit strange, old chap,' said Yaroslav Ilyich, intervening. ‘Don't you feel you're offending him by asking him to leave?' he went on, evidently considering it his duty to point out to Murin the full oddity and tactlessness of his behaviour.

‘For pity's sake, sir! What can you be thinking of, master, sir? For pity's sake! What have we not done to please your honour? We've tried and tried, sweated our guts out, for pity's sake, sir! Enough, sir; enough, dear master. May Christ have mercy on you! Do you think we're some kind of unbelievers? You could have stayed, eaten our muzhik fare, slept in that room, and we wouldn't have said anything, no… not a word; but the unclean one led you astray, I'm a sick man and my wife is, also – what can you do? There would have been no one to wait upon you, but we would have been glad to, heartily glad to. And how we shall pray for Your Grace, oh, how we shall pray!'

Murin bowed from the waist. A tear forced itself from one of Yaroslav Ilyich's enraptured eyes. He gazed at Ordynov with enthusiasm.

‘I say, what a noble trait, don't you agree? What sacred hospitality lies invested in the Russian people!'

Ordynov glanced wildly at Yaroslav Ilyich. He felt a sense of something that was almost horror… and looked him up and down from head to toe.

‘That's true, sir, we do indeed honour hospitality, oh, how we honour it, sir!' said Murin, taking up the conversation and concealing his beard with the whole of his sleeve. ‘To be sure, the thought now occurs to me: you could have been our guest for a while, sir, honest to God you could,' he continued, going up to Ordynov, ‘and I'd have said nothing, sir; from one day to the next, as God's my witness, I'd have said nodiing at all. But sin was leading you grievously astray, and my mistress is not well! Ah, if it weren't for the mistress! Now, if it had just been me on my own: oh, how
I'd have served Your Grace, how I'd have looked after you, oh, how I'd have looked after you! Whom should we respect, if not Your Grace? Oh, I'd have cured you, cured you well and truly, I know the right remedy, too… Truly, sir, you could have been our guest, honest to God, there's a fine expression, been our guest, you could have!…'

‘Yes, indeed, is there not some remedy… ?' Yaroslav Ilyich observed, but did not complete his sentence.

Ordynov had not really been fair to Yaroslav Ilyich when a short time earlier he had surveyed the latter from head to toe in wild amazement. Yaroslav Ilyich was, of course, a most honest and noble individual, but now he understood everything, and it had to be admitted that his situation was exceedingly perplexing. He felt like bursting with laughter, as they say. Had he been alone with Ordynov – two such friends – Yaroslav Ilyich would not, of course, have been able to contain himself and would have abandoned himself to an immoderate bout of mirth. He would, however, have done this in a thoroughly noble manner, and once he had stopped laughing would have shaken Ordynov's hand with feeling, assuring him devoulty and sincerely that his respect for him had increased twofold and that he thoroughly excused him… and would not, of course, have even mentioned his youth. But now, for all his tactfulness, Yaroslav Ilyich found himself in an exceedingly perplexing situation and scarcely knew where to turn…

‘What I mean by remedies is drugs!' retorted Murin, whose face had been sent into rapid activity by Yaroslav Ilyich's awkward exclamation. ‘You know, sir, what I, in my muzhik stupidity, would say is this,' he went on, taking a step forward. ‘You've read an awful lot of books, sir; I'd say you'd gotten to be awful clever; or, as we muzhiks say in Russian: your mind's gone ahead of your reason…'

‘That's enough!' Yaroslav Ilyich said, breaking in sternly.

‘I'm going,' said Ordynov. ‘Thank you, Yaroslav Ilyich; I'll come again, I shall certainly come again,' he said in reply to the redoubled flow of civilities that came from Yaroslav Ilyich, who was able to detain him no longer. ‘Goodbye, goodbye…'

‘Goodbye, Your Honour; goodbye, sir; don't forget us, come and visit us sinners.'

Ordynov was no longer within earshot; he had made his exit like one half out of his mind.