Part 4

After that, from time to time, I heard from my accidental comrades. These messages were usually brought by people in cloaks and cassocks and with more or less clear indications of “weakness” they gave me greetings or notes and they showed how disillusioned they felt, when they saw the meagreness of the reward which they received. Once during the fair a fellow appeared totally drunk and very evil looking, but he handed me a note with as much mysterious familiarity as if it had been from a mutual friend and confidant.

In the note a very shaky and uneven hand had scribbled:

“Dear friend. Receive the bearer as you would me. He is our friend and can tell you everything; incidentally give him money and clothing.... His trousers are pretty bad.... Gennady Avtonomov.”

One glance was enough to show that the agent was really in dire need of trousers.... But in spite of his intoxication, his eyes quickly and curiously ran over the contents of my rooms, and they showed well the results of professional training....

When he left, I heard an unpleasant noise and I had to run to the assistance of my good neighbors.

X

About two years passed, before I again met my former companions.

One hot summer’s day, I had crossed the Volga on a ferry and a pair of horses was dragging us over the sands of the bank to the foot of a hill. The sun had set, but it was intolerably hot. It seemed as if whole waves of heat were being wafted from the gleaming river. Flies hung in clouds over the horses, the bells rang unevenly, and the wheels dragged in the deep sand.... Half way up the hill a monastery nestled among the trees and as it looked down on the river out of the rising mist, it seemed to be suspended in midair.

Suddenly the coachman stopped his weary team at the very foot of the hill and ran along the bank. A quarter of a verst away on the rocky and pebbly edge of the river was a black group of people directly between us and the sun.

“Something’s happened,” said my companion.

I got out and also walked up to the place.

A dead body was lying on the bare bank, against which the water was splashing lazily. When I came nearer, I recognized in it my old acquaintance: the little wanderer was lying in his cassock, on his stomach, with outstretched hands and with his head turned at an unnatural angle. He was pale as death; his black hair had fallen over his forehead and temples, and his mouth was half open. I involuntarily recalled that face, as it was when it was filled with childish delight over the singing of the little bird on the hilltop. With his long, sharp nose and his open mouth,—he reminded me greatly of a tortured and stifled bird.

Avtonomov sat swaying back and forth beside him and seemed frightened. There was a perceptible odor of wine in the air....

Glancing at the people who were coming up and not recognizing me, he suddenly pulled the dead body.

“Get up, comrade, it’s time to be going.... A wanderer’s fate is to wander always.”

He spoke in a very bombastic manner, but he rose uncertainly....

“Don’t you want to? Look, Vanya, I’ll leave you! I’ll go off alone....”

A village chief, with a medal on his chest, hurried up to the group and laid one hand on Avtonomov’s shoulder.

“Stop, don’t go away.... You’ve got to make a statement.... What sort of people are you?”

Avtonomov, with ironical humility, took off his cap and bowed.

“Please be so kind, your village excellency....”

Above our heads sounded a peal of the bell. The monks were being summoned to vespers. The peal echoed, disturbed the heated air, and rolled above the leafy tops of the oaks and black poplars beside the monastery and as it died away, it fell to the sleepy river. The sound increased again, as it struck the water, and a keen eye could almost follow its flight to the other bank, to the bluish, mist-wrapped meadows.

All removed their hats. Avtonomov turned toward the sound and shook his fist in the air.

“Listen, Vanya,” he said, “your father superior is calling you.... Your benefactor.... Now he’ll receive you, I know....”

Peal after peal, rapid and repeated, ringing and quavering, fell down upon the river solemnly and quietly....

ISN’T IT TERRIBLE?

(FROM THE DIARY OF A REPORTER)

ISN’T IT TERRIBLE?

(FROM THE DIARY OF A REPORTER)

I

“Be in N-sk on the twentieth. Session of district court. Details in letter. Editor.”

I looked at my watch and then went to inquire about the trains. I hoped that I could not catch the night train at the station, which was some ten versts from the city where I had just finished another piece of reporting. I saw already the laconic and business-like answer: “Telegram delayed, cannot arrive on twentieth.” Unfortunately the time-table and my watch decided differently. I had three hours to pack and get to the station. That was time enough.

About 11 o’clock on a warm summer evening a coachman landed me at the station; the lights could be seen for a great distance. I got there just in time; the train was waiting.

Directly opposite the entrance there was a car with the windows open. It was not filled and some intelligent-appearing men were playing cards. I imagined that they were members of the court going to the session, and I decided to look for a place elsewhere. This was no easy task but I finally succeeded. The train was just starting when, with my bag in my hand, I entered a second-class compartment in which there were three passengers.

I sat down by the window, through which entered the freshness of the summer night, and soon there were flying past me ends of sleepers, hills, roaring bridges, buildings, fields bathed in the moonlight,—all as if carried by a high wind. I was tired and sad. I thought how my life was flying in the same way, from bridge to bridge, from station to station, from city to city, from fire to law court.... And that I could never write for any paper what the editor wanted. And all that I would write the next day would be dry and uninteresting.

These were not cheerful thoughts. I tore myself away from them and began to listen to the conversation of my fellow travelers.

II

My nearest neighbor was sleeping contentedly, letting me stretch out as I could. Opposite me one passenger was lying down and another was sitting by the window. They kept on with the conversation they had already commenced.

“Let’s imagine,” said the one who was lying down, “that I am a man who is not superstitious.... But yet” (he yawned pleasantly and slowly) “it cannot be denied that there is much, so to speak, unknown,—isn’t that so?... Let’s suppose, the peasants ... country naïvete and superstition. But take a paper....”

“Well, a paper. Superstition is for peasants, but this is for the papers. A peasant, simple fellow, sees a primitive devil with horns and breathing fire. He’s frightened.... A reporter sees a figure from the ballet....”

The gentleman who admitted that there was “much unknown” yawned again.

“Yes,” he said with a somewhat scientific air, “that is true; fears disappear with the development of culture and education....”

His companion did not reply, but later said thoughtfully:

“Disappear?... Do you remember in Tolstoy: Anna Karenina and Vronsky have the identical dream: a peasant, an ordinary laborer ‘works in steel’ and speaks French.... Both wake up in terror.... What’s so terrible there? Of course, it’s a little strange for a peasant to speak French. But, granted.... Nevertheless, in a given combination of circumstances, a picture which is not frightful will terrify you.... Take the Brothers Karamazov of Dostoyevsky.... We’ve got there an urban devil.... You remember, of course....”

“No, I don’t.... You know, Pavel Semenovich, I’m an instructor of mathematics....”

“Oh, excuse me.... I thought.... Yes, I remember: he was a certain man, or, better yet, a certain type of Russian gentleman, quite well along in years, with his hair and pointed beard rather gray.... His linen and necktie, you know, were like those of any other stylish gentleman, but his linen was rather dirty and his necktie frayed. To sum up, ‘He looked like a man of taste with slender financial resources....’”

“That’s a fine devil! A mere sharper, and they’re common enough,” remarked the mathematician.

“Yes, I know there’s a lot of them.... But it’s frightful and it’s that, just because it’s so common; that same poor necktie, linen, and coat.... If it were only frayed, it would be like yours or mine....”

“All right, Pavel Semenovich.... Excuse me, but you have a strange philosophy.”

The mathematician seemed rather insulted. Pavel Semenovich turned towards the light, and I had a good view of his broad face, straight brows and gray, thoughtful eyes hidden under his stern forehead.

Both paused. For a little while you could hear only the hurried roar of the train. Then Pavel Semenovich began again in his even voice.

“At the station of N-sk I happened, you know, to walk up toward the engine. I’m a little acquainted with the engineer.... A chronically sleepy individual with swollen eyes.”

“Yes?” asked his companion indifferently, and not trying to conceal his feelings.

“Certainly.... A natural condition. He hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours.”

“M-n, yes.... That is a long while.”

“I thought so too: we fall asleep.... The train is flying at full speed.... And it’s run by a man who is almost stupefied....”

His companion fidgeted a little.

“What an idea!... Really, damnation.... You should have told the chief of the station....”

“What for?... He’d laugh! A common thing. You might almost call it the system. In Petersburg there’s a gentleman sitting in some office.... He’s got a board in front of him with numbers on it. Arrival.... Departure.... And the engineers are listed too.... Pay—so much. Versts—so many. Versts—that’s the length of the run,—a useful number, profitable, steady, that can be increased. The pay for the men is minus.... And this fellow just cracks his head, thinking how to run the largest number of miles on the smallest number of engineers. Or even make the distance larger than ever.... It’s a sort of silent game with numbers, so to speak.... And a most ordinary chap bothers with it.... He wears a poor coat and necktie, and he looks respectable.... A good friend and a fine husband.... He loves his child and gives presents to his wife on holidays.... His job is harmless, and he merely decides simple questions. The result is that sleep kills people.... And across the fields and through the ravines of our beloved country on such moonlight nights as this trains tear along like this, and the watch is kept by the sleepy, swollen eyes of the man who is responsible for hundreds of lives.... A moment’s slumber....”

The legs of the mathematician in their checkered trousers stirred: he got up from his seat in the shadow and sat down on a bench.... His fat, expressionless face, with its thick, clipped mustache, made you uneasy.

“Stop your croaking, for heaven’s sake,” he said angrily. “However you argue, the result is the same, devil take it.... I wanted to fall asleep....”

Pavel Semenovich looked at him in surprise.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “Are you crazy? We’ll get there all right, if God wills. I merely want to point out how the terrible and the usual are combined.... Economy is the most ordinary idea of life.... But sometimes it involves death.... It is even measurable by the law of probability....”

The mathematician, still more angry, took out his cigar case and said, as he began to smoke:

“No, you’re right: the devil knows: the rascal’ll fall asleep, and all at once.... These beasts of railroad men.... O, let’s talk of something else. The devil take these fears.... Are you still vegetating in Tikhodol?... You’ve stuck there a long time....”

“Yes,” answered Pavel Semenovich, a little embarrassed. “It’s such a wretched place. It’s just like living in a yoke.... A teacher, prosecutor, excise official.... When you once land there, you’re forgotten, and removed from the lists of the living....”

“Yes.... It is an awful place.... It’s deadening.... Why, there’s not even a club there. And the mud is unendurable.”

“There’s a club now, at least that’s what we call it.... And there are a few stretches of pavement.... Lighting, especially in the centre of the town.... But, I’ll confess, I live on the edge, and don’t make much use of these conveniences.”

“Where do you live?”

“With Budnikov, in the suburbs.”

“Budnikov? Semen Nikolayevich? Just think, I lived in that section myself: with Father Polidorov.... Of course, I met Budnikov! A fine man, well educated, but rather—filled with ideas?”

“Yes, with a few notions....”

“No, not that.... I said ideas. But notions. What? None special, I think.”

“No, nothing special, but just the same: he used to keep valuable papers in a mattress....”

“Why, I never knew that. But when I met him he made a queer impression on me. He was so fresh and original.... A house owner, and all of a sudden he went to living in two rooms without servants.... No, I remember, he had a kind of porter....”

“Yes, Gavrilo....”

“That’s right, that’s right. Gavrilo, a little fellow with white eyebrows? Yes? That’s right.... I remember I liked to look at his face: such a good-natured snout. I almost thought the master was part workman.... Who is he? Is he always that way?”

Pavel Semenovich said nothing for a few minutes. He then looked at his companion with some embarrassment and replied:

“Y-yes, you’re right.... That actually happened.... Semen Nikolayevich ... and Gavrilo.... Both together....”

“Yes, I remember....”

“He was a fine man for our city.... Educated, independent, with ideas.... He went to the university but never finished because of some escapade.... He once spoke of it as if he had made an unfortunate venture into love. ‘My heart was broken,’ he said. On the other hand I know that he corresponded with a friend in some outlandish place. That shows there was something behind it.... His father, he said, was a usurer, but not a malicious one. This caused a row between father and son. The young student didn’t approve of it and wouldn’t touch the money, but lived by teaching.... When the father died, Semen Nikolayevich came and inherited the property. He said to some one: ‘I don’t want it.... This is owed to society.’ Then I don’t know what happened.... The house, land, long-term leases, a lawsuit.... He carried it on one, two, three years, and then got to like it. Many still remember how he said: ‘I’ll finish the lawsuit with these curs and settle up.... I won’t stay a day longer in this confounded hole.’ ... But it’s the usual story.... We had a teacher once, a zoölogist, who came to our gymnasium and said bluntly: ‘As soon as I write my dissertation, I’ll get out of the swamp!’”

“That’s Kallistov, isn’t it?” asked the mathematician, with great interest. The narrator waved assent.

“He’s still writing it. He married; had three children.... That’s just the way with Semen Nikolayevich Budnikov. He’s been making a dissertation of his life, so to speak. He began to enjoy this lawsuit. Challenges, protests, cassation, the whole game.... And he kept writing himself without consulting lawyers.... Then, after a while, he commenced to build a new house. When I got to know him, he was already a lucky, middle-aged bachelor, with a reddish face, and such a pleasant, quiet, substantial and sleepy voice. Then he had a few peculiarities. He sometimes used to come to see me, especially when it was time to pay my rent.... This was due on the twentieth. That meant that on the twentieth he used to come at eight o’clock in the evening and drink two cups of tea with rum in it. No more, no less! In each cup two spoonfuls of rum and one of sugar. I got to look at this as an addition to my rent. He did the same with all his lodgers,—only some with and some without rum. The rents were all different, about twenty in his four houses (one in the city was quite large).... That made forty cups of tea.... He seemed as if he had included that in his budget and marked it down.... Sometimes, ‘I didn’t find so and so at home, but he brought the money the next day. Still owing, two cups of tea.’”

“Really?” laughed Petr Petrovich. “He never reasoned that way! Why do you think so?”

“For this reason. At first this was an unexpected characteristic, but it got to be believed, although in your time maybe it didn’t exist. The tenants began to say: you know M. Budnikov is an economical man. That was meant well and even as a sign of approval. But it suddenly reacted on Budnikov.... You understand? The unintelligible man began to develop a special intelligible trait.... It became clearer and clearer. All believed, for example, that M. Budnikov kept no servants. Gavrilo was the porter of the house where I lived; he used to clean the clothes of the different people, fix the samovars, and run errands. Sometimes the master and servant used to sit side by side and clean shoes, the porter for the tenants, Budnikov for himself. Then M. Budnikov got a horse. No special need for him to do it. As a luxury, he’d ride twice a week to a farm near the city. The rest of the time the horse was free. Gavrilo wasn’t busy all the time either.... The result was—the horse was put at Gavrilo’s disposal, and he used to ride down town. Gavrilo had nothing against this arrangement, because he considered incessant work his special duty. You know there’s a sort of talent for everything, and I thought once that Gavrilo was a kind of genius in the field of muscular labor.... Easy motioned,—unwearied freshness. Sometimes at night he wouldn’t sleep. Look out of the window and you’d see Gavrilo sweeping the street or cleaning the ditches. It meant—he’d gone to bed and then remembered he hadn’t swept all the pavement the last thing. So he’d go and clean it. And this was really beautiful.”

“Yes,” said the mathematician, “that’s a good description of the man. I remember I liked to look at him,—he seemed rather attractive.”

“Spiritual poise is always beautiful, and he did his duty without speculating about his relation to his master.... And that was a fine thing, you know,—their mutual relations. One used his muscles admirably. The other gave reason and rational meaning to it.... He saw that the time was not all filled ... and he found a new occupation.... There was a sort of balancing of interests, almost an idyl.... Almost before dawn Gavrilo was at work. M. Budnikov also got up early. They said good morning with a manifestly pleasant feeling. Then M. Budnikov either went to work in his garden or went around his ‘estate’ scattered through the city. Poverty gets up early, and he went mornings to poverty’s quarters.... Then he’d come back and say:

“‘Now harness up, Gavrilo, and I’ll finish cleaning up.... The officials are just going to their offices. You may meet some one....’

“At this time he considered himself neither a Tolstoyan nor a deliberate simplifier.... He often spoke of the abnormality of our lives, of the necessity of paying our debt to the laboring man, of the advantages of physical labor. ‘See, I’m working,’ he’d say to any one who caught him busied with axe or spade. ‘I’m helping my neighbor, my porter, with his work.’ It was hard to tell whether he was talking ironically or seriously.... At noon Gavrilo’d come back and put his horse in the stable, and M. Budnikov would go of on business and make polite remarks to his tenants about a broken fence or a piece of plaster knocked down by children’s balls.... He often came back with one or two beggars. They had asked him for alms on the street and he’d offered ‘assistance through toil.’ ... Of course, the rogues ran off shamefully, but M. Budnikov took especial pleasure in working, either alone or with Gavrilo. All the beggars in the city soon got to know him and bowed with a friendly smile, but did not ask for money. ‘Why can’t you see what’s good for you, my friends?’ he’d say meaningly. I must say that a ‘life of toil’ did bring him manifest personal benefits; his ruddy color was absolutely evident, even, and healthy. His face was always quiet and placid, and almost like Gavrilo’s.... It had nothing malicious or strange in it.”

“I see, you’re back on your old theme!” said the mathematician, standing up and striking his companion’s shoulder. “Of course, nothing terrible.... I’m going out here.... Eight minutes’ wait.”

The train slowed down and stopped.

III

Pavel Semenovich, thus left without an audience, looked around in despair. Soon his gray eyes met mine. In his gaze I noticed an obstinate idea like that of a maniac....

“You ... understand?” he said frankly, wholly undisturbed by the fact that he was talking to a stranger.

“I think so,” I answered.

“Good,” he said, with evident satisfaction, and then he went on, as if he were talking to the same person.