Part 8

[3] The hero of Gogol's famous comedy, "Revizor."

Believe me, to lie with gumption is a high delight. If you lie and see that folks believe you, you feel yourself on a higher level, and to feel yourself above your fellows is a rare satisfaction. To command their attention and think much of yourself in consequence is foolishness; but to fool a man is always pleasant. And besides, it is pleasant to the man himself to listen to lies--good lies--lies which do not go against the grain. And it is possible that every lie, good or the reverse, is a good lie. There is scarcely anything in the world more worthy of attention than the various popular fables: notions, dreams, and such like. Let us take love for instance. I have always loved in women just that which they have never possessed, and with which I myself have generally requited them. And this, too, is the best thing in them. For instance, you come across a fresh little wench and immediately you think to yourself: such a one must needs embrace you this way, or kiss you that way. If in tears, she must look thus, and if she laughs--thus. And then you persuade yourself that she has all these qualities, and must certainly be exactly as you imagine her to be. And, of course, when you make her acquaintance, and come to know her as she really is--you find yourself sitting triumphantly in a puddle! But that is of no importance. You cannot possibly make an enemy of fire simply because it burns you sometimes, you must remember that it always warms you. Isn't that so? Very well. For the same reason you must not call a lie harmful; in every case put up with it and prefer it to truth.... Besides, it is quite uncertain what this thing called Truth is really like. Nobody has ever seen her passport, and possibly if she were called upon to produce her documents the deuce only knows how it would turn out.

But here I am like Socrates, philosophising instead of attending to my business.

Well, I lied to these good people till I had exhausted my imagination, and as soon as I realised the danger of being a bore to them--I went on further, after residing with them for three weeks. I departed well provisioned for the journey, and I directed my footsteps towards the nearest police-station in order that I might go from thence to Moscow. But from Moscow to Tula I arrived in vain, in consequence of the carelessness of my conductors.

Behold me, then, face to face with the Police-master at Tula. He looked at me and inquired:

"What profession do you mean to follow here?"

"I don't know," I said.

"And why did they send you away from Petersburg?" he said.

"That also I don't know," said I.

"Obviously for some debauch not foreseen by the criminal code--eh?" and he cross-examined me searchingly.

But I remained inscrutable.

"You are a very inconvenient sort of person," he observed.

"Everyone, I suppose, has his own speciality, my good sir," I rejoined.

He thought the matter over, and then he made me a proposition. "As you have chosen your own place of residence, perhaps, if we do not please you, you will go further on. There are many other towns for choice--Orel, Kursk, Smolensk for example. After all it is all the same to you where you live. Wouldn't it be agreeable to you if we passed you on? It would be quite a relief to us not to have the bother of looking after your health. We have such a mass of business here, and you--pardon my candour--seem to be a man fully capable of increasing the cares of the police; nay, you even seem to me expressly made for the purpose. Well now," says he, "would you like me to give you a _treshnetsa_[4] to assist you on your way?"

[4] A small Russian coin.

"You seem to appraise your duties somewhat cheaply," said I, "I think it would be better if you let me remain here under the protection of the laws of Tula."

But he obstinately refused to take me even as a gift. He was an odd sort of chap! Well, I got fifteen roubles out of him, and went on to the town of Smolensk. You see! The most awkward position contains within it the possibility of something better. I affirm this on the basis of solid experience and on the strength of my deep faith in the dexterity of the human mind. Mind--that's the power! You are still a young man, and what I say to you is this: believe in mind and you shall never fall! Know that every man holds within him a fool and a rogue; the fool is his senses, the rogue is his mind. His senses are the fool because they are upright, just, and cannot dissemble, and how is it possible to live without dissimulation? It is indispensable to dissemble; it is necessary to do so even from compassion, and most of all when they--your senses of course--pity others.

So I walked into Smolensk, feeling that the ground was firm beneath me, and that on the one hand I could always count upon the support of humane people, and on the other hand I was always sure of the support of the Police. I was necessary to the first for the display of their feelings, and to the second I was unnecessary--therefore they and others were bound to pay me out of their superfluities.

That's how it was then!

So I went along and fell quite in love with myself. My prospects were excellent. I fell in with a little muzhik. He looked up and asked:

"You will be one of the Enquiry-Agents, I suppose?"

"Enquiry-Agents," I thought, "what does he mean?"--but I answered:

"Yes, of course I am!"

"Did you come along the Trepovka Road?" he asked.

"Yes, along the Trepovka," I answered.

"And will you hire the folks soon?" he said.

"Very soon," said I.

"Listen, will they take deposits?"

"They will."

"Have you heard how much per head?"

"Yes, about two griveniki[5] per head."

"Laws!" said the little muzhik.

I put two and two together, guessed why he was ploughing there, and asked him whence he came? how many souls[6] there were in his village? how many could go out to work? how many went on foot? how many could go on horseback?

[5] A grivenik = 10 kopecks = about 2¼d.

[6] Peasants.

He understood me.

"You are going to take labourers out of our village, eh?" said he.

"It is all the same to me where I take them from," said I.

I took from them a bank-note and promised to give to their village the preference over other villages. I took two griveniki per head from the labourers who had no horses, and thirty kopecks from the labourers who had, on the pretext of giving them a written assurance of employment for a period fixed by myself. They handed me over about a hundred roubles[11] or so. And I wrote out little receipts for them, said a few kind words to them, and so bade them adieu.

I appeared at Smolensk, and as it was already growing cold, I resolved to pass the winter there. I quickly found some good people and stayed with them The winter didn't pass half badly, but soon spring came and, would you believe it, it drew me out of the town. I wanted to loaf about--and who was there to prevent me? Off I went and strolled about for a whole summer, and in the winter I plumped down into the city of Elizavetgrad. There I plumped down, I say, and I could not wheedle myself in anywhere. I hunted high and low, and at last I found my way. I got the post of reporter of the local gazette--a petty affair, but it found me my grub and left me a pretty free hand After that I made the acquaintance of some Junkers--there is a school for the Junkers of the cavalry regiment in the town--and established card-parties. We had some capital card play, and in the course of the winter I managed to grab a thousand roubles. And then spring again appeared. She found me with money and the appearance of a gentleman.

Whither should I go? Well, I went to the town of Slavyansk by water. There I played successfully till August, and then I was obliged to quit the town. I passed the winter at Zhitornir with a butterfly--she was wretched trash, but a woman of exquisite beauty.

In this manner I passed the years of my banishment from Petersburg and then returned thither. The devil knows why, but the place has always had an attraction for me. I arrived there a gentleman with means. I sought out my acquaintances, and what do you think I discovered? My adventures with the liberal people of the Moscow Government were notorious. Everything was known--how I had lived three weeks with the Ivanovs at the Manor House, feeding their hungry souls with the fruits of my fancy; how I behaved to the Petrovs, and how I had impoverished Madame Vanteva. Well, and what of it? Necessity knows no law, and if seven doors are closed against you, ten more will open to you. But it was no go. I tried very hard to make for myself a stable position in society, and I could not do it. Was it because I had lost during these three years something of my capacity of consorting with men, or was it because people had grown more artful during that period? And now when the shoe began to pinch the devil put it into my head to offer my services to the Detective Force. I offered myself in the capacity of an agent who keeps his eye upon the play-houses. They accepted me. The terms were good. With this secret profession I combined a public one--that of reporter to a small gazette. I provided them with excellent newsletters, and occasionally composed the feuilletons for them. And then, too, I played. In fact so carried away was I by this card playing that I forgot to report it to the authorities. I completely forgot, you know, that it was my duty to do so. But when I lost I remembered: I must report this, I said to myself. But no, I thought, first let me win back my losings, and then I will make my report. In this way I put off the performance of my duty for a very long time, till at last I was actually grabbed by the police on the very scene of the offence behind a card-table. They abused me publicly as one of their own agents. Next day I was brought up in the usual way, a very savage indictment was laid against me; they told me I had absolutely no conscience whatever; and banished me from the capital--banished me a second time. And this time without the right of re-entry for the space of ten years.

For six years I travelled about without complaining to God of my fate--what did I care! I will relate nothing about this period, for it was too monotonous--and manifold. Life in general is a gay bird. Sometimes, indeed, it hasn't a grain to peck at; but it doesn't do to be too exacting; even people sitting on thrones, remember, haven't always things exactly their own way. In such a life as mine there are no duties--that's the first great advantage--and there are no laws except the law of nature--and that's the second. We disposers of our lives may have our disquietudes--but then you'll find fleas even in the best inns. On the other hand, you can go where you like, to the right, to the left, forwards, backwards, everywhere your fancy draws you; and if your fancy doesn't draw you, you can live on a peasant's loaf--he is good, and will always give--you can live on the peasant's loaf, I say, and lie down till the impulse seizes you to go on further.

Where have I been? I have been in the Tolstoi Colonies, and I have fed in the kitchens of the Moscow merchants. I have lived in the great monastery at Kiev and at New Athos. I have been at Czenstochowa, the holiest shrine in Poland; at Muroma, the favourite place of pilgrimage in Russia. Sometimes it seems to me as if I have traversed every little footpath in the Russian Empire twice over. And as soon as ever I have the opportunity of repairing my exterior I shall cross the frontier. I shall make for Roumania, and there every road lies open before you. For Russia now begins to bore me, and there is nothing to be done in her that I have left undone.

And, indeed, during these six years, it seems to me that I have accomplished a good deal. What a number of wondrous things I have said, and what wonders I have related! You know the sort of thing. You come to a village, you beg for a night's lodging, and when they have fed you--you give free reins to your fancy. It is even possible that I may have founded some new Sects, for I have spoken much, very much, concerning the Scriptures. And the muzhik has a fine nose for the Scriptures, and a couple of texts suffices him for the construction of an entirely--new confession of faith which--but you know what I mean. And how many laws have I not composed about the division and repartition of land! Yes, I have infused a great deal of fancy into life.

Well, that's how I live. I live and believe: wish for a dwelling-place and it is yours. For I have common-sense and the women prize me. For instance, I come to the town of Nikolaiev, and I go to the suburbs where dwells the daughter of a soldier of Nikolaiev. The woman is a widow, handsome, and well to do. I come in and say: "Well, Kapochka, here I am; warm a bath for me! Wash me and clothe me, and I will abide with thee even from moon to moon!" She immediately does everything for me, and if she was entertaining a lover besides me, she drives him away. And I live with her, a month or more, as long as I like. For three years I lived with her, during the winter for two months, last year I lived with her even three months; I might live with her the whole winter through if she were not so silly and did not bore me. Except her market garden, which brings her in two thousand roubles a year, the woman certainly wants nothing.

And then I go to the Kuban, to the Labinskaya station. There lives the cossack, Peter Cherny, and he accounts me a holy man--many consider me a righteous man. Many simple believing folks say to me: "Little father, take this money and place a candle for me before the Just One when you are there...." I take it. I respect believing folks, and do not want to offend them with the horrible truth. Not for the world would I let them know that I expend their mite, not for a candle for their patron, but in tobacco for my pipe.

There is also much charm in the consciousness of your aloofness from people, in the clear comprehension of the height and stability of that wall of offences committed against them which I myself have freely erected. And there is much, both of sweet and bitter, in the constant risk of being unmasked. Life is a game. I stake on my cards everything, _i.e.,_ nothing, and I always win, without the risk of losing anything else except my own ribs. But I am certain that if people, anywhere, were to set about beating me, they would not be content with maiming me but would kill me outright. It is impossible to feel offended at this, and it would be foolish to fear it.

And so, young man, I have told you my story. I've even spun it out a bit, as my story has its own philosophy, and you know that I take a pleasure in telling it. It appears to me that I have told it pretty well. I will go further, and say, very accurately. I have made up a good deal of it, no doubt, but if I have lied I call Heaven to witness that I have lied according to the facts. Look not upon them, but at my talent for exposition--that, I assure you, is faithful to the original--my own soul. I have set before you a dish hot from my fancy served up with the sauce of the purest truth.

But why have I told you all this? I have told it you because, my dear fellow, I feel that you believe in me--a little. It is kind of you. Be it so!--but--believe no man! For whenever he tells you anything about himself he is sure to be lying. If he be unfortunate he lies in order to excite greater sympathy; if he be prosperous he lies in order to make you envy him the more; and in every case, whether he be fortunate or unfortunate, he lies in order to attract greater attention.

V.--THE GREEN KITTEN.[1]

The round window of my chamber looked out upon the prison-yard. It was very high from the ground, but by placing the table against the wall and mounting upon it, I could see everything that was going on in the courtyard. Beneath the window, under the slope of the roof, the doves had built themselves a nest, and when I set about looking out of my window down into the court below, they began cooing above my head.

[1] The original title of this tale was "Zazubrina." Written in 1897.

I had lots of time to make the acquaintance of the inhabitants of the prison-yard from my coign of vantage, and I knew already that the merriest member of that grim and grey population went by the name of Zazubrina.

He was a square-set, stout little fellow, with a ruddy face and a high forehead, from beneath which his large bright, lively eyes sparkled incessantly.

His cap he wore at the back of his head, his ears stuck out on both sides of his shaven head as if in joke; he never fastened the strings of his shirt-collar, he never buttoned his vest, and every movement of his muscles gave you to understand that he was a merry soul and a pronounced enemy of anger and sadness.

Always laughing, alert and noisy, he was the idol of the yard; he was always surrounded by a group of grey comrades, and he would always be laughing and regaling them with all sorts of curious pranks, brightening up their dull and sorrowful life with his hearty, genuine gaiety....

On one occasion he appeared at the door of the prison-quarters ready to go for a walk with three rats whom he had dexterously harnessed as if they were horses. Sometimes his inventiveness took a cruel form. Thus, for instance, he once, somehow, glued to the wall the long hair of one of the prisoners, a mere lad, who was sitting on the floor asleep against the wall, and, when his hair had dried, suddenly awoke him. The lad quickly leaped to his feet, and clapping his slim lean hands to the back of his head, fell weeping to the ground. The prisoners laughed, and Zazubrina was satisfied. Afterwards--I saw it through the window--he fell a comforting the lad, who had left a no inconsiderable tuft of hair on the wall.

Besides Zazubrina, there was yet another favourite in the prison--a plump, reddish kitten, a tiny, playful little animal, pampered by everyone. Whenever they went out for a walk, the prisoners used to hunt him up and take him with them a good part of the way, passing him on from hand to hand. They would run after him, too, in the yard, and let him cling on to their hands and feet with his claws, delighting in the sportive tricks of their pet.

Whenever the kitten appeared on the scene, he diverted the general attention from Zazubrina, and the latter was by no means pleased with this preference. Zazubrina was at heart an artist, and as an artist had an inordinately good opinion of his own talents. When his public was drawn away from him by the kitten, he remained alone and sat him down in some hole or corner in the courtyard, and from thence would watch the comrades who had forgotten him just then. And I, from my window, would observe him, and felt everything with which his soul was full at such moments. It appeared to me that Zazubrina must infallibly kill the kitten at the first opportunity, and I was sorry for the merry prisoner who was thus always longing to be the centre of general attention. Of all the tendencies of man, this is the most injurious, for nothing kills the soul so quickly as this longing to please people.

When you have to sit in a prison--even the life of the fungi on its walls seems interesting. You will understand therefore the interest with which I observed from my window the little tragedy going on below there, this jealousy of a kitten on the part of a man--you will understand, too, the patience with which I awaited the _dénouement._ The _dénouement_ was, indeed, approaching. It happened in this wise.

On a bright, sunny day, when the prisoners were pouring out of doors into the courtyard, Zazubrina observed in a corner of the yard a pail of green paint, left behind by the painters who were painting the roof of the prison. He approached it, pondered over it, and, dipping a finger into the paint, adorned himself with a pair of green whiskers. These green whiskers on his red face drew forth a burst of laughter. A certain hobbledehoy present, wishing to appropriate Zazubrina's idea, began forthwith to paint his upper lip; but Zazubrina spoiled his fun for him by dipping his hand in the pail and adroitly besprinkling his whole physiognomy. The hobbledehoy spluttered and shook his head, Zazubrina danced around him, and the public kept on laughing, and egged on its jester with cries of encouragement.

At that very moment the red kitten suddenly appeared in the yard. Leisurely he entered the courtyard, gracefully lifting his paws, trotting along with tail erect, and evidently without the slightest fear of coming to grief beneath the feet of the crowd frantically careering round Zazubrina and the bespattered hobbledehoy, who was violently rubbing away with the palm of his hand the mass of oil and verdigris which covered his face.

"My brothers!" someone suddenly exclaimed, "pussy is coming."

"Pussy! Ah, the little rogue!"

"What ho, ginger! Puss, puss, puss!"

They caught up the cat and he was passed from hand to hand; everybody caressed him.

"Look, there's no starving there! What a fat little tummy!"

"What a big cat he's growing!"

"And what claws he has got, the little devil!"

"Let him go! Let him play as he likes!"

"Well, I'll give him a back! Play away, puss!"

Zazubrina was deserted. He stood alone, wiping the green paint off his whiskers with his fingers, and watched the kitten leaping on to the backs and shoulders of the prisoners. Whenever he displayed a wish to sit still on any particular shoulder or back, the men would wriggle about and shake him off, and then he would set off leaping and bounding again from one shoulder to the next. This diverted them all exceedingly, and the laughter was incessant.

"Come, my friends! let us paint the cat!" resounded the voice of Zazubrina. It sounded just as if Zazubrina, in proposing this pastime, at the same time begged them to consent to it.

There was a commotion among the crowd of prisoners.

"But it will be the death of him," cried one.

"Paint the poor beast--what a thing to say!"

"What! paint a live animal, Zazubrina! You deserve a hiding!"

"I call it a devilish good joke," cried a little, broad-shouldered man with a fiery-red beard, enthusiastically.

Zazubrina already held the kitten in his hands, and went with it towards the pail of paint, and then Zazubrina began singing:

"Look, my brothers! look at that! See me paint the ginger cat! Paint him well, and paint him green, And then we'll dance upon the scene."

There was a burst of laughter, and holding their sides, the prisoners made a way in their midst, and I saw quite plainly how Zazubrina, seizing the kitten by the tail, flung it into the pail, and then fell a singing and dancing:

"Stop that mewing! cease to squall! Would you your godfather maul?"

Peals of laughter!

"Oh, crooked-bellied Judas!" piped one squeaky voice.

"Alas, Batyushka!"[2] groaned another.

[2] Little father.

They were stifled, suffocated with laughter. Laughter twisted the bodies of these people, bent them double, vibrated and gurgled in the air--a mighty, devil-may-care laughter, growing louder continually, and reaching the very confines of hysteria. Smiling faces, in white kerchiefs, looked down from the windows of the women's quarters into the yard. The Inspector, squeezing his back to the wall, poked out his brawny body, and, holding it with both hands, discharged his thick, bass, overpowering laugh in regular salvoes.

The joke scattered the folks in all directions around the pail. Performing astounding antics with his legs, Zazubrina danced with all his might, singing by way of accompaniment:

"Ah, life is a merry thing, As the grey cat knew, I ween; And her son, the ginger kitten, Now lives in a world all green."

"Yes, that it will, deuce take you," cried the man with the fiery-red beard.