Part 4

»Dearie, dearie, now don't be angry. I've asked my friends here, some of them. You don't mind? You see, I want so much to show them my sweetheart, my darling; you don't mind? They're dears! Nobody has taken them this evening and they're all alone. The officers have gone to bed now. One of them noticed your revolver and liked it. A very fine one, he said. You don't mind? You don't mind, dear?« And the girl smothered him with short, sharp kisses.

The women were already coming in, chattering and simpering--five or six of the ugliest or oldest of the establishment--painted, with drooping eyes, their hair combed up over their brows. Some of them affected attitudes of shame, and giggled; others quietly eyed the cognac, and looking at him earnestly shook hands. Apparently they had already been to bed; they were all in scanty wrappers; one very fat woman, indolent and indifferent, had come in nothing but a petticoat, her bare arms and corpulent bosom incredibly fat. This fat woman, and another one with an evil bird-like aged face, on which the white paint lay like dirty stucco on a wall, were quite drunk; the others were merry. All this mob of women, half naked, giggling, surrounded him; and an intolerable stench of bodies and stale beer rose and mingled with the clammy, soapy air of the room. A sweating lackey hurried in with cognac, dressed in a tight frocks coat much too small for him, and the girls greeted him with a chorus of:

»Màrkusha! Oh, Màrkusha! Dear Màrkusha!«

Apparently it was a custom of the house to greet him with such exclamations, for even the fat drunken woman murmured lazily, »Màrkusha!«

They drank and clinked glasses, all talking at once about affairs of their own. The evil-looking woman with the bird-like face was irritably and noisily telling of a guest who took her for a time ... and then something had happened. There was much interchange of gutterswords and phrases, pronounced not with the indifference of men, but with a peculiar asperity, even acidity; and every object was called by its proper name.

At first they paid little heed to him, and he maintained an obstinate silence, merely looking on. Liuba, full of her happiness, sat quietly beside him on the bed, one arm about his neck, herself drinking little, but constantly plying him, and from time to time whispering in his ear, »Darling!«

He drank heavily, but it did not make him tipsy; what was happening in him was something different, something which strong alcohol often secretly effects. Whilst he drank and sat there silent, the work was going on in him, vast, destructive, swift, and numbing. It was as though all he had known in his past life, all he had loved and meditated--talks with companions, books, perilous and alluring tasks--was noiselessly being burned, annihilated without a trace, and he himself not injured in the process, but rather made stronger and harder. With every glass he drank he seemed to return to some earlier self of his, to some primitive rebel ancestor, for whom rebellion was religion and religion rebellion. Like a colour being washed away in boiling water, his foreign bookish wisdom was fading and was being replaced by something of his very own, wild and dark as the black earth--from whose bleak stretches, from the infinitudes of slumbrous forest and boundless plain, blew the wind that was the life-breath of this ultimate blind wisdom of his; and in this wind could be heard the tumultuous jangling of bells, and through it could be seen the blood-red dawn of great fires, and the clank of iron fetters, and the rapture of prayer, and the Satanic laughter of myriad giant throats; and above his uncovered head the murky dome of the sky.

Thus he sat. Broad cheeked, pallid, already quite at home with these miserable creatures racketing around him. And, in his soul, laid waste by the conflagration of a desolated world, there glowed and gleamed, like a white fire of incandescent steel, one thing alone--his flaming will; blind now and purposeless, it was still greedily reaching out afar, while his body, undisturbed, was secretly being steeled in the feeling of limitless power and ability to create all things or to shatter all things at will.

Suddenly he hammered on the table with his fist.

»Drink, Liubka! Drink!«

And when, radiant and smiling, she had poured herself out a glass, he lifted his, and cried aloud.

»Here's to our Brotherhood!«

»You mean Them?« whispered Liuba.

»No, these. To our Brotherhood! To the blackguards, brutes and cowards, to those who are crushed by life, to those perishing from syphilis, to....«

The other girls laughed, the fat one indolently objecting:

»Oh, come, that's going a bit too far, my dear!«

»Hush!« said Liuba, turning very pale, »He is my betrothed.«

»To those who are blind from birth! Ye who can see, pluck out your eyes! For it is shameful«--and he banged on the table--»it is shameful for those who have sight to look upon those who are blind from birth! If with our light we cannot illumine all the darkness, then let us put out the signal fires, let us all crawl in the dark! If there be not paradise for all, then I will have none for myself! And this, girls, this is no part of paradise, but simply and plainly a piggery! A toast, girls! That all the signal fires be extinguished. Drink! To the Dark!«

He staggered a little as he drank off his glass. He spoke rather thickly, but firmly, precisely, with pauses, enunciating every syllable. Nobody understood his wild speech, but they found him pleasing in himself, his pale figure and his peculiar quality of wickedness. Then Liuba suddenly took up the word, stretching out her hands.

»He is my betrothed. He will stay with me. He was virtuous and had comrades, and now he will stay with me!«

»Come and take Markusha's place,« the fat woman drawled.

»Shut up, Manka, or I'll smash your face! He will stay with me. He was virtuous....«

»We were all virtuous once,« the evil old woman grumbled. And the others joined in: »I was straight four years ago ... I'm an honourable woman still ... I swear to God....«

Liuba was nearly weeping.

»Silence, you sluts! You had your honour taken from you; but he gives it me himself. He takes it and gives it for my honour. But I don't want honour! You're a lot of ... and he's still an innocent boy!«

She broke into sobs. There was a general outburst of laughter. They guffawed as only the drunken can, without any restraint; the little room, saturated with sounds, and unable to absorb any more, threw it all back in a deafening roar. They laughed until the tears fell; they rolled together and groaned with it. The fat woman clucked in a little thin voice and tumbled exhausted from her chair.

And, last of all, he laughed out loud at the sight of them.

It was as though the Satanic world itself had foregathered there to laugh to its grave that little sprig of virtue, the dead innocence itself joining in the laughter.

The only one who did not laugh was Liuba. Trembling with agitation, she wrung her hands and shouted at them, and finally flung herself with her fists on the fat woman, who even with her beam-like arms could hardly ward off her blows.

»So be it!« he shouted in his laughter. But the others could hear nothing.

At last the noise died down a little.

»So be it!« he cried, a second time. »But, peace! Silence!--I have something to show you!«

»Leave them alone,« said Liuba, wiping her tears away with her fist. »We must get rid of them.«

Still shaking with laughter he turned round to face her.

»Are you frightened?« he asked. »Was it honour you wanted after all? You fool! It's the only thing you ever have wanted! Leave me alone!«

Without taking any more notice of her, he addressed himself to the others, rising and holding his closed hands above his head.

»Listen! I'll show you something! Look here, at my hands!«

Merry and curious, they looked at his hands, and waited obediently, like children, with gaping mouths.

»Here! Here! See?« He shook his hands. »I hold my life in my hands! Do you see?«

»Yes! Yes! Go on!«

»My life was noble, it was! It was pure and beautiful. Yes, it was! It was like those pretty porcelain vases. And now, look! I fling it away....« He let fall his hands, almost with a groan, and all their eyes looked downwards as though there really lay something down there, something delicate and brittle, that had been shattered into fragments--a beautiful human life.

»Trample on it, now, girls! Trample it to pieces until not a bit of it is left!«

Like children enjoying a new game, with a whoop and a laugh, they leapt up and began trampling on the spot where lay the fragments of that invisible dainty porcelain, a beautiful human life. Gradually a new frenzy overcame them. The laughter and shrieks died away, and nothing but their heavy breathing was audible above the continuous stamping and clatter of feet--rabid, unrelenting, implacable.

Liuba, like an affronted queen, watched it a moment over his shoulder with savage eyes; then suddenly, as though she had only just understood and been driven mad, with a wild groan of elation she burst into the midst of the jostling women and joined the trampling in a faster measure. But for the earnestness of the drunken faces, the ferocity of the bleary eyes, the wickedness of the depraved and twisted mouths, it might all have been taken for some new kind of dance without music, without rhythm.

With his fingers gripping into his hard bristly skull, the man looked on, calm and grim.

* * * * *

Two voices were speaking in the dark--Liuba's, intimate, tentative, sensitive, with delicate intonations of private apprehension such as a woman's voice always gains in the dark, and his hard, quiet, distant. He spoke his words too precisely, too harshly--the only sign of intoxication not quite passed away.

»Are your eyes open?« she asked.

»Yes.«

»Are you thinking about something?«

»Yes.«

Silence--and the dark. Then again the thoughtful, vigilant voice of the woman.

»Tell me something more about your comrades, will you?«

»What for?... They--they were.«

He said WERE as the living speak of the dead, or as the dead might speak of the living, and through the even course of his calm and almost indifferent narration it resounded like a funeral knell, as though he were an old man telling his children the heroic tale of a long departed past. And, in the darkness, before the girl's enchanted eyes, there rose the image of a little group of young men, pitifully young, bereft of father and mother, and hopelessly hostile both to the world they were fighting and to the world they were fighting for. Having travelled by dream to the distant future, to the land of brotherly men as yet unborn, they lived their short lives like pale blood-stained shadows or spectres, the scarecrows of humanity. And their lives were stupidly short--the gallows awaited every one of them, or penal servitude, or insanity--nothing else to look forward to but prison, the scaffold, or the madhouse. And there were women among them....

Liuba started and raised herself on her elbows.

»Women? What do you mean, darling?«

»Young, gentle girls, still in their teens. They follow in the steps of the men, manfully, daringly, die with them....«

»Die! Oh my God!« she cried, clutching his shoulder.

»What? Are you touched by this?«

»Never mind, darling. I sometimes.... Go on with your story! Go on!«

And he went on with his story, and there happened a wonderful thing. Ice was turned into fire. Through the funeral notes of hi requiem speech, suddenly rang for the girl, her eyes wide open now and burning, the gospel of a new, joyous, and mighty life. Tears rose in her eyes and dried there as in a furnace; she was excited to the pitch of rebellion, eager for every word. Like a hammer upon glowing iron, his words were forging in her a new responsive soul Steadily, regularly, it fell--beating the soul ever to a finer temper--and suddenly, in the suffocating stench of that room, there spoke aloud a new and unknown voice, the voice of a human being.

»Darling, am I not also a woman?«

»What do you mean?«

»I also might go with Them?«

He did not reply, and in his silence he seemed to her so remarkable and so great (he had been Their comrade, had lived with Them) that it felt uncomfortable to be lying beside him, embracing him. She moved away a little and left only a hand touching him, so that the contact might be less; and forgetting her hatred of the Fine, her tears and curses, and the long years of inviolable solitude in the depths--overcome by the beauty and self-denial of Their lives--her face flushed with excitement, and she was ready to weep at the terrible thought that They might not accept her.

»Dear, but will they take me? My God, if they won't! What do you think? Tell me they'll take me--they won't be squeamish! They won't say: You are impossible, you are vile, you have sold yourself! Answer me!«

Silence--and then a reply that rejoiced.

»Yes, they will! Why not, indeed?«

»Oh, my darling. But....«

»Fine people, they are!« The man's voice had the finality of a big fat full stop, but the girl triumphantly repeated, with a touching confidence:

»Yes! They are fine!«

And so radiant was her smile that it seemed as if the very darkness smiled in sympathy and some little stars strayed in as well, little blue points of light. For a new truth had reached her--one that brought not fear, but joy.

Then the shy suppliant voice.

»Let us go to them, dear? You'll take me with you? You won't be ashamed of having such a companion? For they'll accept me, won't they? Just as you did when you came here? Surely you were driven here for some purpose! But--to stay here--you would simply drop into the cesspool. As for me, I--I--I will try. Why don't you say anything?«

Grim silence again, in which could be heard the beating of two hearts--one rapid, hurried, excited; the other hard and slow, strongely slow.

»Would you be shamed to go back with such as me?«

A stern prolonged silence, and then a reply, solid and inflexible as unpolished rock:

»I am not going back. I don't want to be fine.«

Silence. Then presently:

»They are gentlemen,« he said, and his voice sounded solitary and strained.

»Who?« she asked, dully.

»They--Those who were.«

A long silence--this time as though a bird had thrown itself down and was falling, whirling through the air on its pliant wings, but unable to reach the earth, unable to strike the ground and lie at rest.

In the dark he knew that Liuba, silently, carefully, making the least stir possible, passed over him; was busying herself with something.

»What are you doing?«

»I don't like lying there like that. I want to get dressed.«

Then she must have put something on and sat down; for the chair creaked ever so little; and it became so still--as silent as though the room were empty. The stillness lasted a long time; and then the calm, serious voice spoke:

»I think, Liuba, there is still one cognac left on the table. Take a drink and come and lie down again.«

* * * * *

Day was already dawning, and in the house all was as quiet as in any other house, when the police appeared. After long arguments and hesitations Mark had been dispatched to the police station with the revolver and cartridges and a circumstantial account of the strange visitor. The police at once guessed who he was. For three days they had had him on their nerves. They had been seeing him here, there, and everywhere; but finally, all trace of him had been lost. Somebody had suggested searching the brothels of the district; but just then somebody else got another false clue, so the public resorts were forgotten.

The telephone tinkled excitedly. Half an hour later, in the chill of the October morning, heavy boots were scrunching the hoar-frost and along the empty streets moved in silence a company of policemen and detectives. In front of them, feeling in every inch of his body what a mistake it was to take the risks of such exposure, marched the district superintendent, an elderly man, very tall, in a thick official overcoat, the shape of a sack. He was yawning, burying his flabby red nose in his grey whiskers; and he was thinking that he ought to wait for the military; that it was nonsense to go for such a man without soldiers, with nothing but stupid drowsy policemen who didn't know how to shoot. More than once he reached the point of calling himself the slave of duty, yawning every time long and heavily.

The superintendent was a drunkard, a regular debauchee of the resorts of his district; and they paid him heavily for the right to exist. He had no desire to die. When they called him from his bed, he had nursed his revolver for a long time from one greasy palm to the other, and although there was little time to spare he had ordered them to clean his jacket, as though for a review. That very night at the police station, he remembered, conversation had turned on this same man who had been dodging them all, and the superintendent, with the cynicism of an old sot, had called the man a hero and himself an old police trollop. When his assistants laughed, he had assured them that such heroes must exist, if only to be hanged. »You hang him--and it pleases you both: him because he is going straight to the Kingdom of Heaven, and you as a demonstration that brave men still exist. Don't snigger--it's true.«

On that chill October morning, marching along the cold streets, he appreciated clearly that the talk of yesterday was lies; that the man was nothing but a rascal. He was ashamed of his own boyish extravagance.

»A hero, indeed!« the superintendent prayerfully recanted. »Lord, if he so much as stirs a finger, the blackguard, I'll kill him like a dog. By God, I will!«

And that set him thinking why he, the superintendent, an old man full of gout, so much desired to live. Because there was hoar frost on the streets? He turned round and shouted savagely: »Quick march, there! Don't go like sheep!«

The wind blew into his overcoat. His jacket was too wide and his whole body quivered in it like the yolk of an egg in a stirring basin. He felt as if he was suddenly shrinking. The palms of his hands, despite the cold, were still sweaty.

They surrounded the house as though they had come to take not one sleeper but a host in ambush. Then some of them crept along the dark corridor on tiptoe to the fearsome door.

A desperate knock--a shout--threats to shoot through the door. And when, almost knocking Liuba, half naked, off her feet, they burst into the little room in close formation and filled it with their boots and cloaks and rifles--then they saw him--sitting on the bed in his shirt, with his bare hairy legs hanging down--sitting there silent. No bomb--nothing terrible--nothing but the ordinary room of a prostitute, filthy and repulsive in the early morning light, with its stretch of tattered carpet and scattered clothes, the table smeared and stained with liquor--and sitting on the bed a man, clean shaven and with drowsy eyes, high cheekbones, a swollen face, hairy legs--silent.

»Hands up!« shouted the superintendent, holding his revolver tighter in his damp hand.

But the man neither raised his arms nor made any answer.

»Search him!« the superintendent ordered.

»There's nothing to search! I took his revolver away. Oh, my God!« Liuba cried, her teeth chattering with fear. She had nothing on but a crumpled chemise; among the others, all wrapped in their cloaks, the two, man and woman, both half naked, roused feelings of shame, disgust, and contempt.

They searched his clothing, ransacked the carpet, peered into the corners, into the cupboard, and found nothing.

»I took his revolver from him,« Liuba thoughtlessly insisted.

»Silence Liubka!« the superintendent shouted. He knew the girl well, had spent two or three nights with her. He believed her; but his relief was so unexpected that out of sheer pleasure he wanted to shout and command and show his authority.

»Your name?«

»I shall not say. I shall not answer any questions at all.«

»All right, sir, all right,« the superintendent replied ironically, but somewhat abashed. Then he looked again at the naked hairy feet and at the girl shuddering in the corner, and suddenly became suspicious.

»Is this the right man?« he said, taking a detective aside. »Something seems....«

The detective went and stared closely in the man's face, then nodded his head decisively.

»Yes. It's he. He's only shaved his beard. You can recognise him by his cheekbones.«

»A brigand's cheekbones, sure enough.«

»And look at the eyes, too. I could pick him out of a thousand by his eyes.«

»His eyes? Let me see the photograph.«

He took a long look at the unfinished proof photograph of a man, very handsome, wonderfully pure and young, with a long bushy Russian beard. The expression on the face was the same. Not grim, but very calm and bright. The cheekbones were not markedly prominent.

»You see! His cheekbones don't stand out like....«

»They are concealed by the beard, but if you feel under it with the eye....«

»It may be, but.... Is he a hard drinker?«

The detective, tall and thin, with a yellow face and sparse beard, himself a hard drinker, smiled patronizingly.

»There's no drinking among them.«

»I know there isn't but still....« The superintendent approached the man. »Listen! Were you an accomplice in the murder of N----?« It was a very important and well known name.

But the man remained silent and only smiled and fidgeted with one hairy leg; the toes were bent and distorted by boots.

»You are being examined!«

»You may as well leave him alone. He won't reply. We'd better wait for the captain and prosecutor. They'll make him talk.«

The superintendent smiled, but in his heart for some reason he felt the shrinking again.

They had been tearing up the carpet; they had upset something, and there was a very unpleasant smell in the ill-ventilated room.

»What filth!« thought the superintendent, though in the matter of cleanliness he was by no means nice. And he looked with disgust at that naked swinging foot. »So he is still fidgeting with his foot,« he thought.

He turned round; a young policeman, with pure white eye-lashes and eyebrows, was sneering at Liuba, holding his rifle with both hands as a village night watchman holds his staff.

»Well, Liubka,« the superintendent cried, approaching her. »Why didn't you report at once who you had with you, you bitch?«

»Oh, I was....«

The superintendent smacked her face twice, quite neatly, first on one cheek then on the other.

»Take that then! I'll show you!«

The man's brows went up and the foot ceased swinging.

»So you don't like that, young fellow?« The contempt of the superintendent was growing apace. »What are you going to do about it? You kissed this face, didn't you, and we'll do what we damn well....«

He laughed, and the policeman smiled in some agitation. And what was more surprising, even the downtrodden Liuba laughed. She looked at the old superintendent in a friendly way, as though she enjoyed his jokes and jollity.

From the moment of the arrival of the police she had never looked at the man, betraying him naturally and openly; and this he saw, and was silent and smiled half scoffingly, a strange smile--as a gray stone in the forest, sunk into the ground and mossgrown, might smile.

Half dressed women were crowding about the door, amongst them some of those who had visited them. But they looked at him indifferently, with a dull curiosity, as though this was the first time they had seen him. Apparently they remembered nothing of the night. They were soon hustled away.

It was now daylight, and the room was more bleak and repulsive than ever. Two officers who evidently had not had their full sleep came in, their faces ruffled, but properly dressed and clean.