Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  “Yes, as before,” answered Ordynov, struck by a bright idea.

  “Splendid, Vassily Mihalitch, splendid!” At this point Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov’s hand warmly. “You will be a credit to the community. God give you luck in your career.... Goodness! how glad I am I met you! How often I have thought of you, how often I have said: ‘Where is he, our good, noble-hearted, witty Vassily Mihalitch?’”

  They engaged a private room. Yaroslav Ilyitch ordered lunch, asked for vodka, and looked feelingly at Ordynov.

  “I have read a great deal since I saw you,” he began in a timid and somewhat insinuating voice. “I have read all Pushkin...”

  Ordynov looked at him absent-mindedly.

  “A marvellous understanding of human passion. But first of all, let me express my gratitude. You have done so much for me by nobly instilling into me a right way of thinking.”

  “Upon my word...”

  “No, let me speak; I always like to pay honour where honour is due, and I am proud that this feeling at least has found expression.”

  “Really, you are unfair to yourself, and I, indeed...”

  “No, I am quite fair,” Yaroslav Ilyitch replied, with extraordinary warmth. “What am I in comparison with you?”

  “Good Heavens!”

  “Yes....”

  Then followed silence.

  “Following your advice, I have dropped many low acquaintances and have, to some extent, softened the coarseness of my manners,” Yaroslav Ilyitch began again in a somewhat timid and insinuating voice. “In the time when I am free from my duties I sit for the most part at home; in the evenings I read some improving book and... I have only one desire, Vassily Mihalitch: to be of some little use to the fatherland....”

  “I have always thought you a very high-minded man, Yaroslav Ilyitch.”

  “You always bring balm to my spirit... you generous young man....”

  Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov’s hand warmly.

  “You are drinking nothing?” he said, his enthusiasm subsiding a little.

  “I can’t; I’m ill.”

  “Ill? Yes, are you really? How long — in what way — did you come to be ill? If you like I’ll speak... What doctor is treating you? If you like I’ll speak to our parish doctor. I’ll run round to him myself. He’s a very skilful man!” Yaroslav Ilyitch was already picking up his hat.

  “Thank you very much. I don’t go in for being doctored. I don’t like doctors.”

  “You don’t say so? One can’t go on like that. But he’s a very clever man,” Yaroslav Ilyitch went on imploringly. “The other day — do allow me to tell you this, dear Vassily Mihalitch — the other day a poor carpenter came. ‘Here,’ said he, Ί hurt my hand with a tool; cure it for me....’ Semyon Pafnutyitch, seeing that the poor fellow was in danger of gangrene, set to work to cut off the wounded hand; he did this in my presence, but it was done in such a gener... that is, in such a superb way, that I confess if it had not been for compassion for suffering humanity, it would have been a pleasure to look on, simply from curiosity. But where and how did you fall ill?”

  “In moving from my lodging... I’ve only just got up.”

  “But you are still very unwell and you ought not to be out. So you are not living where you were before? But what induced you to move?”

  “My landlady was leaving Petersburg.”

  “Domna Savishna? Really?... A thoroughly estimable, good-hearted woman! Do you know? I had almost a son’s respect for her. That life, so near its end, had something of the serene dignity of our forefathers, and looking at her, one seemed to see the incarnation of our hoary-headed, stately old traditions... I mean of that... something in it so poetical!” Yaroslav Ilyitch concluded, completely overcome with shyness and blushing to his ears.

  “Yes, she was a nice woman.”

  “But allow me to ask you where you are settled now.”

  “Not far from here, in Koshmarov’s Buildings.”

  “I know him. A grand old man! I am, I may say, almost a real friend of his. A fine old veteran!”

  Yaroslav Ilyitch’s lips almost quivered with enthusiasm. He asked for another glass of vodka and a pipe.

  “Have you taken a flat?”

  “No, a furnished room in a flat.”

  “Who is your landlord? Perhaps I know him, too.”

  “Murin, an artisan; a tall old man...”

  “Murin, Murin; yes, in the back court, over the coffin-maker’s, allow me to ask?”

  “Yes, yes, in the back court.”

  “H’m! are you comfortable there?”

  “Yes; I’ve only just moved in.”

  “H’m!... I only meant to say, h’m!... have you noticed nothing special?”

  “Really..

  “That is... I am sure you will be all right there if you are satisfied with your quarters.... I did not mean that; I am ready to warn you... but, knowing your character... How did that old artisan strike you?”

  “He seems to be quite an invalid.”

  “Yes, he’s a great sufferer.... But have you noticed nothing? Have you talked to him?”

  “Very little; he is so morose and unsociable.”

  “H’m!.. Yaroslav Ilyitch mused. “He’s an unfortunate man,” he said dreamily.

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, unfortunate, and at the same time an incredibly strange and interesting person. However, if he does not worry you... Excuse my dwelling upon such a subject, but I was curious...”

  “And you have really roused my curiosity, too.... I should very much like to know what sort of a man he is. Besides, I am living with him...

  “You know, they say the man was once very rich. He traded, as most likely you have heard. But through various unfortunate circumstances he was reduced to poverty; many of his barges were wrecked in a storm and lost, together with their cargo. His factory, which was, I believe, in the charge of a near and dear relation, was equally unlucky and was burnt down, and the relation himself perished in the flames. It must be admitted it was a terrible loss! Then, so they say, Murin sank into tearful despondency; they began to be afraid he would lose his reason, and, indeed, in a quarrel with another merchant, also an owner of barges plying on the Volga, he suddenly showed himself in such a strange an unexpected light that the whole incident could only be accounted for on the supposition that he was quite mad, which I am prepared to believe. I have heard in detail of some of his queer ways; there suddenly happened at last a very strange, so to say momentous, circumstance which can only be attributed to the malign influence of wrathful destiny.”

  “What was it?” asked Ordynov.

  “They say that in a fit of madness he made an attempt on the life of a young merchant, of whom he had before been very fond. He was so upset when he recovered from the attack that he was on the point of taking his own life; so at least they say. I don’t know what happened after that, but it is known that he was several years doing penance.... But what is the matter with you, Vassily Mihalitch? Am I fatiguing you with my artless tale?”

  “Oh no, for goodness’ sake... You say that he has been doing penance; but he is not alone.”

  “I don’t know. I am told he was alone. Anyway, no one else was mixed up in that affair. However, I have not heard what followed; I only know...”

  “Well?”

  “I only know — that is, I had nothing special in my mind to add... I only want to say, if you find anything strange or out of the ordinary in him, all that is merely the result of the misfortunes that have descended upon him one after the other....”

  “Yes, he is so devout, so sanctimonious.”

  “I don’t think so, Vassily Mihalitch; he has suffered so much; I believe he is quite sincere.”

  “But now, of course, he is not mad; he is all right.”

  “Oh, yes, yes; I can answer for that, I am ready to take my oath on it; he is in full possession of all his faculties. He is only, as you have justly observed, extremely strange and devout. He
is a very sensible man, in fact. He speaks smartly, boldly and very subtly. The traces of his stormy life in the past are still visible on his face. He’s a curious man, and very well read.”

  “He seems to be always reading religious books.”

  “Yes, he is a mystic.”

  “What?”

  “A mystic. But I tell you that as a secret. I will tell you, as a secret, too, that a very careful watch was kept on him for a time. The man had a great influence on people who used to go to him.”

  “What sort of influence?”

  “But you’ll never believe it; you see, in those days he did not live in this building; Alexandr Ignatyevitch, a respectable citizen, a man of standing, held in universal esteem, went to see him with a lieutenant out of curiosity. They arrive and are received, and the strange man begins by looking into their faces. He usually looks into people’s faces if he consents to be of use to them; if not, he sends people away, and even very uncivilly, I’m told. He asks them, ‘What do you want, gentlemen?’

  ‘Well,’ answers Alexandr Ignatyevitch, ‘your gift can tell you that, without our saying.’

  ‘Come with me into the next room,’ he says; then he signified which of them it was who needed his services. Alexandr Ignatyevitch did not say what happened to him afterwards, but he came out from him as white as a sheet. The same thing happened to a well-known lady of high rank; she, too, came out from seeing him as white as a sheet, bathed in tears and overcome with his predictions and his sayings.”

  “Strange. But now does he still do the same?”

  “It’s strictly prohibited. There have been marvellous instances. A young comet, the hope and joy of a distinguished family, mocked at him. ‘What are you laughing at?’ said the old man, angered. ‘In three days’ time you will be like this!’ and he crossed his arms over his bosom to signify a corpse.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t venture to believe it, but they say his prediction came true. He has a gift, Vassily Mihalitch.... You are pleased to smile at my guileless story. I know that you are greatly ahead of me in culture; but I believe in him; he’s not a charlatan. Pushkin himself mentions a similar case in his works.”

  “H’m! I don’t want to contradict you. I think you said he’s not living alone?”

  “I don’t know... I believe his daughter is with him.”

  “Daughter?”

  “Yes, or perhaps his wife; I know there is some woman with him. I have had a passing glimpse of her, but I did not notice.”

  “H’m! Strange...”

  The young man fell to musing, Yaroslav Ilyitch to tender contemplation of him. He was touched both at seeing an old friend and at having satisfactorily told him something very interesting. He sat sucking his pipe with his eyes fixed on Vassily Mihalitch; but suddenly he jumped up in a fluster.

  “A whole hour has passed and I forgot the time! Dear Vassily Mihalitch, once more I thank the lucky chance that brought us together, but it is time for me to be off. Will you allow me to visit you in your learned retreat?”

  “Please do, I shall be delighted. I will come and see you, too, when I have a chance.”

  “That’s almost too pleasant to believe. You gratify me, you gratify me unutterably! You would not believe how you have delighted me!”

  They went out of the restaurant. Sergeyev was already flying to meet them and to report in a hurried sentence that Vilyam Emelyanovitch was pleased to be driving out. A pair of spirited roans in a smart light gig did, in fact, come into sight. The trace horse was particularly fine. Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed his best friend’s hand as though in a vice, touched his hat and set off to meet the flying gig. On the way he turned round once or twice to nod farewells to Ordynov.

  Ordynov felt so tired, so exhausted in every limb, that he could scarcely move his legs. He managed somehow to crawl home. At the gate he was met again by the porter, who had been diligently watching his parting from Yaroslav Ilyitch, and beckoning him from a distance. But the young man passed him by. At the door of his flat he ran full tilt against a little grey-headed figure coming out from Murin’s room, looking on the ground.

  “Lord forgive my transgressions!” whispered the figure, skipping on one side with the springiness of a cork.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I humbly thank you for your civility.... Oh, Lord, Lord!”

  The meek little man, groaning and moaning and muttering something edifying to himself, went cautiously down the stairs. This was the “master” of the house, of whom the porter stood in such awe. Only then Ordynov remembered that he had seen him for the first time, here at Murin’s, when he was moving into the lodging.

  He felt unhinged and shaken; he knew that his imagination and impressionability were strained to the utmost pitch, and resolved not to trust himself. By degrees he sank into a sort of apathy. A heavy oppressive feeling weighed upon his chest. His heart ached as though it were sore all over, and his whole soul was full of dumb, comfortless tears.

  He fell again upon the bed which she had made Mm, and began listening again. He heard two breathings: one the heavy broken breathing of a sick man, the other soft but uneven, as though also stirred by emotion, as though that heart was beating with the same yearning, with the same passion. At times he heard the rustle of her dress the faint stir of her soft light steps, and even that faint stir of her feet echoed with a vague but agonisingly sweet pang in his heart. At last he seemed to distinguish sobs, rebellious sighs, and at last, praying again. He knew that she was kneeling before the ikon, wringing her hands in a frenzy of despair!... Who was she? For whom was she praying? By what desperate passion was her heart torn? Why did it ache and grieve and pour itself out in such hot and hopeless tears?

  He began to recall her words. All that she had said to him was still ringing in his ears like music, and his heart lovingly responded with a vague heavy throb at every recollection, every word of hers as he devoutly repeated it.... For an instant a thought flashed through his mind that he had dreamed all this. But at the same moment his whole being ached in swooning anguish as the impression of her hot breath, her words, her kiss rose vividly again in his imagination. He closed his eyes and sank into oblivion. A clock struck somewhere; it was getting late; twilight was falling. It suddenly seemed to him that she was bending over him again, that she was looking into his eyes with her exquisitely clear eyes, wet with sparkling tears of serene, happy joy, soft and bright as the infinite turquoise vault of heaven at hot midday. Her face beamed with such triumphant peace; her smile was warm with such solemnity of infinite bliss; she leaned with such sympathy, with such childlike impulsiveness on his shoulder that a moan of joy broke from his exhausted bosom. She tried to tell him something, caressingly she confided something to him. Again it was as though heartrending music smote upon his hearing. Greedily he drank in the air, warm, electrified by her near breathing. In anguish he stretched out his arms, sighed, opened his eyes.... She stood before him, bending down to his face, all pale as from fear, all in tears, all quivering with emotion. She was saying something to him, entreating him with half-bare arms, clasping and wringing her hands; he folded her in his arms, she quivered on his bosom...

  PART II

  CHAPTER I

  WHAT is it? What is the matter with you?” said Ordynov, waking up completely, still pressing her in his strong, warm embrace. “What is the matter with you, Katerina? What is it, my love?”

  She sobbed softly with downcast eyes, hiding her flushed face on his breast. For a long while she could not speak and kept trembling as though in terror.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said at last, in a hardly audible voice, gasping for breath, and scarcely able to articulate. “I don’t know how I came here.. She clasped him even more tightly, with even more intensity, and in a violent irrepressible rush of feeling, kissed his shoulder, his hands, his chest; at last, as though in despair, she hid her face in her hands, fell on her knees, and buried her head in his knees. When Ordynov,
in inexpressible anguish, lifted her up impatiently and made her sit down beside him, her whole face glowed with a full flush of shame, her weeping eyes sought forgiveness, and the smile that, in spite of herself, played on her lip could scarcely subdue the violence of her new feeling. Now she seemed again frightened, mistrustfully she pushed away his hand, and, with drooping head, answered his hurried questions in a fearful whisper.

  “Perhaps you have had a terrible dream?” said Ordynov. “Perhaps you have seen some vision... Yes? Perhaps he has frightened you.... He is delirious and unconscious. Perhaps he has said something that was not for you to hear? Did you hear something? Yes?”

  “No, I have not been asleep,” answered Katerina, stifling her emotion with an effort. “Sleep did not come to me, he has been silent all the while and only once he called me. I went up, called his name, spoke to him; I was frightened; he did not wake and did not hear me. He is terribly sick; the Lord succour him! Then misery came upon my heart, bitter misery! I prayed and prayed and then this came upon me.”

  “Hush, Katerina, hush, my life, hush! You were frightened yesterday....”

  “No, I was not frightened yesterday!...”

  “Has it ever been like this with you at other times?”

  “Yes.” And again she trembled all over and huddled up to him like a child. “You see,” she said, repressing her sobs, “it was not for nothing that I have come to you, it was not for nothing that I could not bear to stay alone,” she repeated, gratefully pressing his hands. “Enough, enough shedding tears over other people’s sorrows! Save them for a dark day when you are lonely and cast down and there is no one with you!... Listen, have you ever had a love?”

  “No.... I never knew a love before you...

  “Before me?... You call me your love?”

  She suddenly looked at him as though surprised, would have said something, but then was silent and looked down. By degrees her whole face suddenly flushed again a glowing crimson; her eyes shone more brightly through the forgotten tears still warm on her eyelashes, and it could be seen that some question was hovering on her lips. With bashful shyness she looked at him once or twice and then looked down again.