by Bely, Andrei
On this day Apollon Apollonovich had not stalked his way to the director’s office.
Now they were tired of waiting; from desk to desk a bewildered whispering fluttered; rumours hovered; and – dark things were imagined; in the deputy director’s office the telephone receiver rattled:
‘Has he left? … It’s not possible? … Tell him that his presence is required … it’s not possible …’
And the telephone rattled a second time:
‘Have you told him? … Is he still at table? … Tell him that time will not wait …’
The deputy director stood with trembling jaw; he was lifting his hands in bewilderment; an hour or an hour and a half later he descended the velvet stairs in a very tall top hat. The doors of the entrance porch opened wide … He jumped into a carriage.
Twenty minutes later, as he ascended the stairs of the yellow house, he saw in amazement Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov, his immediate superior, fussily peeping out at him from behind the statue of Niobe in a repulsive, mouse-coloured dressing-gown, the skirts of which were drawn about him.
‘Apollon Apollonovich,’ cried the grey-haired knight of Anna, catching sight of the senator’s stubbly chin from behind the statue, and he hurriedly began to adjust the large neck decoration beneath his tie.
‘Apollon Apollonovich, so here you are, here you are! But I’ve been, we’ve been – ringing you, telephoning you. Waiting for you …’
‘I … em-em-em,’ the round-shouldered old man said, beginning to chew his lips, ‘am rearranging my library … Forgive me, my dear fellow,’ he added peevishly, ‘for being dressed like this, in domestic fashion.’
And with his hands he pointed to his tattered dressing-gown.
‘What is it, are you ill? Er, er, er – why, you seem to have swollen … Er, is it oedemata?’ the visitor said, respectfully touching a dust-covered finger.
Apollon Apollonovich dropped his dirty dust-rag on the parquet floor.
‘Why, you’ve chosen the wrong time to fall ill … I’ve brought you some news … I congratulate you: there’s a general strike – in Morovetrinsk …’
‘What are you talking about? … I … em-em-em … There’s nothing wrong with me.’ Here the old man’s face fell apart into wrinkles of displeasure (he received the news of the strike with indifference: evidently nothing could surprise him any more) – ‘And I’m sorry: a lot of dust has gathered, you know …’
‘Dust?’
‘So I’m wiping it off with a rag …’
The deputy director with the downy side-whiskers now respectfully bowed to this round-shouldered ruin and tried to set about explaining an exceedingly important paper which he unfolded before him on the mother-of-pearl table in the drawing-room.
But Apollon Apollonovich again interrupted him:
‘Dust, you know, contains the micro-organisms of diseases … So I’m wiping it off with a rag …’
Suddenly this grey ruin, which had just sat down in an Empire armchair, leapt swiftly to its feet, supporting itself on the arm with one hand; the other hand swiftly jabbed a finger at the paper.
‘What is this?’
‘As I was telling you only just now …’
‘No, sir, wait, sir …’ Apollon Apollonovich pressed himself frantically to the paper: he grew younger, whiter, turned – pale pink (he was no longer capable of being red).
‘Wait! … But have they gone out of their minds? … My signature is necessary? Under a signature like that?’
‘Apollon Apollonovich …’
‘I won’t give my signature.’
‘But sir – it’s a revolt!’
‘Give Ivanchevsky the sack! …’
‘Ivanchevsky has been given the sack: have you forgotten?’
‘I won’t give my signature …’
With a face that had turned younger, the skirts of his dressing-gown indecently open, Apollon Apollonovich was now shuffling to and from about the drawing-room, his hands behind his back, his bald patch bowed low: going right up to the astonished visitor, he sprayed him with spittle:
‘How could they think of such a thing? Firm, administrative authority is one thing, but the violation of strict, lawful procedures … is another.’
‘Apollon Apollonovich,’ the knight of Anna tried to reason with him, ‘you are a man of firmness, you are a Russian … We have relied on you … No, of course you will sign …’
But Apollon Apollonovich began to twirl a pencil that had come to hand between two bony fingers; he stopped, gave the paper a keen glance: the pencil broke with a snap; now he was fastening the tassels of his dressing-gown in agitation, his jaw trembling angrily.
‘My dear fellow, I am a man of the school of Plehve … I know what I am doing … You can’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs …
‘Em-emem … I won’t give my signature.’
Silence.
‘Em-emem … Em-emem …’
And he blew out his cheeks like a balloon.
The gentleman with the downy side-whiskers descended the staircase in bewilderment; for him it was clear: the career of Senator Ableukhov, which had been built up over the years, had disintegrated into rubble. After the deputy director of the Institution had driven away, Apollon Apollonovich continued to pace about among the Empire armchairs in intense anger. Soon he withdrew; soon appeared again; under his arm he lugged a heavy folder of papers to the mother-of-pearl table, pressing the folder and his shoulder against his side, which still ached; placing this folder of papers before him, Apollon Apollonovich rang for service and gave instructions that a fire be lit in front of him.
From behind the nota benes, the question marks, the section marks, the dashes, from behind the work that was now the last, a death’s head rose towards the fire in the hearth; its lips muttered of themselves:
‘It doesn’t matter, sir … It’s just so …’
The fire-breathing heap began to seethe and snort, giving off boiling cracklings and glitterings – crimson, gold; the logs were mixed with coals.
The bald head rose towards the fireplace with a sardonic, an ironically smiling mouth and screwed-up eyes, as it imagined the infuriated, dedicated careerist flying away from it through the slush, having offered him, Ableukhov, what was nothing more than a sordid bargain, without a stain on his conscience.
‘I, my good sirs, am a man of the school of Plehve … And I know what I am doing … Yes, indeed, my good sir …’
The acutely sharpened little pencil – now it leapt in his fingers; the acutely sharpened little pencil fell on the paper with flocks of question marks; for this was his final task; in an hour’s time that task would be ended; in an hour’s time the telephone in the Institution would ring: with a piece of news that the mind could not take in.
The carriage flew up to the caryatid of the entrance porch, but the caryatid did not move – the bearded man – old, made of stone, supporting the entrance porch of the Institution.
The year 1812 freed him from the scaffolding. The year 1825 raged with the days of December; they raged past; the days of January raged past so recently: it was the year 1905.
Bearded man of stone!
Everything happened beneath him and everything ceased to happen beneath him. What he saw, he will not tell anyone.
He remembered how the coachman reined in his pair of thoroughbreds, how the smoke billowed from the horses’ heavy rears; a general in a tricorne, in a winged greatcoat trimmed with fur, gracefully jumped out of the carriage and, to cries of ‘hurrah’, ran in through the open door.
Later, to cries of ‘hurrah’, the general trod the floor of the balcony ledge with a foot of white elk. His name is kept secret by the bearded man who supports the cornice of the balcony ledge; the bearded man of stone knows that name to this day.
But he will say nothing of it.
No one ever will he tell about the tears of today’s prostitute who took shelter for the night beneath him on the steps of the entrance porch.
; He will tell no one of the minister’s recent flying visits: the latter was wearing a top hat; and in his eyes there was a greenish depth; the greying minister, as he got out of his light sleigh, stroked his sleek moustache with a grey Swedish glove.
Then he swiftly ran in through the open door, in order to fall into reflection by the window.
The pale, pale blotch of his face, pressed to the panes, protruded – from over there; the casual passer-by, looking at that blotch, would not have been able to guess that that pressed-up blotch – the casual passer-by would not have been able to guess that that pressed-up blotch was the face of a commanding person who guided from up there the fate of Russia.
The bearded man knows that; and – remembers; but as for telling, he will not tell – anyone, ever! …
It’s time, my friend, it’s time … For peace the heart is asking.
Day runs after day. And every day that’s passing
Takes with it particles of life. Together you and I
Intend to live some more. Look yonder – and we die.
Thus was the greying, solitary minister, now gone to eternal rest, in the habit of speaking to his solitary friend.
And he is gone – and Russia has abandoned,
That he exalted …
And – peace to his ashes.
But the doorman with the mace, falling asleep over the Stock Exchange Gazette, knew the exhausted face well: Vyacheslav Konstantinovich was, God be praised, still remembered in the Institution, while Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich, of blessed memory, is no longer remembered in the Institution; the white halls, the columns, the banisters remember …
The bearded man of stone remembers.
Out of hard times, as above the line of time, has he bent above the straight arrow of the prospect, or above a bitter, salty, alien – human tear?
There is no happiness, but there is freedom, peace …
Much I have long desired stays in my dreams:
Long, weary slave, my flight from here I’ve planned
To work’s and pure contentment’s far-off land.
The bald head raises itself slightly, – the Mephistophelean, faded mouth smiles in senile fashion at the flashes; in the flashes the face is coloured crimson; the eyes are still aflame; and they are still stony eyes: blue – and in green hollows! His gaze is cold and astonished; and – empty, empty. The seasons, the sun and the light were kindled by dark things. The whole of life is only a dark thing. So is it worth it? No, it is not worth it:
‘I, my good sirs, am of the school of Plehve … I, my good sirs … I – em-em-em …’
The bald head falls.
In the Institution whispers were fluttering from desk to desk; suddenly the door opened: a clerk with a completely white face ran to the telephone.
‘Apollon Apollonovich … is retiring …’
Everyone leapt to their feet; the head of desk, Legonin, burst into tears; and all this arose: an idiotic hubbub of voices, the uneven trampling of feet, a voice, from the deputy director’s room, trying to persuade; and – the rattle of the telephone (to the Ninth Department); the deputy director stood with trembling jaw; the telephone receiver seemed to dance in his hand: Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov was really no longer the head of the Institution.
A quarter of an hour later, in a tightly buttoned uniform with a drawn-in waist, the grey-haired deputy director with the star of Anna on his chest was already giving orders; after another twenty minutes, he bore a countenance freshly shaven and young with excitement around the halls.
Thus was the event of indescribable importance accomplished.
A Loathsome Creature
The seething waters of the canal rushed to the place where from the unbridled expanses of the Field of Mars the wind crashed into the thicket’s groaning branches: what a terrible place!
The terrible place was crowned by a magnificent palace; with its upwards-stretched tower it resembled a whimsical castle: pink and red, of heavy stone; the crown-bearer lived within those walls; this did not happen now; that crown-bearer is no more.
In they kingdom remember his soul, O Lord!
The summit of the pink and red palace protruded aloft out of a roaring, thick mass of knotty branches that were completely without leaves; the branches stretched there to the sky in wild rushes and, as they swayed, tried to catch the fleeting flocks of the mists; cawing, a crow shot aloft; soared, swayed above the flocks, and came plunging down again.
A carriage was crossing that place.
Two small red houses flew towards it, forming the likeness of a gate-arch on the square in front of the palace; to the left of the square the heap of trees kept up a threatening roaring; and it was as if the careening summits of the trunks were engaged in an attack; the high spire jutted out from behind the foggy flocks.
An equestrian statue stood out blackly and unclearly on the foggy square; passing visitors to Petersburg do not give this statue any attention; I always stand before it for a long time: it is a magnificent statue! It is only a pity that some wretched mocker had put gilt paint on its socle when last I drove past it.
The autocrat and great-grandson had raised this statue to his illustrious great-grandfather, the autocrat had lived in this castle; here too, he had ended his unhappy days – in the pink stone castle; he did not languish long here; he could not languish here; his soul was torn apart between a petty tyrannical vanity and fits of nobility; from this torn soul the infant spirit flew away.
Probably the snub-nosed head in white curls appeared in the embrasure of the window more than once; that window up there – was it not from that one? And the head in white curls painfully surveyed the expanses beyond the window panes; and the eyes luxuriated in the pink fading of the sky; or: the eyes revelled in the silvery play and the seethings of the moon’s reflections in the dense-leaved thicket; by the entrance porch stood a Pavlovsky sentry in a three-cornered hat with a broad brim, presenting arms to a gold-chested general wearing the order of St Andrew,8 as he proceeded to a gilt carriage decorated with aquarelles; a flaming red coachman loomed up from the raised box; on the footboard at the rear of the carriage stood thick-lipped Negroes.
The Emperor Pavel Petrovich, having cast a glance at all this, returned to a sentimental conversation with a lady-in-waiting in muslin and gauze, and the lady-in-waiting smiled; on her cheeks there were two sly dimples, and – a black beauty spot.
On that fateful night the moon’s silver flowed in through those same panes, falling on the heavy furniture of the imperial bedchamber; it fell on the bed, gilding a sly little spark-throwing cupid; and on the pale pillow a profile that seemed to be sketched in Indian ink was outlined; chimes were sounding somewhere; footsteps could be detected coming from somewhere … Not three moments passed – and the bed was rumpled: in place of the pale profile, the impression of a head was shadowed; the sheets were warm; the sleeper was not there; a little group of white-curled officers with drawn swords were inclining their heads towards the empty bed; people were trying to break down the locked door at the side; a woman’s voice was weeping; suddenly the hand of a pink-lipped officer raised the heavy window blind a little; from behind the lowered muslin, there, in the window, in transparent silver – a thin, black shadow trembled.
And the moon continued to stream its light silver, falling on the heavy furniture of the imperial bedroom; it fell on the bed, gilding the little cupid who gleamed from the head of the bed; it also fell on the profile, deathly pale, as though traced in Indian ink … Somewhere chimes were sounding; in the distance footsteps were padding closer from every side.
Nikolai Apollonovich vacantly surveyed this gloomy place, not noticing at all that the shaven physiognomy of the second lieutenant who was giving him the ride turned now and then to face his, if one might be permitted to observe, neighbour; the gaze with which second lieutenant Likhutin surveyed the victim he was giving a ride to, seemed full of curiosity; he kept turning restlessly all the way; all the way he kept nudging his side into him
. Little by little, Nikolai Apollonovich guessed that Sergei Sergeyevich found it unbearable to touch him … even though it were only his side; and now he elbowed him, awarding his fellow traveller a fine rain of jolts.
Just then the wind tore off Ableukhov’s Italian broad-brimmed hat, and with an involuntary movement the latter caught it on Sergei Sergeyevich’s knees; for a moment he also touched Sergei Sergeyevich’s stiff fingers, but those fingers twitched and suddenly leapt to the side with the most manifest loathing and alarm; the angular elbow began to move. Second lieutenant Likhutin now probably had the sensation of touching the skin not of a familiar and, it might be said, bosom companion of his childhood, but … of a loathsome creature, of the kind that is … struck dead … on the spot …
Ableukhov noticed that gesture; he in his turn began to study the companion of his childhood, with whom he had once been on thou terms; this thou, Seryozhka – Sergei Sergeich Likhutin, in other words – had since the time of their last conversation become younger, yes, really – by some eight years, having turned from being Sergei Sergeich into Seryozhka; but now this Seryozhka did not harken with servility to the soarings of Ableukhov’s thoughts, as he had done in those days, in the elder grove, in his grandfather’s old park some eight years ago; and the eight years had altered everything: the elder grove had been chopped down long ago, while he … – he looked with servility at Sergei Sergeich.
Their unequal relations had been stood on end; and everything, everything had gone in reverse direction; the idiotic appearance, the little coat, the jolts from the angular elbow and the other gestures of nervousness that Nikolai Apollonovich read as gestures of contempt – all, all this led him into melancholy reflections on the vicissitudes of human relations; this dreadful place had also led him into melancholy reflections: the pink-red palace, the wildly howling garden with its crows shooting into the sky, the two small red houses and the equestrian statue; though as a matter of fact, garden, castle and statue were now behind their shoulders.
And Ableukhov grew pinched and haggard-looking.
