I was beginning to understand why “everybody loved” this man.
Seeing no reason for keeping Ivan Petrovich from maintaining this tone, I told him that I was glad to make his acquaintance.
“And I, for my part, also consider it an honor for me and a pleasure,” he replied, standing, but stepping ahead of his executor.
We made our bows—the executor went to his office, and Ivan Petrovich remained in my anteroom.
An hour later I invited him to my office and asked:
“Do you have good handwriting?”
“I have a firm hand,” he replied, and added at once: “Would you like me to write something?”
“Yes, kindly do.”
He sat down at my desk and after a minute handed me a page in the middle of which was written with a “firm hand” in clear cursive: “Life is given us for joy.—Ivan Petrovich Aquilalbov.”
I read it and couldn’t help bursting into laughter: no other expression could have suited him better than what he had written. “Life for joy”—all of life was for him a continuous joy!
A man entirely to my taste! …
I gave him an insignificant document to copy right there at my desk, and he did it very quickly and without the least mistake.
Then we parted. Ivan Petrovich left, and I remained at home alone and gave myself up to my morbid spleen, and I confess—devil knows why, but several times I was carried in thought to him, that is, to Ivan Petrovich. He surely doesn’t sigh and mope. To him life is given for joy. And where does he live it with such joy on his fourteen roubles … I suppose he must be lucky at cards, or a little bribe may come his way … Or maybe merchants’ wives … It’s not for nothing he has such a fresh pomegranate tie …
I’m sitting over a multitude of cases and minutes open before me, and thinking about such pointless trifles, which do not concern me at all, and just then my man announces that the governor has come.
I ask him in.
VI
The governor says:
“I’ll be having a quintet the day after tomorrow—their playing won’t be bad, I hope, and there will be ladies, and you, I hear, are moping in our backwoods, so I’ve come to visit you and invite you for a cup of tea—maybe it won’t hurt to amuse yourself a little.”
“I humbly thank you, but why does it seem to you that I’m moping?”
“From a remark of Ivan Petrovich’s.”
“Ah, Ivan Petrovich! The one who’s on duty with me? So you know him?”
“Of course, of course. He’s our student, singer, actor—only not a malefactor.”
“Not a malefactor?”
“No, he’s as lucky as Polycrates,9 he has no need to be a malefactor. He’s the universal town favorite—and an unfailing participant in every sort of merrymaking.”
“Is he a musician?”
“He’s a jack-of-all-trades: he sings, plays, dances, organizes parlor games—it’s all Ivan Petrovich. Where there’s a feast, there’s Ivan Petrovich: if there’s a lottery or a charity performance—again it’s Ivan Petrovich. He appoints the winning lots and displays the articles prettily; he paints the sets himself, and then turns at once from painter to actor ready for any role. The way he plays kings, uncles, ardent lovers—it’s a feast for the eyes, but he’s best at playing old women.”
“Not old women!”
“Yes, it’s astonishing! For the soirée the day after tomorrow, I confess, I’m preparing a little surprise with Ivan Petrovich’s help. There will be tableaux vivants—Ivan Petrovich will stage them. Naturally, some will be the kind put on for women desirous of showing themselves, but there will be three of some interest for a real artist.”
“Done by Ivan Petrovich?”
“Yes. Ivan Petrovich. The tableaux will present ‘Saul and the Witch of Endor.’10 The subject, as you know, is biblical, and the disposition of the figures is a bit trumped up, what’s known as ‘academic,’ but the whole point is in Ivan Petrovich. He’s the one everybody will be looking at—especially when the second tableau opens and our surprise is revealed. I can tell you the secret. The tableau opens, and you see Saul: this is a king, a king from head to foot! He’ll be dressed like everybody else. Not the slightest distinction, because in the story Saul comes to the witch disguised, so that she won’t recognize him, but it’s impossible not to recognize him. He’s a king, and a real, biblical shepherd-king at that. But the curtain falls, and the figure quickly changes position. Saul lies prostrate before the shade of Samuel, who comes to him. Saul is now as good as gone, but what a sight Samuel is in his shroud! … This is a most inspired prophet, on whose shoulders lie power personified, grandeur, and wisdom. This man could ‘order the king to appear in Bethel and Gilgal.’ ”
“And this will again be Ivan Petrovich?”
“Ivan Petrovich! But that’s not the end. If they ask for an encore—which I’m sure of and will see to myself—we’re not going to weary you with repetitions, but you will see the sequel of the épopée.
“The new scene from the life of Saul will be with no Saul at all. The shade has vanished, the king and his attendants have gone: through the door you can make out only a bit of the cloak of the last figure withdrawing, and on stage there’s the witch alone …”
“And again it’s Ivan Petrovich!”
“Naturally! But what you see won’t be the same as the way they portray witches in Macbeth … No stupefying horror, no affectation or grimacing, but you’ll see a face that knows what philosophy never dreamt of.11 You’ll see how frightening it is to speak to one who comes from the grave.”
“I can imagine,” I said, being infinitely far from the thought that before three days were out, I would have, not to imagine, but to experience that torment myself.
But that came later, while now everything was filled by Ivan Petrovich alone—that merry, lively man, who suddenly popped up from the grass like a mushroom after warm rain, not big yet, but visible from everywhere—and everybody looks at him and smiles: “See what a firm and pretty one.”
VII
I’ve told you what the executor and the governor said of him, but when I expressed curiosity as to whether either of my officials of worldly tendency had heard anything about him, they both began saying at once that they had met him and that he was indeed very nice and sang well to the guitar and the piano. They, too, liked him. The next day the archpriest stopped by. After I’d gone to church once, he brought me blessed bread every Sunday and sacrotattled on everybody. He said nothing good about anyone and in that regard made no exception even of Ivan Petrovich, but on the other hand, this sacrotattler knew not only the nature of all things, but also their origin. About Ivan Petrovich he began himself:
“They’ve switched clerks on you. It’s all with a purpose …”
“Yes,” I said, “they’ve given me some Ivan Petrovich.”
“We know him, indeed, we know him well enough. My brother-in-law, to whose post here I’ve been transferred with the obligation of bringing up the orphans, he baptized him … His father was also a man of the cloth … rose to a clerkship, and his mother … Kira Ippolitovna … that’s her name—she left home and married his father out of passionate love … But soon she also tasted the bitterness of love’s potion, and then was left a widow.”
“She educated him by herself?”
“As if he’s got any education! He went through five grades of school and became a scribe in the criminal court … after a while they made him an assistant … But he’s very lucky: last year he won a horse and saddle at the lottery, and this year he went hunting hares with the governor. A regimental piano left by some transferred officers came as a prize in the lottery, and he took that, too. I bought five tickets and didn’t win, while he had just one and got it. Makes music on it himself, and teaches Tatyana.”
“Who is Tatyana?”
“They took in a little orphan—not bad at all … a swarthy little thing. He teaches her.”
We talked all day about Ivan Petrovich, and in the e
vening I hear something buzzing in my Egor’s little room. I call him and ask him what it is.
“I’m doing cut-outs,” he replies.
Ivan Petrovich, having noticed that Egor was bored from inactivity, brought him a fretsaw and some little boards from cigar boxes with glued-on designs and taught him to cut out little plaques. Commissioned for the lottery.
VIII
On the morning of the day when Ivan Petrovich was to perform and astonish everybody in tableaux at the governor’s banquet, I did not want to keep him, but he stayed through lunchtime and even made me laugh a lot. I joked that he ought to get married, and he replied that he preferred to remain “in maidenhood.” I invited him to Petersburg.
“No, Your Excellency,” he says, “here everybody loves me, and my mother’s here, and we’ve got the orphan Tanya, I love them, and they’re not suited to Petersburg.”
What a wonderfully harmonious young man! I even embraced him for this love of his mother and the orphan girl, and we parted three hours before the tableaux.
Taking leave of him, I said:
“I’m waiting impatiently to see you in various forms.”
“You’ll get sick of me,” Ivan Petrovich replied.
He left, and I had lunch alone and took a nap in the armchair, to freshen myself up, but Ivan Petrovich did not let me sleep: he soon and somewhat strangely disturbed me. He suddenly came in very hurriedly, noisily shoved the chairs in the middle of the room aside with his foot, and said:
“So here you see me; but I just want to humbly thank you—you gave me the evil eye. I’ll be revenged on you for that.”
I woke up, rang for my man, and ordered him to bring my clothes, and kept marveling to myself: how clearly I had seen Ivan Petrovich in my dream!
I arrived at the governor’s—it was all lit up and there were many guests, but the governor himself, meeting me, whispered:
“The best part of the program fell through: the tableaux can’t take place.”
“What’s happened?”
“Shh … I don’t want to speak loudly and spoil the general impression. Ivan Petrovich is dead.”
“What? … Ivan Petrovich? … dead?!”
“Yes, yes, yes—he’s dead.”
“Merciful heavens—he was at my place three hours ago, as healthy as could be.”
“Well, so he came from your place, lay down on the sofa, and died … And you know … I must tell you, in case his mother … she’s so beside herself that she may come running to you … The unfortunate woman is convinced that you are guilty of her son’s death.”
“How so? Was he poisoned at my place, or what?”
“That she doesn’t say.”
“Then what does she say?”
“That you gave Ivan Petrovich the evil eye.”
“Excuse me …,” I say, “but that’s nonsense!”
“Yes, yes, yes,” replies the governor, “it’s all foolishness, of course, but then this is a provincial town—here foolishness is more readily believed than cleverness. Of course, it’s not worth paying attention to.”
Just then the governor’s wife invited me to play cards.
I sat down, but what I endured during that tormenting game I simply cannot tell you. First, I suffered from the consciousness that this nice young man, whom I had admired so, was now laid out on a table,12 and, second, I kept imagining that everybody was whispering and pointing at me: “He gave him the evil eye,” I even heard those foolish words “evil eye, evil eye,” and, third, allow me to tell you the truth—I saw Ivan Petrovich himself everywhere! … As if I had acquired an eye for him—wherever I looked—there was Ivan Petrovich … Now he’s walking, strolling about the empty room, to which the doors are open; now two men stand talking—and he’s beside them, listening. Then he suddenly appears right next to me and looks into my cards … Here, naturally, I play whatever my hand falls on, and my vis-à-vis gets offended. Finally, the others began to notice it as well, and the governor whispered in my ear:
“It’s Ivan Petrovich spoiling it for you: he’s having his revenge.”
“Yes,” I say, “I’m indeed upset and feeling very unwell. I beg to be allowed to add up the score and excuse myself.”
This favor was granted me, and I went home at once. But I rode in the sleigh, and Ivan Petrovich was with me—now sitting beside me, now on the box with the driver, but with his face turned to me.
I think: maybe I’m coming down with a fever?
I came home—it was still worse. As soon as I lay down and put the light out—Ivan Petrovich is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he even says:
“You really did give me the evil eye, and I died, and there was no need for me to die so early. That’s the point! … Everybody loved me so, my mother, and Tanyusha—she hasn’t finished her studies yet. What terrible grief it is for them!”
I called for my man and, awkward as it was, told him to lie down and sleep on my rug, but Ivan Petrovich wasn’t afraid; wherever I turned, he stuck up in front of me, and basta!
I could hardly wait till morning, and first off sent one of my officials to the dead man’s mother, to bring three hundred roubles for the funeral and give them to her with all possible delicacy.
The man came back bringing the money with him: they wouldn’t take it, he says.
“What did they say?” I asked.
“They said, ‘No need: good people will bury him.’ ”
Which meant that I was counted among the wicked.
And as soon as I thought of him, Ivan Petrovich was right there.
In the evening I couldn’t keep calm: I took a cab and drove to have a look at Ivan Petrovich and to take leave of him. That is a customary thing, and I thought I wouldn’t disturb anyone. And I put all I could in my pocket—seven hundred roubles—to persuade them to accept it, at least for Tanya.
IX
I saw Ivan Petrovich: the “White Eagle” lies there as if shot down.
Tanya is walking around. A swarthy little thing indeed, about fifteen years old, in cheap cotton mourning, and she keeps putting things right. She smooths the dead man’s hair and kisses him.
What agony to see it!
I asked her if I could talk with Ivan Petrovich’s mother.
The girl replied, “Very well,” and went to the other room, and a moment later she opened the door and asked me to come in, but as soon as I entered the room where the old woman was sitting, she stood up and excused herself:
“No, forgive me—I was wrong to trust myself, I cannot see you,” and with that she left.
I was not offended or embarrassed, but simply dispirited, and I turned to Tanya:
“Well, you’re a young being, maybe you can be kinder to me. For, believe me, I did not and had no reason to wish Ivan Petrovich any misfortune, least of all death.”
“I believe you,” she let fall. “No one could wish him any ill, everybody loved him.”
“Believe me, in the two or three days that I saw him, I, too, came to love him.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Oh, those terrible two or three days—why did they have to be? My aunt treated you that way out of grief, but I feel sorry for you.”
And she held out both hands to me.
I took them and said:
“Thank you, dear child, for these feelings; they do honor to your heart and your good sense. It really is impossible to believe such nonsense, that I supposedly gave him the evil eye!”
“I know,” she replied.
“Then show me your kindness … do me a favor in his name!”
“What favor?”
“Take this envelope … there’s a bit of money in it … for household needs … for your aunt.”
“She won’t accept it.”
“Well, for you then … for your education, which Ivan Petrovich was looking after. I’m deeply convinced that he would have approved of it.”
“No, thank you, I won’t take it. He never took anything from anyone for nothing. He was very, very
noble.”
“But you grieve me by that … it means you’re angry with me.”
“No, I’m not angry. I’ll prove it to you.”
She opened Ollendorff’s manual of French, which was lying on the table, hastily took a photograph of Ivan Petrovich from between the pages and, handing it to me, said:
“He put it there. We had reached this place in our studies yesterday. Take it from me as a memento.”
With that the visit was over. The next day Ivan Petrovich was buried, and afterwards I remained in town for another eight days, still in the same agony. I couldn’t sleep at night; I listened to every little noise, opened the vent window so that at least some fresh human voice might come from outside. But it was of little use: two men go by, talking—I listen—it’s about Ivan Petrovich and me.
“Here,” they say, “lives that devil who gave Ivan Petrovich the evil eye.”
Someone is singing as he returns home in the still of the night: I hear the snow crunching under his feet, I make out the words: “Ah, of old I was bold”—I wait for the singer to come even with my window—I look—it’s Ivan Petrovich himself. And then the father archpriest kindly drops by and whispers:
“There’s such a thing as the evil eye and casting spells, but that works on chickens—no, Ivan Petrovich was poisoned …”
Agonizing!
“Who would poison him and why?”
“They had fears that he’d tell you everything … They should have gutted him. Too bad they didn’t. They’d have found the poison.”
Lord, deliver me at least from this suspicion!
In the end, I suddenly and quite unexpectedly received a confidential letter from the director of the chancery, saying that the count orders me to limit myself to what I have managed to do already and return to Petersburg without the slightest delay.
I was very glad of it, made ready in two days, and left.
On the road Ivan Petrovich did not leave me alone—he appeared every once in a while, but now, whether from the change of place or because a man gets used to everything, I grew bolder and even got used to him. He lingers before my eyes, but it’s nothing to me: sometimes, while I’m dozing, we even exchange jokes. He wags his finger:
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 43
