In those days Star City was an enormous black box, where several thousand still-living, human-like creatures were thrown into the stench of hundreds of thousands of rotting bodies, where among the living there was no longer a single one who was conscious of his condition. It was a city of madmen, a gigantic madhouse, the greatest and most disgusting Bedlam the earth had ever seen. And these madmen stabbed each other with daggers and sank their teeth into each other’s throats. They died of madness, they died of fright, they died of hunger and of all the diseases reigning in the infected air.
It goes without saying that the government of the Republic did not remain an indifferent witness to the cruel disaster that had befallen the capital. But almost immediately it had to relinquish any hope of rendering aid. Doctors, nurses and military units serving in any capacity whatsoever refused categorically to go to Star City. After all train and balloon services were suspended, direct contact with the city was lost, since the severity of the climate there precludes other modes of communication. Moreover, the government soon turned all its attention to the cases of “contradiction” that had started to crop up in other cities of the Republic. In several of these the disease threatened to take on an epidemic character, and a general panic ensued, reminiscent of the events in Star City. This led to emigration from all the inhabited regions of the Republic. Work in all factories ceased, and the entire industrial life of the country came to a halt. However, thanks to decisive measures taken in a timely fashion, the epidemic was curbed in those other cities, and nowhere did it attain such proportions as in the capital.
Everyone knows how avidly the world followed the misfortunes of the young Republic. In the beginning, when no one could have expected the disaster to grow to such incredible proportions, the dominant feeling was one of curiosity. The leading papers of every country (including our own Northern European Evening Bulletin) dispatched special correspondents to Star City to report on the course of the epidemic. Many of those brave knights of the pen fell victim while fulfilling their professional duty. Then, when news of a threatening nature began to arrive, private societies and the governments of various states offered their services to the government of the Republic. Some dispatched regiments, others organised medical units, others raised money, but events transpired with such swiftness that the greater part of those initiatives couldn’t be realised. After rail services to Star City were suspended, the Commander-in-Chief’s telegrams were the only source of news about life in the city. Those telegrams were immediately relayed to all corners of the earth and were disseminated in millions of copies. After the breakdown of the electric generators, the telegraph functioned for another few days, since the station’s batteries were charged. The precise reason telegraph communication came to a final halt is not known: perhaps the equipment was ruined. Horace de Ville’s last telegram is dated June 27th. From this day, for almost a month and a half, all mankind was deprived of any news from the Republic’s capital.
In July, some attempts were made to reach Star City by air. Several new balloons and flying machines were supplied to the Republic. However, all attempts ended in failure. Finally, aeronaut Thomas Billy was lucky enough to make it all the way to that unfortunate city. He picked up two people from a city roof; they had lost their minds long ago and were half-dead from cold and starvation. Through the propellers, Billy saw that the streets were shrouded in absolute darkness, and he heard wild shouts that proved there were still living beings in the city. But Billy didn’t dare to descend into the city itself. At the end of August one electric railway line was successfully reinstated, to Lissis station, a hundred and five kilometres from the city. A detachment of well-armed men, furnished with provisions and first aid supplies, entered the city via the Northwest Gates. This detachment, however, was unable to penetrate further than the first blocks due to the horrible stench that hung in the air. They were compelled to go step by step, clearing the streets of dead bodies and purifying the air by artificial means. Every living person they found was insane. They resembled wild beasts in their savagery, and they had to be overpowered by force. Finally, towards the middle of September, proper communication was established with Star City and its systematic reconstruction began.
As of today the greater part of the city has been cleared of bodies. Electric lighting and heat have been restored. Only the American quarters remain unoccupied, but it is presumed that there are no living creatures there. As many as 10,000 people have been rescued, but the majority of these are incurably deranged. Those who are more or less recovering are very reluctant to speak about what they endured in those disastrous days. In addition, their stories are full of contradictions and quite often are not borne out by the documented facts. In various places copies of newspapers that were put out in the city until the end of July have been found. The most recent of these, dated July 22nd, contains a report of Horace de Ville’s death and a call to restore the shelter at the Town Hall. True, one more newspaper dated in August was found, but its content proves most certainly that its author (who was probably setting the text of his own delirium) was decidedly out of his mind. At the Town Hall they discovered Horace de Ville’s journal, which chronicles in an orderly fashion the events that took place in the three weeks between June 28th and July 20th. The grisly discoveries made both in the streets and inside homes give us a clear picture of the atrocities committed in the city during those last days. There were horribly mutilated bodies everywhere: people who had died of starvation, who had been strangled and tortured, who had been killed by frenzied madmen, and, finally, half-eaten bodies. Corpses are being discovered in the most unexpected places: in the tunnels of the underground, in sewer pipes, in various storerooms, in boiler rooms—everywhere insane residents had sought escape from the surrounding horror. Virtually every home was completely ransacked, and property that was ultimately of no use to the plunderers was hidden away in secret rooms and underground spaces.
Without a doubt, a few more months will pass before Star City becomes habitable once again. Now it is almost completely deserted. In a city that can house as many as 3,000,000 residents, there are now about 30,000 workers cleaning up the streets and houses. Some of the former inhabitants have shown up as well, to look for the bodies of their friends and relatives and to collect what remains of their ruined and plundered belongings. A few tourists have come, too, attracted by the unique spectacle of a deserted city. Two entrepreneurs have already opened two hotels, which are doing a brisk business. And a small nightclub is opening soon, for which performers have already been booked.
The Northern European Evening Bulletin, for its part, has dispatched a new correspondent, Mr. Andrew Evald, to the city, and plans to acquaint its readers in detail with all the new discoveries to come in the unfortunate capital of the Republic of the Southern Cross.
The Coming Huns
Trample their paradise, Attila.
—Vyacheslav Ivanov
Where are you, coming Huns
That threaten the world like a storm!
I hear your cast-iron tread
Over Pamirs as yet unexplored.
Like a frenzied horde fall upon us,
Crashing down from dark camps in a flood;
Revive our decrepit old bodies
With a wave of fiery blood.
Slaves of freedom, set up huts
By our palaces, as of old,
And bring back joyous fields
There, where once stood our throne.
Cast all our books in your fires
And dance by their jubilant blaze,
Desecrate all of the temples,
In all you are blameless as babes.
And we, the sages and poets,
Wardens of mystery and faith,
We will take our burning lights
To catacombs, deserts and caves.
And, of our cherished creations,
What will playful Chance spare
From the tempest of destruction,
From the stor
m that rages there?
Perhaps all that we alone knew
Will perish in oblivion,
But those who have come to destroy me,
I meet with a welcoming hymn.
Valery Briusov, 1905
We are not used to bright colours,
We wear clothes of earthy shades;
We slowly trudge through dust,
And drop our timid gaze.
We breathe the dust of rooms,
We live among books and pictures,
And dear to our impotence
Are single moments and lines of verse.
But what do I long for? Blood and war.
And what do I dream of? Wild cries.
The northern sovereigns are my brothers,
The age of the Vikings is my time.
Valery Briusov, 1899
Distinct lines of mountain peaks;
The pale, unsteady sea…
Extinguished, the rapturous gaze
Drowns in impotent space.
In secret dreams I’ve created
A world of ideal nature—
What is this dust before it?
Steppes, and rocks, and waters!
Valery Briusov, 1896
The Sting of Death: The Story of Two Boys
Fyodor Sologub
The sting of death is sin.
(1 Cor 15:56)
I
Two boys on holiday in the country had ensconced themselves in a remote, wooded nook on the bank of a river and were fishing. The river was running shallower now, and gurgled among the rocks, so the children could easily ford it in a number of places. The bottom was sandy and clear.
One of these two young holidaymakers was concentrating on his fishing; the other fished distractedly, as if thinking about other things. One, Vanya Zelenev, seemed hideous at first sight, although it was difficult to say what was especially ugly about him: was it the greenish tint to his face? Or its lack of symmetry? Or his big, flimsy, protruding ears? Or were his eyebrows too black and bushy? Or was it that tuft of black hair above his right eyebrow, about which the other kids sometimes teased him, calling him “Three-brow”? None of this would have mattered, however, had it not been for something distorted about that face, something oppressed and malicious. He was always somewhat hunched-over, and liked to grimace and contort his body. This had become second nature to him to such an extent that many people assumed he was a hunchback. But his back was perfectly straight, and he was strong, agile, bold and sometimes even brash. He liked to climb trees and plunder birds’ nests, and if the occasion arose, he was always ready to give younger boys a thrashing. His clothes were old and patched.
The other boy, Kolya Glebov, immediately impressed one as handsome, although again, on closer examination, his features displayed neither strict regularity nor any particular fineness of expression. He was a nice clean boy with a cheerful disposition. When he laughed, a little lump bulged under his chin, and this was awfully endearing. His Mama liked to kiss him exactly on this spot. His outfit was clean and handsome: a sailor suit, short pantaloons, black stockings and yellow shoes. He was the son of a naval officer who was abroad at sea. Kolya was spending the summer here with his Mama.
Not far from the boys stood two tins filled with water. The boys tossed their catches into these. But today the fish weren’t biting…
“Such a pretty place,” Kolya said in his gentle, vibrant voice.
“What’s pretty about it?” retorted Vanya in his hoarse, child’s bass, twitching his shoulders strangely.
“The precipice there is so steep, frightfully steep!” Kolya said, gesturing with his chin across the river at the steep opposite bank. “And look how the birches cling to it. And how they can barely hold on!”
“The water will undercut it,” Vanya said in his deep voice, “and the precipice will collapse.”
“Come on!” Kolya said distrustfully, and looked at Vanya as if asking him not to do that.
“Well, it’s the truth,” said Vanya with a malicious grin.
Kolya looked sadly at the precipice: its thick layers of red clay were piled up high on top of each other, as if they had been sheared smooth by a giant shovel. Here and there barely noticeable cracks separated one layer from the next. In other places, nearer to the water, there were smallish hollows, seemingly washed out by the water. The water ran as pure and clear as could be, and splashed ever so gently against the mighty precipice.
“It’s clever,” thought Kolya. “It just licks away at it little by little. To think that this whole enormous wall, with all those pretty birches on it, could suddenly fall down into the river!”
“Well, it won’t be for a while,” he said aloud.
The boys were silent for a little. And again Kolya’s voice sounded, soft and sweet, “And in the woods it’s really nice! Smells of pine sap.”
“Turps,” Vanya put in.
“No, it smells good,” Kolya went on joyfully. “This morning I saw a squirrel. It was running along the ground, and then it was up a tree in just a whisk of its tail.”
“And I saw a dead crow under a bush,” Vanya announced. “Over there,” he said, gesturing with his head and shoulders, contorting himself completely in the process. “I marked the spot.”
“What for?” Kolya asked, amazed.
“To bring it home,” Vanya explained, “and put it on Marfa’s bed.”
“But she’ll be frightened,” Kolya said cautiously.
“The crow, you mean? Nah, brother, it’s dead,” Vanya said in the same malicious tone, as if he really liked it that the crow was dead.
“Not the crow—Marfa,” Kolya said, smiling a little and narrowing somewhat his happy eyes, which made his gentle face look as though he’d eaten something sour, like barberries.
“A-ah,” Vanya drew the word out, “I thought you were saying the crow would be frightened of Marfa. She’s as ugly as deadly sin. Mother doesn’t keep pretty girls around—she’s jealous of Father.”
“Oh, jea-ealous!” Kolya drew out the not wholly familiar word, as if trying out the sound.
“Afraid he’ll fall in love,” Vanya clarified, and he laughed. “As if he can’t get any on the side, anyway,” he said with malicious pleasure.
Again there was a short silence. And then Kolya spoke again, but no longer in such certain tones. “Look at that beautiful meadow over there, to the right! Lots of flowers, all different from each other—it makes the meadow all colourful. And some of them smell really good.”
Vanya looked at him with irritation, and growled, “And cows have crapped in it.”
“I guess nothing is good enough for you,” Kolya said, and again his face had that sour look.
“I don’t like sentimental slop,” said Vanya. “I like drinking and smoking.”
“Drinking?” asked Kolya, surprised and horrified.
“Yeah, wine or vodka,” said Vanya with false tranquillity. He gave a sideways glance at Kolya and grimaced savagely.
“We’re not allowed to drink wine,” said Kolya, his voice tinged with horror. “Only grown-ups can, and it’s bad even for them.”
“That’s all nonsense,” Vanya answered firmly. “Just a bunch of made-up rules they push us around with. Parents think we’re their property. They do whatever they want with us.”
“But anyway, drinking is bad for you—you could get ill,” Kolya said.
Vanya held him in his strange, disturbing gaze. Little amber sparks flashed in his light, almost transparent eyes.
“What?” he asked, smiling and grimacing.
Kolya had lost himself in those eyes, and he forgot what he wanted to say. Vanya’s eyes disturbed him, and their transparent gleam seemed to dim his memory. Rousing himself with difficulty, he managed to say, “Mama will get angry.”
“Mama!” Vanya said scornfully.
“Well, but you have to mind your Mama, don’t you?” Kolya asked uncertainly.
Vanya again looked at Kolya. Those transparently light
eyes of Vanya’s seemed strange and nasty to Kolya, and Kolya started to feel scared.
Vanya, pronouncing the tender words with disdain, said, “All right, let’s say that your Mama loves you—but are you going to be Mama’s little precious forever? Me, I like to do things my own way. Freedom, brother—that’s another thing entirely! It’s not about sniffing flowers and picking a bouquet for Mama. All right, then, for instance—you like it here, right?”
“I really love it, of course!” Kolya said with quiet happiness sounding in his voice.
“All right, then, but how long can you stay here?” Vanya went on animatedly, twitching his skinny shoulders. “Like it or not, you can only fool around here for a little bit, and then it’s back to the city to choke on dust.”
Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence Page 7
