Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence

by Lodge, Kirsten; Rosen, Margo Shohl; Dashevsky, Grigory

  “Shh!” whispered the woman, leading Pavel by the hand. “The master’s sleeping, the devil, the cobbler, the lost soul!”

  And Pavel was afraid of this cobbler, who was snoring there somewhere behind the curtain so unevenly and angrily, and he stepped cautiously in his heavy, wet boots. Then all of a sudden there was deep darkness and the sound of glass being moved and immediately the room was illuminated by the clear, blinding light of a little lantern hanging on the wall. Beneath the lamp was a little table and on it lay a small comb with fine hairs tangled in the teeth, dried pieces of bread, a large, dirty bread-knife, and a bowl in which lay pieces of potato and chopped onion coated in a layer of yellow sunflower oil. And all Pavel’s attention was riveted on the table.

  “This is home!” said Manechka. “Take off your coat!”

  They sat there, laughing and drinking, and Pavel had his arm around the half-naked woman; her fat, white shoulder with its dingy blouse strap and broken button was right up near his eyes, and he greedily kissed it, sucking in with his moist, hot lips. Then he kissed her face and, strangely, could neither examine it properly nor keep it in his memory. When he looked at it, it seemed already long familiar and known, to the last detail, to the little blemish on her temple; but when he turned away he immediately and completely forgot everything, as if his soul did not want to take in that image and was vigorously pushing it away.

  “I’ll say one thing,” the woman was saying, trying to remove from a piece of potato a long hair that was stuck to it and from time to time indifferently kissing Pavel on the cheek with her greasy lips, “one thing: I’m not drinking any sour beer. Give it to whoever you want, but I for one won’t take it. I’m a nasty bit of work, it’s true, but I’m not lapping up any sour beer. And I’ll say it straight out to anyone, even at the scaffold: I’ll not do it!”

  “Let’s have a song, Katya darling!” Pavel asked.

  “And if you don’t like it, that I threw it in your ugly mug, you can take me to the police, but you have no right to beat me. I’m proud by nature, and I’ve seen the likes of you a thousand times, maybe, and I’ve never once been scared,” the woman continued, addressing the barman who had offended her.

  “Stop it, Katya darling, forget about it!” Pavel entreated. “I believe you, you’re as proud as a Spanish queen, and magnificent. Let’s have a song! Good songs, good songs!”

  “And I’m not Katya darling, I’m Manechka darling. And no singing: my master the devil, the cobbler, the lost soul doesn’t allow it.”

  “It’s all the same—Katya or Manechka. For God’s sake, it’s all the same—I’m telling you, I, Pavel Rybakov, the drunkard and reprobate. You love me, don’t you, my proud queen?”

  “I love you. Only I don’t permit you to call me Katya,” the woman stubbornly insisted.

  “So there you are!” Pavel nodded his head. “We’ll sing! We’ll sing good songs, the sort they sing. Oh, I know a good song! But it can’t be sung like that. Close your eyes, Katya dear, you close your eyes, close them, and imagine you are in the forest, and it’s a dark, dark night…”

  “I don’t like the forest. What forest? Go ahead and talk, but not about the forest! The devil take it! Let’s better have a drink, and don’t upset me. I don’t like that …” Manechka spoke sullenly, pouring and splashing the vodka.

  Evidently she was not well. Her breathing was laboured, as if she were swimming in deep water. And her lips were stretched tight and had a bluish hue.

  “A dark, dark night!” Pavel continued with closed eyes. “And it seems people are walking along, and you are, too, and someone is singing beautifully … Wait a moment, how does it go? ‘You said to me:Yes—I love you!’ … No, I can’t, I’m not a good singer.”

  “Stop shouting, you’ll wake the master. What the hell!”

  “No, I can’t sing at all. I can’t!” Pavel said despairingly and clutched at his head. Fiery ribbons wound and unwound before his closed eyes, billowing in fantastic and horrible patterns, and the room seemed as broad as a field and as stuffy as the bottom of a narrow, deep pit. Manechka looked scornfully at him over her shoulder and said, “Sing! What the hell!”

  “Yes—I love you … Yes—I love you … No, I can’t!”

  He opened his eyes wide and their hidden fire seared the woman’s face.

  “You must have a heart, don’t you? Don’t you, Katya darling? Then give me your hand! Give it to me!” He smiled through brimming tears and lowered his burning lips to her hostile, resisting hand.

  “Stop this foolishness!” the woman said angrily and jerked back her hand. “He’s all weepy now, the slobber-face! Either come to bed or get out!”

  “Katya darling! Katya!” he whispered pleadingly, and his tears made it hard for him to see the sleepy, malicious face that stared at him with revulsion. “Katya darling, my sweetheart, my dear darling, have pity on me, I beg you! I’m so unhappy, and I have absolutely nothing, nothing. Lord, if you could only have pity on me, Katya!”

  The woman pushed him away forcefully, and, swaying, stood up. “The devil take you!” she shouted, gasping. “I hate you! … Drunk as a cobbler, and cracking up … Katya darling! Katya!” she mocked him, pressing her thin, bluish lips together. “I know what sort of Katya you need. Go on, take yourself off to her, then! Smooching, and he goes, ‘Katya, Katya!’ Ugh, stupid boy, you puppy, you with your pretty little mug! It’s useless letting you near women, you just go, ‘Katya darling, Katya darling!’”

  Pavel, hanging his head low and shaking it, whispered something, and the short-cropped back of his head quivered quietly.

  “You hear me? Do you?” the woman shouted.

  Pavel glanced at her with wet, unseeing eyes and, like a man with a toothache, began to rock steadily back and forth. Scornfully harrumphing, the woman went over to the bed and started turning down the covers. As she went, her striped fustian skirt dropped off, and she kicked it away with her feet.

  “Katya darling! Katya darling!” she said as she angrily crushed her pillow. “Go off then to your Katya darling! But I was baptised Manechka, and I’ve seen about a thousand puppies like you, and I was never once scared. Ugh! He thinks he gave me a rouble and I’m going to show him all kinds of tricks. But maybe I myself have three roubles in my box. Well, go on and come to bed, why don’t you?

  She lay down on top of the blanket and glared with hatred at Pavel, at the short-cropped and angled back of his head, shaking from his sobs.

  “Ugh! You’re all so tiresome, you filthy devils! You’ve worn me out! What are you carrying on about? Afraid of your mummy?” she said with lazy and malicious scorn. “Afraid of getting a whipping? You’re scared, but you do love sweets. You certainly do, don’t you? I know you Percents, you devils. Ashamed to say his name, so he thinks one up. Percent! A dog’s name, through and through. And when he goes off to his snivelling Katya darling, then he’ll tell her to call him Vasya: ‘Vasya, my love!’ And he’ll say, ‘Katya, my sweet angel!’ Oh, I know, he’s a fine boy, that one! Permit me to kiss your hand, and I’ll give your dirty face a good slap with that hand. Don’t you laugh, you pup, don’t laugh!”

  Pavel said nothing and went on quietly shaking.

  “Well, are you coming to bed or not? I’m talking to you! Or else I’ll drive you out, God almighty, I’ll drive you out! I don’t mind losing the two roubles, but I’ll not allow anyone to make fun of me. You hear me, get undressed! He thinks two roubles got him a whole woman! Ugh, a fine prince this one is!”

  Pavel slowly unbuttoned his jacket and started taking it off. “You don’t understand …” he quietly interjected, not looking at her.

  “So that’s how it is!” the woman shouted angrily. “Such a fool, I don’t even understand anything! And what if I come over and punch you right in your mug?”

  From behind the partition a hoarse and irritated bass gave a threatening shout: “Manka! You up to your tricks again, you Satan? Keep it down, or you’ll get it lively!…”

  �
��Be quiet, you bitch!” Pavel whispered, paling.

  “A bitch, am I?” she answered hoarsely, starting up.

  “All right, all right! Lie down!” Pavel said placatingly, keeping his eyes on her naked body. “I’m coming, I’m coming…”

  “A bitch, am I?” the woman repeated, gasping and spraying spit.

  “Take it easy,” Pavel entreated. His fingers were trembling and he had trouble finding the buttons; he saw only her body—the terrible and incomprehensibly powerful body of a woman, a vision from his most torrid nightmares, so repulsive he wanted to trample it beneath his feet, and as enchanting as a puddle of water to a man dying of thirst. “Take it easy, there,” he repeated. “I was joking…”

  “Get out of here!” the woman energetically rapped out, waving him off with her arms. “Go on! Go on! You pup!”

  Their eyes met, and their glare burned with open enmity, so scorching, profound and so fully draining their sick souls, that it was as if they were not passing strangers who had chanced to meet, but had been enemies all their lives, had sought each other out all their lives, and finally—with wild, joyful disbelief—had met face to face. And Pavel became frightened. He lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Listen, Manechka! You’ve got to understand…”

  “Aha!” the woman gloated, baring her broad, white teeth. “Aha! So it’s Manechka now! Get out! Get out!”

  She jumped up from the bed, and swaying, showing Pavel the thick, hairy back of her head, started to pick up his jacket. “Get out! Get out!”

  “You hear me, devil!” Pavel shouted in a frenzy.

  And all of a sudden a wild and surprising thing happened: the drunk, half-naked woman, red with rage, threw the jacket down, swung her arm and hit Pavel in the face. Pavel grabbed her by her blouse and tore it, and both of them began to roll all over the floor in a tangle. They rolled around, knocking over chairs and dragging the blanket off the bed after them, and they appeared to be a strange, fused being with four arms and four legs, frenziedly grappling and choking one another. Sharp nails scratched Pavel’s face and dug into his eyes; for one second he saw above him an enraged face with wild eyes, and it was as red as blood; and with all his might he squeezed someone’s throat. In the next second he broke away from the woman and scrambled to his feet.

  “You dog!” he shouted, wiping his bloody face.

  And people were already pounding on the door, and someone cried out, “Open up! You devils, you fiends!”

  But again the woman threw herself at Pavel, knocking him down from behind, and once again they thrashed and circled all over the floor, silently, gasping, emitting weak cries of frenzied rage. They got up, fell down, and got up again. Pavel toppled the woman onto the table, and the bowl shattered beneath her heavy body, and near Pavel’s hand clattered the long, dirty bread-knife. Pavel seized it in his left hand, barely managing to keep his grip on it, and thrust it somewhere into her side. And the fine sharp blade bent. A second time he thrust the knife in, and the woman’s arms gave a shudder and suddenly went limp as rags. Her eyeballs nearly rolled out of their sockets, and she gave a hoarse, penetrating cry, right into Pavel’s face, all on one note, the way animals cry when they are butchered: “A-a-ah!”

  “Be quiet!” Pavel rasped hoarsely, and again he thrust the knife in somewhere, and again. With each blow the woman jerked like a wooden clown on a string, and she opened her mouth even wider, with its broad, white teeth now awash in bubbles of bloody foam. She was silent now, but Pavel still heard her piercing, horrible howl, and he rasped, “Be quiet!”

  And shifting the knife from his wet, slippery left hand to his right, he struck from above once, and then a second time.

  “Be quiet!”

  The body slid heavily off the table and the hairy head struck the floor with a hollow thud. Pavel bent down and looked at it: the naked, protruding belly still rose and fell, and Pavel poked it with the knife the way one pokes a bubble to let the air out. Then Pavel stood back up, and with the knife in his hand, covered in blood like a butcher, his lip bloodied from the fight, he turned towards the door.

  He dimly anticipated shouting, noise, frenzied cries, rage and revenge—and the strange stillness surprised him. There was not a sound, not a breath, not a rustle. The pendulum swung in the clock, and its motion was soundless; thick drops of blood slid off the blade of the knife onto the floor, and they ought to have made a sound but didn’t. It was as if suddenly all the sounds in the world and all its living voices had suddenly broken off and died. And something mysterious and terrible was happening to the closed door. It soundlessly swelled out like the stomach that had just been pierced, trembled in soundless agony, and then sank back. And again it swelled out and sank back with a fading tremor, and each time this happened the dark crack at the top got wider and more ominous.

  There was an ineffable horror in that mute and threatening onslaught—horror and a terrifying force, as if an entire alien, incomprehensible and evil world were silently and frenziedly forcing its way through the flimsy door.

  With haste and concentration, Pavel threw off the sticky rags of his shirt and stabbed himself with the knife in the side, opposite his heart. For a few seconds he remained on his feet and looked with big, shining eyes at the convulsively swelling door. Then he bent over, dropped to all fours as if for a game of leapfrog, and collapsed…

  That night, until dawn came, the cold city choked in the leaden fog. Its deep streets were unpeopled and silent, and in the garden, deserted now in the autumn, the lonely, doleful flowers were gently dying on their broken stems.

  What will take place in your heart and mind,

  When, loving mysteriously and tenderly,

  You see a vampire in the twilight

  With eyes as full as the boundless sea?

  I see a woman. Her magical, terrible eyes

  Hurled passion, like a flame, into my soul.

  It seemed they concealed all the power

  Of earth and heaven—but her heart was a stone.

  She laughed the laugh of Satan,

  And that laugh stung and repelled.

  Her eyes flashed, full of joy;

  In them some of each man’s soul was left.

  Oh, if I could throw myself upon her, greedily embrace her,

  Drink up the vampire’s passion, smother her with kisses,

  Then kill her, tear her to pieces, and timidly lay the remains of her heart

  At the feet of my idol, forgotten for an instant!

  Alexander Blok, 1898

  Her

  She is as grey as dust, as earthly ashes

  In her baseness, unscrupulous and pitiable,

  And I am dying from this intimacy,

  From her indivisibility from me.

  She is rough, she is prickly,

  She’s as cold as a snake.

  Her repulsive, burning, coiled scales

  Have branded me with pain.

  Oh, if only I felt her sharp sting!

  Sluggish, dull, silent.

  So heavy, so flaccid,

  And there’s no reaching her—she is deaf!

  Stubborn, she caresses me in her coils,

  And strangles me in her hold.

  And this dead thing, this black thing,

  This dreadful thing—is my soul!

  Zinaida Gippius, 1905

  Calm

  We are near the eternal end,

  But we don’t protest to the Creator…

  No longer in the seer’s mirror

  Do we see death—but face to face.

  All our lives, hopelessly,

  Like moles blind from birth, in the dark,

  Through narrow, bottomless fissures,

  Groping, towards the grave we crawl,

  Towards that black pit, towards that snare,

  Where the unknown awaits.

  We press on, as in a fevered dream,

  Through life’s cramped underground caves,

  And we whisper: will the end come soon?

&nbs
p; We submit to the Supreme Will,

  And we do not clutch at life,

  Like a drowning swimmer…

  The brand of death on our foreheads,

  We sought good in evil,

  We sought truth in lawlessness,

  We sought in chaos harmony.

  Because God abandoned us,

  Spurning the guardian angel,

  We called on the spirit of temptation,

  But the Devil too refused us aid.

  Now we no longer summon anyone,

  Before prohibited doors we skulk

  Like pallid phantoms, lost,

  We do not wait, and we do not knock.

  We calmed down long ago:

  There is no hope and no repentance,

  And, full of silent despair,

  We sink into the depths.

  Dmitry Merezhkovsky, 1896

  The Story of Sergey Petrovich

  Leonid Andreyev

  I

  What Sergey Petrovich found most striking in the teachings of Nietzsche was the idea of the superman and everything Nietzsche said about the strong, free and bold of spirit. Sergey Petrovich didn’t know German very well—only what he’d learnt in school—and he had a lot of difficulty with the translation. The work was facilitated considerably by Sergey Petrovich’s fellow student Novikov, who had been his roommate at school for a year and a half, and who had a perfect command of German and was well-read in philosophy. But in October of 189–, with only a few chapters of Thus Spoke Zarathustra left to translate, Novikov had been exiled from Moscow for scandalous behaviour, and Sergey Petrovich, now on his own, made very little progress. He didn’t mind this in the least, however, for he was fully content with what he had already read, having learnt whole pages by heart—and in German at that. For in translation, however good it might be, the aphorisms lost much of their impact, becoming too simple and easy to grasp, so that it seemed possible to glimpse the very bottom of their mysterious depths; but when Sergey Petrovich gazed at the Gothic outlines of the German letters, he saw in every phrase not only its literal meaning, but also something words could not express, and their transparent depths would then darken and become bottomless. Sometimes he fancied that if a new prophet were to appear on earth, he would have to speak in a foreign language in order to be fully understood. He never did finish translating the end of the book—the only one of Nietzsche’s works Novikov had left behind.