Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing....[32]
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing....[32]
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing....[32]
I have cited the verses from “Macbeth,” and those witches, phantoms, visions have recurred to my mind.... Alas! it is not visions, not fantastic, subterranean powers that are terrible; the creations of Hoffmann are not dreadful, under whatsoever form they may present themselves.... The terrible thing is that there is nothing terrible, that the very substance of life itself is petty, uninteresting—and insipid to beggary. Having once become permeated withthisconsciousness, having once tasted ofthiswormwood, no honey will ever seem sweet—and even that loftiest, sweetest happiness, the happiness of love, of complete friendship, of irrevocable devotion—even it loses all its charm; all its worth is annihilated by its own pettiness, its brevity. Well, yes: a man has loved, he has burned, he has faltered words about eternal bliss, about immortal enjoyments—and behold: it is long, long since the last trace vanished of that worm which has eaten out the last remnants of his withered tongue. Thus late in autumn, on a frosty day, when everything is lifeless and dumb in the last blades of grass, on the verge of the denuded forest, the sun has but to emerge for an instant from the fog, to gaze intently at the chilled earth, and immediately, from all sides, gnats rise up; they frolic in the warmth of his rays, they bustle and jostle upward, downward, they circle round one another.... The sun hides himself, and the gnats fall to the earth in a soft rain—and there is an end to their momentary life.
“Butare there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation? Nationality, right, liberty, humanity, art?” Yes; those words do exist, and many people live by them and for them. But nevertheless, I have an idea that if Shakspeare were to be born again he would find no occasion to disclaim his “Hamlet,” his “Lear.” His penetrating glance would not descry anything new inhuman existence: the same motley and, in reality, incoherent picture would still unfold itself before him in its disquieting monotony. The same frivolity, the same cruelty, the same pressing demand for blood, gold, filth, the same stale pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name of ... well, in the name of the same nonsense which was ridiculed by Aristophanes three thousand years ago, the same coarse lures to which the many-headed beast still yields as readily as ever—in a word, the same anxious skipping of the squirrel in the same old wheel, which has not even been renewed.... Shakspeare would again make Lear repeat his harsh: “There are no guilty ones”—which, in other words, signifies: “There are no just”—and he also would say: “It is enough!” and he also would turn away.—One thing only: perhaps, in contrast to the gloomy, tragic tyrant Richard, the ironical genius of the great poet would like to draw another, more up-to-date tyrant, who is almost ready to believe in his own virtue and rests calmly at night or complains of the over-dainty dinner at the same time that his half-stifled victims are endeavouring to comfort themselves by at least imagining him as Richard III. surrounded by the ghosts of the people he has murdered....
But to what purpose?
Why demonstrate—and that by picking and weighing one’s words, by rounding and polishingone’s speech—why demonstrate to gnats that they really are gnats?
Butart?... Beauty?... Yes, those are mighty words; they are, probably, mightier than those which I have mentioned above. The Venus of Melos, for example, is more indubitable than the Roman law, or than the principles of 1789. Men may retort—and how many times have I heard these retorts!—that beauty itself is also a matter of convention, that to the Chinese it presents itself in a totally different manner from what it does to the European.... But it is not the conventionality of art which disconcerts me; its perishableness, and again its perishableness,—its decay and dust—that is what deprives me of courage and of faith. Art, at any given moment, is, I grant, more powerful than Nature itself, because in it there is neither symphony of Beethoven nor picture of Ruysdael nor poem of Goethe—and only dull-witted pedants or conscienceless babblers can still talk of art as a copy of Nature. But in the long run Nature is irresistible; she cannot be hurried, and sooner or later she will assert her rights. Unconsciously and infallibly obedient to law, she does not know art, as she does not know liberty, as she does not know good; moving onward from eternity, transmitted from eternity, she tolerates nothing immortal, nothing unchangeable.... Man is her child; but the human, the artificial is inimical to her, precisely because she strives to be unchangeable and immortal. Man is the child of Nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has no preferences: everything which exists in her bosom has arisen only for the benefit of another and must, in due time, make way for that other—she creates by destroying, and it is a matter of perfect indifference to her what she creates, what she destroys, if only life be not extirpated, if only death do not lose its rights.... And therefore she as calmly covers with mould the divine visage of Phidias’s Jupiter as she does a plain pebble, and delivers over to be devoured by the contemned moth the most precious lines of Sophocles. Men, it is true, zealously aid her in her work of extermination; but is not the same elementary force,—is not the force of Nature shown in the finger of the barbarian who senselessly shattered the radiant brow of Apollo, in the beast-like howls with which he hurled the picture of Apelles into the fire? How are we poor men, poor artists, to come to an agreement with this deaf and dumb force, blind from its birth, which does not even triumph in its victories, but marches, ever marches on ahead, devouring all things? How are we to stand up against those heavy, coarse, interminably and incessantly onrolling waves, how believe,in short, in the significance and worth of those perishable images which we, in the darkness, on the verge of the abyss, mould from the dust and for a mere instant?
Allthis is so ... but only the transitory is beautiful, Shakspeare has said; and Nature herself, in the unceasing play of her rising and vanishing forms, does not shun beauty. Is it not she who sedulously adorns the most momentary of her offspring—the petals of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly—with such charming colours? Is it not she who imparts to them such exquisite outlines? It is not necessary for beauty to live forever in order to be immortal—one moment is sufficient for it. That is so; that is just, I grant you—but only in cases where there is no personality, where man is not, liberty is not: the faded wing of the butterfly comes back again, and a thousand years later, with the selfsame wing of the selfsame butterfly, necessity sternly and regularly and impartially fulfils its round ... but man does not repeat himself like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his free creation once destroyed, is annihilated forever.... To him alone is it given to “create” ... but it is strange and terrible to articulate: “Weare creators ... for an hour,”—as there once was, they say, a caliph for an hour.—Therein lies our supremacy—and our curse: each one of these “creators” in himself—precisely he, not any one else, precisely that ego—seems to have been created with deliberate intent, on a plan previously designed; each one more or less dimly understands his significance, feels that he is akin to something higher, something eternal—and he lives, he is bound to live in the moment and for the moment.[33]Sit in the mud, my dear fellow, and strive toward heaven!—The greatest among us are precisely those who are the most profoundly conscious of all of that fundamental contradiction; but in that case the question arises,—are the words “greatest, great” appropriate?
Butwhat shall be said of those to whom, despite a thorough desire to do so, one cannot apply those appellations even in the sense which is attributed to them by the feeble human tongue?—What shall be said of the ordinary, commonplace, second-rate, third-rate toilers—whoever they may be—statesmen, learned men, artists—especially artists? How force them to shake off their dumb indolence, their dejected perplexity, how draw them once more to the field of battle, if once the thought as to the vanity of everything human, of every activity which sets for itself a higher aim than the winning of daily bread, has once crept into their heads? By what wreaths are they lured on—they, for whom laurels and thorns have become equally insignificant? Why should they again subject themselves to the laughter of “the cold throng” or to “the condemnation of the dunce,”—of the old dunce who cannot forgive them for having turned away from the former idols; of the young dunce who demands that they shall immediately go down on their knees in his company, that they should lie prone before new, just-discovered idols? Why shall they betake themselves again to that rag-fair of phantoms, to that market-place where both the seller and the buyer cheat each other equally, where everything is so noisy, so loud—and yet so poor and worthless? Why “with exhaustion in their bones” shall they interweave themselves again with that world where the nations, like peasant urchins on a festival day, flounder about in the mud for the sake of a handful of empty nuts, or admire with gaping mouths the wretched woodcuts, decorated with tinsel gold,—with that world where they had no right to life while they lived in it, and, deafening themselves with their own shouts, each onehastens with convulsive speed to a goal which he neither knows nor understands? No ... no.... It is enough ... enough ... enough!
...Therest is silence.[34]...
“BUT if we can admit the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its intervention in real life,—then allow me to inquire, what rôle is sound judgment bound to play after this?”—shouted Antón Stepánitch, crossing his arms on his stomach.
Antón Stepánitch had held the rank of State Councillor,[35]had served in some wonderful department, and, as his speech was interlarded with pauses and was slow and uttered in a bass voice, he enjoyed universal respect. Not long before the date of our story, “the good-for-nothing little Order of St. Stanislas had been stuck on him,” as those who envied him expressed it.
“That is perfectly just,”—remarked Skvorévitch.
“No one will dispute that,”—added Kinarévitch.
“I assent also,”—chimed in, in falsetto, from a corner the master of the house, Mr. Finopléntoff.
“But I, I must confess, cannot assent, because something supernatural has happened to me,”—said a man of medium stature and middle age, with a protruding abdomen and a bald spot, who had been sitting silent before the stove up to that moment. The glances of all present in the room were turned upon him with curiosity and surprise—and silence reigned.
This man was a landed proprietor of Kalúga, not wealthy, who had recently come to Petersburg. He had once served in the hussars, had gambled away his property, resigned from the service and settled down in the country. The recent agricultural changes had cut off his revenues, and he had betaken himself to the capital in search of a snug little position. He possessed no abilities, and had no influential connections; but he placed great reliance on the friendship of an old comrade in the service, who had suddenly, without rhyme or reason, become a person of importance, and whom he had once aided to administer a sound thrashing to a card-sharper. Over and above that he counted upon his own luck—and it had not betrayed him; several days later he obtained the post of inspector of government storehouses, a profitable, even honourable position which did not require extraordinary talents: the storehouses themselves existed only in contemplation, and no one even knew with certainty what they were to contain,—but they had been devised as a measure of governmental economy.
Antón Stepánitch was the first to break the general silence.
“What, my dear sir?”—he began. “Do you seriously assert that something supernatural—I mean to say, incompatible with the laws of nature—has happened to you?”
“I do,”—returned “my dear sir,” whose real name was Porfíry Kapítonitch.
“Incompatible with the laws of nature?”—energetically repeated Antón Stepánitch, who evidently liked that phrase.
“Precisely ... yes; precisely the sort of thing you allude to.”
“This is astonishing! What think you, gentlemen?”—Antón Stepánitch endeavoured to impart to his features an ironical expression, but without result—or, to speak more accurately, the only result was to produce the effect that Mr. State Councillor smelt a bad odour.—“Will not you be so kind, my dear sir,”—he went on, addressing the landed proprietor from Kalúga,—“as to communicate to us the particulars of such a curious event?”
“Why not? Certainly!”—replied the landed proprietor, and moving forward to the middle of the room in an easy manner he spoke as follows:
I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware,—or as you may not be aware,—a small estate in Kozyól County. I formerly derived some profit from it—but now, of course, nothing but unpleasantness is to be anticipated. However, let us put politics aside! Well, sir, on that same estate I have a “wee little” manor: a vegetable garden, as is proper, a tiny pond with little carp, and some sort of buildings—well, and a small wing for my own sinful body.... I am a bachelor. So, sir, one day—about six years ago—I had returned home rather late; I had been playing cards at a neighbour’s house—but I beg you to observe, I was not tipsy, as the expression goes. I undressed, got into bed, and blew out the light. And just imagine, gentlemen; no sooner had I blown out the light, than something began to rummage under my bed! Is it a rat? I thought. No, it was not a rat: it clawed and fidgeted and scratched itself.... At last it began to flap its ears!
It was a dog—that was clear. But where had the dog come from? I keep none myself. “Can some stray animal have run in?” I thought. I called to my servant; his name is Fílka. The man entered with a candle.
“What’s this,”—says I,—“my good Fílka? How lax thou art! A dog has intruded himself under my bed.”
“What dog?”—says he.
“How should I know?”—says I;—“that’s thy affair—not to allow thy master to be disturbed.”
My Fílka bent down, and began to pass the candle about under the bed.
“Why,”—says he,—“there’s no dog here.”
I bent down also; in fact there was no dog.... Here was a marvel! I turned my eyes on Fílka: he was smiling.
“Fool,”—said I to him,—“what art thou grinning about? When thou didst open the door the dog probably took and sneaked out into the anteroom. But thou, gaper, didst notice nothing, because thou art eternally asleep. Can it be that thou thinkest I am drunk?”
He attempted to reply, but I drove him out, curled myself up in a ring, and heard nothing more that night.
But on the following night—just imagine!—the same thing was repeated. No sooner had I blown out the light than it began to claw and flap its ears. Again I summoned Fílka, again he looked under the bed—again nothing! I sent him away, blew out the light—phew, damn it! there was the dog still. And a dog it certainly was: I could hear it breathing and rummaging in its hair with its teeth in search of fleas so plainly!
“Fílka!”—says I,—“come hither without a light!”... He entered.... “Well, now,”—says I, “dost thou hear?...”
“I do,”—said he. I could not see him, but I felt that the fellow was quailing.
“What dost thou make of it?”—said I.
“What dost thou command me to make of it, Porfíry Kapítonitch?... ’Tis an instigation of the Evil One!”
“Thou art a lewd fellow; hold thy tongue with thy instigation of the Evil One.”... But the voices of both of us were like those of birds, and we were shaking as though in a fever—in the darkness. I lighted a candle: there was no dog, and no noise whatever—only Fílka and I as white as clay. And I must inform you, gentlemen—you can believe me or not—but from that night forth for the space of six weeks the same thing went on. At last I even got accustomed to it and took to extinguishing my light because I cannot sleep with a light. “Let him fidget!” I thought. “It doesn’t harm me.”
“But—I see—that you do not belong to the cowardly squad,”—interrupted Antón Stepánitch, with a half-scornful, half-condescending laugh. “The hussar is immediately perceptible!”
“I should not be frightened at you, in any case,”—said Porfíry Kapítonitch, and for a moment he really did look like a hussar.—“But listen further.”
A neighbour came to me, the same one with whom I was in the habit of playing cards. He dined with me on what God had sent, and lost fifty rubles to me for his visit; night was drawing on—it was time for him to go. But I had calculations of my own:—“Stop and spend the night with me, Vasíly Vasílitch; to-morrow thou wilt win it back, God willing.”
My Vasíly Vasílitch pondered and pondered—and stayed. I ordered a bed to be placed for him in my own chamber.... Well, sir, we went to bed, smoked, chattered,—chiefly about the feminine sex, as is fitting in bachelor society,—and laughed, as a matter of course. I look; Vasíly Vasílitch has put out his candle and has turned his back on me; that signifies: “Schlafen Sie wohl.” I waited a little and extinguished my candle also. And imagine: before I had time to think to myself, “What sort of performance will there be now?” my dear little animal began to make a row. And that was not all; he crawled out from under the bed, walked across the room, clattering his claws on the floor, waggling his ears, and suddenly collided with a chair which stood by the side of Vasíly Vasílitch’s bed!
“Porfíry Kapítonitch,”—says Vasíly Vasílitch, and in such an indifferent voice, you know,—“I didn’t know that thou hadst taken to keeping a dog. What sort of an animal is it—a setter?”
“I have no dog,”—said I,—“and I never have had one.”
“Thou hast not indeed! But what’s this?”
“What is this?”—said I.—“See here now; light the candle and thou wilt find out for thyself.”
“It isn’t a dog?”
“No.”
Vasíly Vasílitch turned over in bed.—“But thou art jesting, damn it?”
“No, I’m not jesting.”—I hear him go scratch, scratch with a match, and that thing does not stop, but scratches its side. The flame flashed up ... and basta! There was not a trace of a dog! Vasíly Vasílitch stared at me—and I stared at him.
“What sort of a trick is this?”—said he.
“Why,”—said I,—“this is such a trick that if thou wert to set Socrates himself on one side and Frederick the Great on the other even they couldn’t make head or tail of it.”—And thereupon I told him all in detail. Up jumped my Vasíly Vasílitch as though he had been singed! He couldn’t get into his boots.
“Horses!”—he yelled—“horses!”
I began to argue with him, but in vain. He simply groaned.
“I won’t stay,”—he shouted,—“not a minute!—Of course, after this, thou art a doomed man!—Horses!...”
But I prevailed upon him. Only his bed was dragged out into another room—and night-lights were lighted everywhere. In the morning, at tea, he recovered his dignity; he began to give me advice.
“Thou shouldst try absenting thyself from the house for several days, Porfíry Kapítonitch,” he said: “perhaps that vile thing would leave thee.”
But I must tell you that he—that neighbour of mine—had a capacious mind! he worked his mother-in-law so famously among other things: he palmed off a note of hand on her; which signifies that he chose the most vulnerable moment! She became like silk: she gave him a power of attorney over all her property—what more would you have? But that was a great affair—to twist his mother-in-law round his finger—wasn’t it, hey? Judge for yourselves. But he went away from me somewhat discontented; I had punished him to the extent of another hundred rubles. He even swore at me: “Thou art ungrateful,”—he said, “thou hast no feeling;” but how was I to blame for that? Well, this is in parenthesis—but I took his suggestion under consideration. That same day I drove off to town and established myself in an inn, with an acquaintance, an old man of the Old Ritualist sect.[36]
He was a worthy old man, although a trifleharsh, because of loneliness: his whole family were dead. Only he did not favour tobacco at all,[37]and felt a great loathing for dogs; I believe, for example, that rather than admit a dog into the room he would have rent himself in twain! “For how is it possible?”—he said. “There in my room, on the wall, the Sovereign Lady herself deigns to dwell;[38]and shall a filthy dog thrust his accursed snout in there?”—That was ignorance, of course! However, this is my opinion: if any man has been vouchsafed wisdom, let him hold to it!
“But you are a great philosopher, I see,”—interrupted Antón Stepánitch again, with the same laugh as before.
This time Porfíry Kapítonitch even scowled.
“What sort of a philosopher I am no one knows,”—he said as his moustache twitched in a surly manner:—“but I would gladly take you as a pupil.”
We all fairly bored our eyes into Antón Stepánitch; each one of us expected an arrogant retort or at least a lightning glance.... But Mr. State Councillor altered his smile from scorn to indifference, then yawned, dangled his foot—and that was all!
So then, I settled down at that old man’s house—[went on Porfíry Kapítonitch].—He assigned me a room “for acquaintance’s” sake,—not of the best; he himself lodged there also, behind a partition—and that was all I required. But what tortures I did undergo! The chamber was small, it was hot, stifling, and there were flies, and such sticky ones; in the corner was a remarkably large case for images, with ancient holy pictures; their garments were dim and puffed out; the air was fairly infected with olive-oil, and some sort of a spice in addition; on the bedstead were two down beds; if you moved a pillow, out ran a cockroach from beneath it.... I drank an incredible amount of tea, out of sheer tedium—it was simply horrible! I got into bed; it was impossible to sleep.—And on the other side of the partition my host was sighing and grunting and reciting his prayers. I heard him begin to snore—and very lightly and courteously, in old-fashioned style. I had long since extinguished my candle—only the shrine-lamp was twinkling in front of the holy pictures.... A hindrance, of course! So I took and rose up softly, in my bare feet: I reached up to the lamp and blew it out.... Nothing happened.—“Aha!” I thought: “this means that he won’t make a fuss in the house of strangers.”... But no sooner had I lain down on the bed than the row began again! The thing clawed, andscratched himself and flapped his ears ... well, just as I wanted him to. Good! I lay there and waited to see what would happen. I heard the old man wake up.
“Master,”—said he,—“hey there, master?”
“What’s wanted?”—said I.
“Was it thou who didst put out the shrine-lamp?”—And without awaiting my reply, he suddenly began to mumble:
“What’s that? What’s that? A dog? A dog? Akh, thou damned Nikonian!”[39]
“Wait a bit, old man,”—said I,—“before thou cursest; but it would be better for thee to come hither thyself. Things deserving of wonder are going on here,”—said I.
The old man fussed about behind the partition and entered my room with a candle, a slender one, of yellow wax; and I was amazed as I looked at him! He was all bristling, with shaggy ears and vicious eyes like those of a polecat; on his head was a small skull-cap of white felt; his beard reached to his girdle and was white also; and he had on a waistcoat with brass buttons over his shirt, and fur boots on his feet, and he disseminated an odour of juniper. In that condition he went up to the holy pictures, crossed himself thrice with two fingers[40]lighted the shrine-lamp,crossed himself again, and turning to me, merely grunted:
“Explain thyself!”
Thereupon, without the least delay, I communicated to him all the circumstances. The old man listened to all my explanations without uttering the smallest word; he simply kept shaking his head. Then he sat down on my bed, still maintaining silence. He scratched his breast, the back of his head, and other places, and still remained silent.
“Well, Feodúl Ivánitch,”—said I, “what is thy opinion: is this some sort of visitation of the Evil One, thinkest thou?”
The old man stared at me.—“A pretty thing thou hast invented! A visitation of the Evil One, forsooth! ’Twould be all right at thy house, thou tobacco-user,—but ’tis quite another thing here! Only consider how many holy things there are here! And thou must needs have a visitation of the devil!—And if it isn’t that, what is it?”
The old man relapsed into silence, scratched himself again, and at last he said, but in a dull sort of way, because his moustache kept crawling into his mouth:
“Go thou to the town of Byéleff. There is only one man who can help thee. And that mandwells in Byéleff;[41]he is one of our people. If he takes a fancy to help thee, that’s thy good luck; if he doesn’t take a fancy,—so it must remain.”
“But how am I to find him?”—said I.
“We can give thee directions,”—said he;—“only why dost thou call this a visitation of the devil? ’Tis a vision, or a sign; but thou wilt not be able to comprehend it; ’tis not within thy flight. And now lie down and sleep under Christ’s protection, dear little father; I will fumigate with incense; and in the morning we will take counsel together. The morning is wiser than the evening, thou knowest.”
Well, sir, and we did take counsel together in the morning—only I came near choking to death with that same incense. And the old man instructed me after this wise: that when I had reached Byéleff I was to go to the public square, and in the second shop on the right inquire for a certain Prokhóritch; and having found Prokhóritch, I was to hand him a document. And the whole document consisted of a scrap of paper, on which was written the following: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. To Sergyéi Prokhóritch Pervúshin. Trust this man. Feodúly Ivánovitch.” And below: “Send some cabbages, for God’s sake.”
I thanked the old man, and without further ado ordered my tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Byéleff. For I argued in this way: admitting that my nocturnal visitor did not cause me much grief, still, nevertheless, it was not quite decorous for a nobleman and an officer—what do you think about it?
“And did you really go to Byéleff?”—whispered Mr. Finopléntoff.
I did, straight to Byéleff. I went to the square, and inquired in the second shop on the right for Prokhóritch. “Is there such a man?”—I asked.
“There is,”—I was told.
“And where does he live?”
“On the Oká, beyond the vegetable-gardens.”
“In whose house?”[42]
“His own.”
I wended my way to the Oká, searched out his house, that is to say, not actually a house, but a downright hovel. I beheld a man in a patched blue overcoat and a tattered cap,—of the petty burgher class, judging by his appearance,—standing with his back to me, and digging in his cabbage-garden.—I went up to him.
“Are you such and such a one?”—said I.
He turned round,—and to tell you the truth, such piercing eyes I have never seen in all my life. But his whole face was no bigger than one’s fist; his beard was wedge-shaped, and his lips were sunken: he was an aged man.
“I am he,”—he said.—“What do you wanta?”
“Why, here,”—said I;—“this is what I wanta,”—and I placed the document in his hand. He gazed at me very intently, and said:
“Please come into the house; I cannot read without my spectacles.”
Well, sir, he and I went into his kennel—actually, a regular kennel; poor, bare, crooked; it barely held together. On the wall was a holy picture of ancient work,[43]as black as a coal; only the whites of the eyes were fairly burning in the faces of the holy people. He took some round iron spectacles from a small table, placed them on his nose, perused the writing, and through his spectacles again scrutinised me.
“You have need of me?”
“I have,”—said I,—“that’s the fact.”
“Well,”—said he, “if you have, then make your statement, and I will listen.”
And just imagine; he sat down, and pulling a checked handkerchief from his pocket, he spread it out on his knees—and the handkerchief was full of holes—and gazed at me as solemnly asthough he had been a senator,[44]or some minister or other; and did not ask me to sit down. And what was still more astonishing, I suddenly felt myself growing timid, so timid ... simply, my soul sank into my heels. He pierced me through and through with his eyes, and that’s all there is to be said! But I recovered my self-possession, and narrated to him my whole story. He remained silent for a while, shrank together, mowed with his lips, and then began to interrogate me, still as though he were a senator, so majestically and without haste. “What is your name?”—he asked. “How old are you? Who were your parents? Are you a bachelor or married?”—Then he began to mow with his lips again, frowned, thrust out his finger and said:
“Do reverence to the holy image of the honourable saints of Solovétzk,[45]Zósim and Saváty.”
I made a reverence to the earth, and did not rise to my feet; such awe and submission did I feel for that man that I believe I would have instantly done anything whatsoever he might have ordered me!... I see that you are smiling, gentlemen; but I was in no mood for laughing then, by Heaven I was not.
“Rise, sir,”—he said at last.—“It is possible to help you. This has not been sent to you byway of punishment, but as a warning; it signifies that you are being looked after; some one is praying earnestly for you. Go now to the bazaar and buy yourself a bitch, which you must keep by you day and night, without ceasing. Your visions will cease, and your dog will prove necessary to you into the bargain.”
A flash of light seemed suddenly to illuminate me; how those words did please me! I made obeisance to Prokhóritch, and was on the point of departing, but remembered that it was impossible for me not to show him my gratitude; I drew a three-ruble note from my pocket. But he put aside my hand and said to me:
“Give it to our chapel, or to the poor, for this service is gratis.”
Again I made him an obeisance, nearly to the girdle, and immediately marched off to the bazaar. And fancy, no sooner had I begun to approach the shops when behold, a man in a frieze cloak advanced to meet me, and under his arm he carried a setter bitch, two months old, with light-brown hair, a white muzzle, and white fore paws.
“Halt!” said I to the man in the frieze cloak; “what will you take for her?”
“Two rubles in silver.”
“Take three!”
The man was astonished, and thought the gentleman had lost his mind—but I threw a banknote in his teeth, seized the bitch in my arms, andrushed to my tarantás. The coachman harnessed up the horses briskly, and that same evening I was at home. The dog sat on my lap during the whole journey—and never uttered a sound; but I kept saying to her: “Tresórushko! Tresórushko!” I immediately gave her food and water, ordered straw to be brought, put her to bed, and dashed into bed myself. I blew out the light; darkness reigned.
“Come now, begin!”—said I.—Silence.—“Do begin, thou thus and so!”—Not a sound. It was laughable. I began to take courage.—“Come now, begin, thou thus and so, and ’tother thing!” But nothing happened—there was a complete lull! The only thing to be heard was the bitch breathing hard.
“Fílka!”—I shouted;—“Fílka! Come hither, stupid man!”—He entered.—“Dost thou hear the dog?”
“No, master,”—said he,—“I don’t hear anything,”—and began to laugh.
“And thou wilt not hear it again forever! Here’s half a ruble for thee for vodka!”
“Please let me kiss your hand,”—said the fool, and crawled to me in the dark.... My joy was great, I can tell you!
“And was that the end of it all?”—asked Antón Stepánitch, no longer ironically.
The visions did cease, it is true—and there were no disturbances of any sort—but wait, thatwas not the end of the whole matter. My Tresórushko began to grow, and turned out a cunning rogue. Thick-tailed, heavy, flop-eared, with drooping dewlaps, she was a regular “take-advance,”—a thoroughgoing good setter. And moreover, she became greatly attached to me. Hunting is bad in our parts,—well, but as I had set up a dog I had to supply myself with a gun also. I began to roam about the surrounding country with my Tresór; sometimes I would knock over a hare (my heavens, how she did course those hares!), and sometimes a quail or a duck. But the chief point was that Tresór never, never strayed a step away from me. Wherever I went, there she went also; I even took her to the bath with me—truly! One of our young gentlewomen undertook to eject me from her drawing-room on account of Tresór; but I raised such a row that I smashed some of her window-panes!
Well, sir, one day—it happened in summer.... And I must tell you that there was such a drought that no one could recall its like; the air was full of something which was neither smoke nor fog; there was an odour of burning, and mist, and the sun was like a red-hot cannon-ball; and the dust was such that one could not leave off sneezing! People went about with their mouths gaping open, just like crows.
It bored me to sit at home constantly in complete undress, behind closed shutters; and by theway, the heat was beginning to moderate.... And so, gentlemen, I set off afoot to the house of one of my neighbours. This neighbour of mine lived about a verst from me,—and was really a benevolent lady. She was still young and blooming, and of the most attractive exterior; only she had a fickle disposition. But that is no detriment in the feminine sex; it even affords pleasure.... So, then, I trudged to her porch—and that trip seemed very salt to me! Well, I thought, Nimfodóra Semyónovna will regale me with bilberry-water, and other refreshments—and I had already grasped the door-handle when, suddenly, around the corner of the servants’ cottage there arose a trampling of feet, a squealing and shouting of small boys.... I looked round. O Lord, my God! Straight toward me was dashing a huge, reddish beast, which at first sight I did not recognise as a dog; its jaws were gaping, its eyes were blood-shot, its hair stood on end.... Before I could take breath the monster leaped upon the porch, elevated itself on its hind legs, and fell straight on my breast. What do you think of that situation? I was swooning with fright, and could not lift my arms; I was completely stupefied; ... all I could see were the white tusks right at the end of my nose, the red tongue all swathed in foam. But at that moment another dark body soared through the air in front of me, like a ball—it was my darling Tresór coming tomy rescue; and she went at that beast’s throat like a leech! The beast rattled hoarsely in the throat, gnashed its teeth, staggered back.... With one jerk I tore open the door, and found myself in the anteroom. I stood there, beside myself with terror, threw my whole body against the lock, and listened to a desperate battle which was in progress on the porch. I began to shout, to call for help; every one in the house took alarm. Nimfodóra Semyónovna ran up with hair unbraided; voices clamoured in the courtyard—and suddenly there came a cry: “Hold him, hold him, lock the gate!”
I opened the door,—just a crack,—and looked. The monster was no longer on the porch. People were rushing in disorder about the courtyard, flourishing their arms, picking up billets of wood from the ground—just as though they had gone mad. “To the village! It has run to the village!” shrieked shrilly a peasant-woman in a pointed coronet head-dress of unusual dimensions, thrusting her head through a garret-window. I emerged from the house.
“Where is Tresór?”—said I.—And at that moment I caught sight of my saviour. She was walking away from the gate, limping, all bitten, and covered with blood....
“But what was it, after all?”—I asked the people, as they went circling round the courtyard like crazy folk.
“A mad dog!”—they answered me, “belonging to the Count; it has been roving about here since yesterday.”
We had a neighbour, a Count; he had introduced some very dreadful dogs from over-sea. My knees gave way beneath me; I hastened to the mirror and looked to see whether I had been bitten. No; God be thanked, nothing was visible; only, naturally, my face was all green; but Nimfodóra Semyónovna was lying on the couch, and clucking like a hen. And that was easily to be understood: in the first place, nerves; in the second place, sensibility. But she came to herself, and asked me in a very languid way: was I alive? I told her that I was, and that Tresór was my saviour.
“Akh,”—said she,—“what nobility! And I suppose the mad dog smothered her?”
“No,”—said I,—“it did not smother her, but it wounded her seriously.”
“Akh,”—said she,—“in that case, she must be shot this very moment!”
“Nothing of the sort,”—said I;—“I won’t agree to that; I shall try to cure her.” ...
In the meanwhile, Tresór began to scratch at the door; I started to open it for her.
“Akh,”—cried she,—“what are you doing? Why, she will bite us all dreadfully!”
“Pardon me,”—said I,—“the poison does not take effect so soon.”
“Akh,”—said she,—“how is that possible? Why, you have gone out of your mind!”
“Nimfótchka,”—said I,—“calm thyself; listen to reason....”
But all at once she began to scream: “Go away; go away this instant with your disgusting dog!”
“I will go,”—said I.
“Instantly,”—said she,—“this very second! Take thyself off, brigand,”—said she,—“and don’t dare ever to show yourself in my sight again. Thou mightest go mad thyself!”
“Very good, ma’am,”—said I; “only give me an equipage, for I am afraid to go home on foot now.”
She riveted her eyes on me. “Give, give him a calash, a carriage, a drozhky, whatever he wants,—anything, for the sake of getting rid of him as quickly as possible. Akh, what eyes! akh, what eyes he has!”—And with these words she flew out of the room, dealing a maid who was entering a box on the ear,—and I heard her go off into another fit of hysterics.—And you may believe me or not, gentlemen, but from that day forth I broke off all acquaintance with Nimfodóra Semyónovna; and, taking all things into mature consideration, I cannot but add that for that circumstance also I owe my friend Tresór a debt of gratitude until I lie down in my coffin.
Well, sir, I ordered a calash to be harnessed, placed Tresór in it, and drove off home with her.At home I looked her over, washed her wounds, and thought to myself: “I’ll take her to-morrow, as soon as it is light, to the wizard in Efrém County. Now this wizard was an old peasant, a wonderful man; he would whisper over water—but others say that he emitted serpents’ venom on it—and give it to you to drink, and your malady would instantly disappear. By the way, I thought, I’ll get myself bled in Efrémovo; ’tis a good remedy for terror; only, of course, not from the arm, but from the bleeding-vein.”
“But where is that place—the bleeding-vein?”—inquired Finopléntoff, with bashful curiosity.
Don’t you know? That spot on the fist close to the thumb, on which one shakes snuff from the horn.—Just here, see! ’Tis the very best place for blood-letting; therefore, judge for yourselves; from the arm it will be venal blood, while from this spot it is sparkling. The doctors don’t know that, and don’t understand it; how should they, the sluggards, the dumb idiots? Blacksmiths chiefly make use of it. And what skilful fellows they are! They’ll place their chisel on the spot, give it a whack with their hammer—and the deed is done!... Well, sir, while I was meditating in this wise, it had grown entirely dark out of doors, and it was time to go to sleep. I lay down on my bed, and Tresór, of course, was there also. But whether it was because of my fright or of the stifling heat, or because the fleasor my thoughts were bothersome, at any rate, I could not get to sleep. Such distress fell upon me as it is impossible to describe; and I kept drinking water, and opening the window, and thrumming the “Kamárynskaya”[46]on the guitar, with Italian variations.... In vain! I felt impelled to leave the room,—and that’s all there was to it. At last I made up my mind. I took a pillow, a coverlet, and a sheet, and wended my way across the garden to the hay-barn; well, and there I settled myself. And there things were agreeable to me, gentlemen; the night was still, extremely still, only now and then a breeze as soft as a woman’s hand would blow across my cheek, and it was very cool; the hay was fragrant as tea, the katydids were rasping in the apple-trees; then suddenly a quail would emit its call—and you would feel that he was taking his ease, the scamp, sitting in the dew with his mate.... And the sky was so magnificent; the stars were twinkling, and sometimes a little cloud, as white as wadding, would float past, and even it would hardly stir....
At this point in the narrative, Skvorévitch sneezed; Kinarévitch, who never lagged behind his comrade in anything, sneezed also. Antón Stepánitch cast a glance of approbation at both.
Well, sir—[went on Porfíry Kapítonitch],—so I lay there, and still I could not get to sleep. A fit of meditation had seized upon me; and I pondered chiefly over the great marvel, how that Prokhóritch had rightly explained to me about the warning—and why such wonders should happen to me in particular.... I was astonished, in fact, because I could not understand it at all—while Tresórushko whimpered as she curled herself up on the hay; her wounds were paining her. And I’ll tell you another thing that kept me from sleeping—you will hardly believe it; the moon! It stood right in front of me, so round and big and yellow and flat; and it seemed to me as though it were staring at me—by Heaven it did; and so arrogantly, importunately.... At last I stuck my tongue out at it, I really did. Come, I thought, what art thou so curious about? I turned away from it; but it crawled into my ear, it illuminated the back of my head, and flooded me as though with rain; I opened my eyes, and what did I see? It made every blade of grass, every wretched little blade in the hay, the most insignificant spider’s web, stand out distinctly! “Well, look, then!” said I. There was no help for it. I propped my head on my hand and began to stare at it. But I could not keep it up; if you will believe it, my eyes began to stick out like a hare’s and to open very wide indeed, just as though they did not know what sleep was like. I think I could have eaten up everythingwith those same eyes. The gate of the hay-barn stood wide open; I could see for a distance of five versts out on the plain; and distinctly, not in the usual way on a moonlight night. So I gazed and gazed, and did not even wink.... And suddenly it seemed to me as though something were waving about far, far away ... exactly as though things were glimmering indistinctly before my eyes. Some time elapsed; again a shadow leaped across my vision,—a little nearer now; then again, still nearer. What is it? I thought. Can it be a hare? No, I thought, it is larger than a hare, and its gait is unlike that of a hare. I continued to look, and again the shadow showed itself, and it was moving now across the pasture-land (and the pasture-land was whitish from the moonlight) like a very large spot; it was plain that it was some sort of a wild beast—a fox or a wolf. My heart contracted within me ... but what was I afraid of, after all? Aren’t there plenty of wild animals running about the fields by night? But my curiosity was stronger than my fears; I rose up, opened my eyes very wide, and suddenly turned cold all over. I fairly froze rigid on the spot, as though I had been buried in ice up to my ears; and why? The Lord only knows! And I saw the shadow growing bigger and bigger, which meant that it was making straight for the hay-barn.... And then it became apparent to me that it really was a large,big-headed wild beast.... It dashed onward like a whirlwind, like a bullet.... Good heavens! What was it? Suddenly it stopped short, as though it scented something.... Why, it was the mad dog I had encountered that day! ’Twas he, ’twas he! O Lord! And I could not stir a finger, I could not shout.... It ran to the gate, glared about with its eyes, emitted a howl, and dashed straight for me on the hay!
But out of the hay, like a lion, sprang my Tresór; and then the struggle began. The two clinched jaw to jaw, and rolled over the ground in a ball! What took place further I do not remember; all I do remember is that I flew head over heels across them, just as I was, into the garden, into the house, and into my own bedroom!... I almost dived under the bed—there’s no use in concealing the fact. And what leaps, what bounds I made in the garden! You would have taken me for the leading ballerina who dances before the Emperor Napoleon on the day of his Angel—and even she couldn’t have overtaken me. But when I had recovered myself a little, I immediately routed out the entire household; I ordered them all to arm themselves, and I myself took a sword and a revolver. (I must confess that I had purchased that revolver after the Emancipation, in case of need, you know—only I had hit upon such a beast of a pedlar that out of three charges two inevitably missed fire.)Well, sir, I took all this, and in this guise we sallied forth, in a regular horde, with staves and lanterns, and directed our footsteps toward the hay-barn. We reached it and called—nothing was to be heard; we entered the barn at last.... and what did we see? My poor Tresórushko lay dead, with her throat slit, and that accursed beast had vanished without leaving a trace!
Then, gentlemen, I began to bleat like a calf, and I will say it without shame; I fell down on the body of my twofold rescuer, so to speak, and kissed her head for a long time. And there I remained in that attitude until my old housekeeper, Praskóvya, brought me to my senses (she also had run out at the uproar).
“Why do you grieve so over the dog, Porfíry Stepánitch?”—said she. “You will surely catch cold, which God forbid!” (I was very lightly clad.) “And if that dog lost her life in saving you, she ought to reckon it as a great favour!”
Although I did not agree with Praskóvya, I went back to the house. And the mad dog was shot on the following day by a soldier from the garrison. And it must have been that that was the end appointed by Fate to the dog, for the soldier fired a gun for the first time in his life, although he had a medal for service in the year ’12. So that is the supernatural occurrence which happened to me.
Thenarrator ceased speaking and began to fill his pipe. But we all exchanged glances of surprise.
“But perhaps you lead a very upright life,”—began Mr. Finopléntoff,—“and so by way of reward....” But at that word he faltered, for he saw that Porfíry Kapítonitch’s cheeks were beginning to swell out and turn red, and his eyes too were beginning to pucker up—evidently the man was on the point of breaking out....
“But admitting the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its interference in everyday life, so to speak,”—began Antón Stepánitch:—“then what rôle, after this, must sound sense play?”
None of us found any answer, and, as before, we remained perplexed.