Poor Folk and Other Stories (24 page)

In bewilderment he returned to his room. There, beside the stove in which a meal was being cooked, a little hunchbacked old woman was bustling about, so dirty and dressed in such loathsome rags that it grieved him to look at her. She seemed to be very angry, and from time to time kept muttering something toothlessly to herself under her breath. This was the landlord's servant. Ordynov made an attempt to talk to her, but she refused to say anything, evidently out of ill-temper. At last it was dinner-time; the old woman took the cabbage soup, the pirogi and the beef out of the oven and bore them to her master and mistress. She served Ordynov with some of the same. After the meal dead silence fell on the apartment.

Ordynov picked up a book and turned its pages for a long time, trying to find some meaning in what he had read several times before. In impatience he threw down the book and again set about putting his things in order; finally he took his cap, put on his overcoat and went out into the street. Walking haphazardly, without looking where he was going, he kept trying as far as possible to focus his mind, gather his scattered thoughts, and consider his position, if only briefly. But the effort only plunged his into suffering and torment. He was attacked by shivering and fever alternately, and at times his heart began to beat so wildly that he had to lean against the wall for support.'No, it would be better to die,' he thought.'Better to die,' he whispered through trembling, inflamed lips, not really conscious of what he was saying. He walked for a very long time; at last, realizing that he was soaked to the skin, and observing for the first time that it was pouring with rain, he returned to the apartment building. Not far from it he caught sight of the yardkeeper he had spoken to previously. It seemed to him that the Tatar spent some time staring fixedly at him with curiosity, and then continued on his way when he realized that he had been seen.

‘Hello,' said Ordynov, catching him up.'What's your name?'

‘My name's a yardkeeper,' the man answered, baring his teeth.

‘Have you been a yardkeeper her long?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘Is my landlord really an artisan?'

‘If he says he is, then he is.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He's a sick man; he lives, says his prayers – that's about it.'

‘And what about his wife?'

‘What wife?'

‘The woman who lives with him.'

‘His wife… yes, if he says she's his wife, then she is. Goodbye, master.'

The Tatar touched his cap and went off to his kennel-like lair.

Ordynov went into his room. The old woman, toothlessly muttering something to herself, opened the door for him, closed it again, setting it on the latch, and climbed back up on to the stove on which she spent her days. It was already getting dark. On his way to fetch some matches, Ordynov saw that the door to the room of the master and mistress was locked. He called the old woman who, raising herself on one elbow, was watching him keenly from the stove, apparently wondering why he was interested in the locked door; she silently threw him a box of matches. He returned to his room and again, for the hundredth time, set about the work of organizing his books and belongings. Gradually, however, becoming perplexed at what was happening to him, he sat down on the cupboard, and it seemed to him that he fell asleep. Occasionally he regained consciousness and then he would realize that it was not sleep that was overcoming him, but a kind of agonizing, morbid oblivion. He heard a door rattle and then open, and guessed that this was the master and mistress returning from vespers. At that point he suddenly had the idea that he had to go and see them for some reason. He got to his feet, and it seemed to him that he was already on his way through to them, but he missed his footing and tripped on a pile of firewood which the old woman had thrown down in the middle of the room. Then he completely lost consciousness; opening his eyes again after a very long interval, he noticed to his surprise that he was till lying on the cupboard, just as he had been, fully clothed, and that a woman's face, wonderfully beautiful and seemingly drenched with quiet, motherly tears, was leaning over him with tender concern. He felt a pillow being put under his head and a warm covering being placed over him, and someone's soft hand being laid against his hot brow. He wanted to thank whoever it was, he wanted to take this hand, place it against his parched lips, drench it in tears and kiss it, kiss it for all eternity. He had a desire to say a great many things, but he did not know what they were; at that moment he wanted to die. But his hands felt like lead and he could not move them; he
seemed to have gone numb, and all he could hear was the blood thumping through his veins and seeming to lift him from his bed. Someone gave him water… At last he sank into oblivion.

He woke up at about eight the following morning. The sun was showering its rays in a golden burst through the mould-green windows of his room; a sense of comfort flowed through the sick man's limbs. He was peaceful and quiet, boundlessly happy. It seemed to him that someone had just been standing by the head of his bed. He had awoken, anxiously searching around him for that invisible being; he longed so much to embrace his friend and say, for the first time in his life:'Good day to you, my sweet.'

‘What a long sleep you've had!' a woman's soft voice said. Ordynov looked round, and the face of his beautiful landlady leaned over him with a smile as radiant and welcoming as the sun.

‘You've been ill for such a long time,' she said.'Enough now, get up; why deprive yourself of freedom? “Freedom is sweeter than bread, and brighter than the sun.” Get up, my pigeon, get up.'

Ordynov seized her hand and pressed it tightly. He had a feeling that he was still dreaming.

‘Wait, I've made you some tea; would you like some? Do have some; it'll do you good. I've been ill myself, and I know.'

‘Yes, give me something to drink,' Ordynov said in a faint voice, and he got to his feet. He was still veryweak. Could shivers were running down his spine, all his limbs ached and seemed drained of energy. But there was a brightness in his heart, and the rays of the sun seemed to warm him with a radiant, majestic joy. He felt that a new, powerful, hidden life was beginning for him. His head was slightly dizzy.

‘You're called Vasily, aren't you?' she said.'Perhaps I misheard, but I think that was the name the master addressed you by yesterday.'

‘Yes, my name's Vasily. What's yours?' Ordynov asked, going close to her, but barely able to stand upright. He reeled slightly. She caught him by both hands, and laughed.

‘Katerina,' she said, looking straight at him with her large, clear, blue eyes. They both stood holding each other by the hands.

‘Is there something you want to tell me?' she said, at last.

‘I don't know,' Ordynov replied. His eyes had grown dim.

‘Just look at you. It's all right, my pigeon, it's all right; don't fret, don't grieve; sit down here at the table with your face to the sun; sit
quietly, and don't try to come after me,' she added, observing that the young man made a movement as though to detain her. ‘I'll be back in a moment; you'll be able to see all you want of me.' A minute later she brought in the tea, put it on the table and sat down opposite him.

‘Here you are, drink this,' she said.'What's the matter, have you a headache?'

‘No, it's gone now,' he said.'I don't know, perhaps it hasn't… I don't want… I'll be all right… I don't know what's wrong with me,' he said, gasping for breath and finally reaching out for her hand.'Stay here, don't leave me; give me your hand again… My eyes are dim; you are like the sun to them,' he said; he spoke as if he were tearing the words out of his heart, thrilling with ecstasy as he uttered them. Sobs constricted his throat.

‘You poor man! You've obviously not been living with the right sort of people. You're all alone; haven't you any family?'

‘No, I've no one; I'm alone… but never mind, it doesn't matter! It's better now… I feel all right!' Ordynov said, as though in delirium. The room seemed to be spinning round him.

‘I haven't seen anyone for years, either. You know, you look at me as though…' she said, after a short silence.

‘Yes?'

‘As though my eyes were warming you! You know, when you like someone… I took you to my heart from the first words I heard you say. If you fall ill again I'll look after you. But don't fall ill. Once you're up and about again we shall live together like brother and sister. Would you like that? I mean, it's hard to find a sister if God hasn't given you one.'

‘Who are you? Where are you from?' Ordynov said in a faint voice.

‘I'm not from this part of the world… what difference does it make? You know, there's a story people tell about twelve brothers who live in a dark forest, and about a beautiful maiden who loses her way in it. She goes into their house and set it in order, putting all her love into her task. The brothers return and discover that a sisterhas spent the day in their home. They shout to her to come out, and she does. They call her “sister”, let herdo as she pleased, and she is their equal. Do you know that story?'

‘Yes, I do,' Ordynov whispered.

‘Life is good; do you enjoy life?'

‘Oh, yes – to live one's life properly one must live long,' Ordynov replied.

‘I don't know,' Katerina said, thoughtfully. ‘I'd like to die, too. It's good to love life and to love good people, but… Look, you've gone as white as a sheet again!'

‘Yes, my head's going round…'

‘Wait, I'll bring you my bedding and another pillow; I'll make you up a bed right here. You'll fall asleep and dream about me; your illness will pass. Our old servantwoman is ill, too…'

As she began to make up the bed she continued to talk, looking over her shoulder at Ordynov with a smile from time to time.

‘What a lot of books you have!' she said, as she moved the chest out of the way.

She went up to him, took him by the right arm, led him over to the bed, helped him under the blankets and placed the bedspread on top.

‘They say that books spoil a man,' she said, shaking her head thoughtfully.'Do you like reading?'

‘Yes,' Ordynov replied, unsure whether he was asleep or not, and pressing Katerina's hand all the harder, in order to convince himself that he was awake.

‘My master has a lot of books; you should see them! He says they're religious books. He's forever reading bits of them aloud to me. I'll show you them later on; later on will you explain to me the meaning of all those things he reads to me?'

‘I will,' Ordynov whispered, staring at her relentlessly.

‘Do you like praying?' she asked, after a moment's silence.'Do you know something? I'm afraid, I'm always afraid…'

She did not finish her sentence, apparently thinking about something. At length, Ordynov raised her hand to his lips.

‘Why are you kissing my hand?' she said, and her cheeks went slightly red.'All right, here you are, kiss it,' she went on, laughing and giving him both of her hands; then she pulled one of them free and placed it against his hot brow; after that, she began to straighten and smooth his hair. She was blushing redder and redder; finally she got down on the floor by his bedside and put her cheek against his; her warm, moist breathing rustled across his face… Suddenly Ordynov felt hot tears welling from her eyes and falling on to his cheeks like molten lead. He was growing weaker and weaker; by now he was unable to lift a finger. Just then there came a knocking
at the door, and the crash of the bolt. Ordynov was still awake enough to hear the old man, his landlord, going into the room behind the partition. Then he sensed Katerina rising to her feet, without hurry or fuss, picking up her books and making the sign of the cross over him as she left; he closed his eyes. Suddenly a long, hot kiss burned on his inflamed lips; it was as though he had been stabbed in the heart with a knife. He gave a faint cry and lost consciousness…

After that a strange life began for him.

At times, in moments of hazy wakefulness, the thought flickered through his mind that he had been condemned to live in a sort of long and endless dream, full of strange, fruitless anxieties, struggles and sufferings. With horror he tried to resist the doom-laden sense of fatalism that oppressed him; then, in a moment of the most intense and desperate struggle some unknown force struck him down once more and he felt himself clearly losing consciousness again, as again the impenetrable, bottomless gloom opened up before him and he fell into it with a howl of anguish and despair. At times he experienced moments of unbearable, annihilating happiness, when his vital energies intensified convulsively throughout his whole metabolism, his past stood out clearly, the bright moment of the here and now resounded with majesty and revelry, and he had a waking dream of a mysterious, unknowable future; when an inexpressible hope fell on his soul like a reviving dew; when he wanted to scream with ecstasy; when he felt that his flesh was powerless under such a weight of impressions, that the very thread of existence itself was in danger of snapping, and when at the same time he congratulated his life on its renewal and resurrection. At times he would again fall into a hypnotic state, and then everything that had happened to him during the recent days would repeat itself, passing through his mind in an obscure, restless swarm; but the vision would appear to him in a strange, enigmatic form. At times the sick man would forget what had happened to him, and he would be struck with surprise that he was not in his old room, not in the house of his former landlady. He would wonder why the old woman did not come, as she had always done at the late hour of twilight, to the dying stove, which at intervals suffused every dark corner of the room with a faint, shimmering rathance, and why she did not, as she usually did while waiting for the fire to go out, warm her trembling, bony hands at the fading embers, constantly chattering and whispering to herself, and occasionally looking in bewilderment at him, her strange lodger,
whom she belived to have gone insane from sitting so long over his books. At other times he would remember that he had moved into another room; but how this had come about, what it was that had happened to him and why he had had to move – this he could not fathom, even though his spirit thrilled with a ceaseless, irrepressible striving… And what was it that called him and tormented him, and why? Who had ignited this unendurable flame, a flame which was choking and devouring his very life-blood? Again he did not know and could not remember. Often he would clutch avidly at some shadow, hear the rustle of light footsteps close to his bed and the whisper, sweet as music, of someone's kind, tender words; someone's moist, impetuous breathing would float across his face, and his entire being would be riven with love; someone's scalding tears would burn his inflamed cheeks, and suddenly someone's kiss, long and tender, would fasten itself on his lips; then his life would pine away in inextinguishable torment; it would seem as though all of creation, all the world around him had stopped, died for whole aeons, as though the long night of the millennium had enshrouded everything…