Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk (17 page)

“Hut?” the colonel asked with a frown. Could that be the one that Lentochkin had been talking about?

“Yes. Where the terrible event took place. In fact two terrible events. First with the buoy keepers wife, and then with that young man who came running to the clinic naked. It was there, in that hut, that he lost his reason.”

The police chief glared hard at the local man. “How do you know it was precisely there?”

The other man turned toward him, fluttering his light eyelashes. “Why, it's clear. In the morning they found his clothes in the hut, all neatly folded. On a bench. And his shoes and his hat. So he must have arrived there dressed decently, as normal, and run out already totally insane, and he clearly ran straight to Donat Savvich's house without even stopping.”

It was only then that the colonel remembered Alexei Stepanovich's final letter, in which the young man had indeed mentioned the buoy keeper's cottage and his intention of going there that night. Felix Stanislavovich, however, had read that part inattentively, since it had been obvious that by the time of his third report, Lentochkin was already as mad as a hatter and what he wrote was obviously nonsense.

But now it had turned out not to be quite such absolute nonsense at all. That is, as far as the mysticism and the incantations were concerned, of course it was all wild, delirious rubbish. What was that he had said today? “You go there, to the hut on chicken legs. At midnight. And you'll see everything for yourself. Only take care not to get squeezed, or your heart will burst.” Well, let's assume the final phrase could be attributed to his insanity, but as far as the place and the time were concerned, there was certainly something worth thinking about here.

And at that moment a certain idea began stirring in the police chief's head.

THAT NIGHT THE plan of action had matured and taken such a perfectly rational and simple form that it had completely displaced the plan of going to Lenten Spit and standing on guard there, waiting for the rampaging Basilisk.

The final change in Lagrange's intentions had been facilitated by yet another significant circumstance: as the sun set and darkness fell over the island, it had become clear that the new moon was still as yet too small and slim—no more than a nail paring in the sky—and it would not be able to illuminate Lenten Spit properly, which meant there was no point in lying in ambush there.

But the dilapidated hut with the eight-pointed cross scratched on the window was a different matter (when he went back to his room, the colonel had read the letter very closely indeed and committed all the details to memory). Lagrange had learned from the locals that the night when the skitter bug had visited the spot, with such sad consequences for himself, had been cloudy and dark, but that had not prevented whatever had happened from happening. So the absence of moonlight was no hindrance to the business at hand.

He would arrive there exactly at midnight, as the madman had written, pronounce the incantation, and see what would happen this time. That, basically, was the entire plan.

Any other man might have been afraid to plunge headlong into such a murky enterprise with nothing in the regulations or the standing instructions to guide him, but not Colonel Felix Stanislavovich Lagrange.

As the chief of police approached the miserable hut in the pitch darkness (it was precisely five minutes to midnight), his heart was beating calmly, his hands were steady, and his step was firm.

But it was not a pleasant place to be: an eagle-owl hooted in the distant forest, and the surface of the water seemed to give off a draft of cold, damp air and fear. Apart from that there was only an absolute, dead silence, and he could hear the pounding of his own living blood as loudly as if he had stopped his ears. Lagrange's eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, made out the crooked outline of the little log house ahead of him, and it seemed incredible to the colonel that only a few days ago a young, and no doubt happy, married couple had lived here, occupying themselves with the ordinary business of life as they waited for their first child. In this dead place nothing warm or joyful could possibly happen.

Felix Stanislavovich shuddered—he suddenly felt chilly despite the woolen sweater he had put on under his jacket and waistcoat. Just in case (in case of what, damn it?), he took his Smith & Wesson out from under his arm and stuck it into his belt.

The door had been nailed shut with two boards set in a cross. The chief of police set his fingers in the crack, tugged with all his might, and almost fell over, so easily did the nails slide out of the rotten wood. The silence was broken by a sickening crack and a creak, and some large bird launched itself off the roof, flapping its wings frantically.

Lagrange spotted the window immediately, a gray square against the blackness.

So, he had to go up to it, cross himself, and say, “Come, blessed spirit, to the trace that you have left, according to the agreement between Gabriel and the Evil One.” Holy Moses, he'd better not get it mixed up.

Felix Stanislavovich held out his hands and cautiously moved forward. His fingers caught the edge of something wooden, something big. A chest? A crate?

The Third Expedition

THE ADVENTURES OF THE MAN OF INTELLIGENCE

THE NEWS OF Colonel Lagrange's suicide did not reach Zavolzhsk until three days after the terrible event because there was no telegraph on the island and all messages, even those that were extremely urgent, were still delivered in the old manner—by post or special messenger.

The letters that the father superior addressed to the lay and clerical leaders of the province provided only the briefest information on the circumstances of the fatal drama. The police chief's body had been discovered in an abandoned house previously occupied by the family of a buoy keeper who only a few days earlier had also laid hands on himself. But whereas on that occasion it had been possible to understand the reason for this insane and—from the viewpoint of the church—absolutely unforgivable act, the archimandrite did not undertake to discuss, even provisionally, the reasons that had driven the chief of police to take the fatal step. He laid especial emphasis on the fact that he had not been aware of the arrival in New Ararat of a high-ranking police official (the visitor's status had only been discovered postmortem, during the search of his hotel room and possessions), and he requested, nay, demanded an explanation from the governor.

The only details of the incident contained in the letter were as follows: The colonel had committed suicide by shooting himself in the chest with a revolver. There was, unfortunately, absolutely no doubt that it had indeed been suicide—the dead man had been found clutching a revolver with one bullet missing from its chamber. The lethal shot had struck the heart itself, tearing the vital organ apart, and death appeared to have been instantaneous.

The letter to Governor von Haggenau concluded at this point, but the epistle to the bishop continued at some considerable length. The archimandrite drew His Grace's attention to the possible consequences of this shameful occurrence for the peace, calm, and reputation of the holy monastery, which had already been darkened by all sorts of alarming rumors (this reserved expression was no doubt a reference to the notorious appearances of the Black Monk). By the merciful providence of God, the father superior wrote, only a small number of people knew about this misfortune: the sexton who had found the body, three of the monastery's peacekeepers (that was what Ararat's police monks were called), and the attendant at the hotel where the suicide had been staying. A vow of silence had been extracted from all of them, but even so, it was doubtful whether it would be possible to keep the scandalous news entirely secret from the local inhabitants and the pilgrims. Father Vitalii's letter concluded with the words, “I am even concerned that this formerly serene island might find itself dubbed—as proud Albion once was—‘The island of suicides,’ for in only a short space of time the most heinous of all the mortal sins has been committed here twice.”

The bishop blamed himself entirely for the tragedy. Suddenly aged and stooping, he told his trusted advisers, “This is all the result of my pride and self-assurance. I listened to no one, but decided as I wanted, and not just once, but twice. First I destroyed Alyosha, and now La-grange. And the most unbearable thing is that I have not only condemned their mortal bodies to profanation, but also their immortal souls. The soul of the first has been struck down with a grave illness, and the second has destroyed his own soul utterly. It is a hundred times worse than mere death. I was mistaken, cruelly mistaken. I thought that a military man, with his straightforward approach and lack of fantasy, could not be affected by spiritual despair and mystical horror. But I failed to take account of the fact that when people of that character encounter phenomena that completely violate their simple, clear picture of the world, they do not bend, but break. You were right, my daughter, a thousand times right, in what you said to me about the Gordian knot. Evidently our colonel came across a knot that he was not capable of untying. His natural pride would not permit him to retreat and so he swung his sword at the knot from the shoulder. And the name of that Gordian knot was the world of God.”

At this point His Grace could contain himself no longer and began to cry, but since his usual strength of character did not incline him to tears—indeed, he entirely lacked the gift of weeping—the sounds that he produced were rather inelegant: first a dull groan mingled with a throaty wheezing, followed by a lengthy trumpeting of his nose into a handkerchief. But the very awkwardness of this keening for a lost soul affected the others present more powerfully than any loud sobbing: Matvei Bentsionovich began blinking rapidly and also pulled out quite an immense handkerchief, while Sister Pelagia more than made up for male niggardliness in the matter of weeping by setting up a terrible wail and dissolving in tears.

The bishop was the first to recover his presence of mind.

“I shall pray for Felix Stanislavovich's soul. Alone, in my chapel. It is forbidden to pray for a suicide in the churches. Though he himself may have rejected God and there can be no forgiveness for him, he is still worthy of kind remembrance in prayer.”

“No forgiveness?” Pelagia sobbed. “Not for any single suicide? Never ever, not even after a thousand years? Can you be absolutely certain of that, Your Grace?”

“Who am I to say? That has been the church's teaching since time immemorial.”

The nun dried her white face with its sprinkling of pale freckles and knitted her brows in intense concentration. “But what if the burden of life has proved far more than someone can bear? If someone has an unbearable grief, or an excruciatingly painful illness, or he is tortured by merciless brutes trying to force him to commit treason? Is there no forgiveness for these people either?”

“No,” Mitrofanii replied sternly. “And your questions come from too little faith. The Lord knows which tests each of us can bear and he does not test a single soul beyond its measure. If he sends terrible torment, it means that soul is especially strong, and strength must be tested. Such are all the holy martyrs. None of them was afraid of torture, and they did not lay hands on themselves.”

“But the holy saints are only one in a million. And then, what shall we say of those who have doomed themselves not out of fear or weakness, but for the sake of others? I remember you reading an article in the newspaper about the captain of a steamship who gave his place in the lifeboat to someone else when the ship was wrecked, and because of that he went to the bottom with the vessel. You admired his action and praised him.”

Berdichevsky sighed with a martyred air, knowing in advance how this discussion that had flared up so inopportunely would end. Pelagia would provoke His Grace's annoyance with her questions and arguments, there would be a serious quarrel, and precious time would be wasted when they ought to be talking about the business at hand.

“I did admire him—as a citizen of this earthly world, but as a cleric who is obliged to take care for the immortality of the soul, I condemn him and grieve for him.”

“I see,” said the nun, flashing a keen glance at the bishop, and then she struck him a blow that the English would have called unsporting. “Then what of Ivan Susanin, who voluntarily exposed himself to the Polish sabers in order to save our most august royal dynasty—do you condemn him too?”

Beginning to grow angry, Mitrofanii grabbed hold of his beard with his fingers. “Perhaps Ivan Susanin hoped that at the last moment he would be able to escape from his enemies into the forest. If there is hope, even the very tiniest, then it is not suicide. When soldiers go into a dangerous attack, even when, as people say, they go ‘to certain death,’ every one of them is still hoping for a miracle and praying to God for one. Hope makes all the difference—hope! While hope is still alive, then so is God. And you, as a nun, should know that!”

Pelagia responded to this reproach with a humble bow, but still she did not relent. “And Christ, when He went to the cross, did He also hope?” she asked in a quiet voice.

The bishop did not immediately appreciate the full significance of this audacious question and merely frowned. But having understood it, he raised himself up to his full height, stamped his foot, and exclaimed, “Would you make a suicide of our Savior? Get thee behind me, Satan! Begone!”

At this point even the nun realized that her questioning had transgressed every permissible limit. Catching up the hem of her nun's habit and pulling her head down into her shoulders, Pelagia darted out through the door at which the monitory episcopal finger was pointed.