O L G A

FORStt
 “Pending special decree”—
these cold and heartless words
determined the fate of Mikhail
Beideman, Russian revolution­
ary, and one of the noblest men
of his time.
Youth’s hopes and dreams,
love, friendship, and human
dignity were all smothered
without trial or jury at a single
ruthless stroke, bringing in its
wake despair and insanity.
“Attention, dear readerl This
special decree was never issued!”
Sergei Rusanin, Beideman’s
childhood friend and witness to
the tragedy exclaimed.
The fate of Mikhail Beideman,
Dmitry Karakozov and other
actual historical characters is
tightly interwoven with the fate
of Sergei Rusanin, whose soul
was tortured by a feeling of
guilt throughout his long life,
of Vera, faithful to Mikhail until
her death, and of many others.
“History has swept all into
the grave, but it has not for­
gotten anything,” is the novel’s
theme.
L I B R A R Y OF S O V I E T L I T E R A T U R E
 CM t> r A
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 O L G A
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M LA C t
and PRISON

FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE

Moscow
T R A N S L A T E D FR O M T H E R U S S I A N BY F A IN N A S O L A S K O
D E S IG N E D BY A. V A S I N
 CONTENTS

PART ONE

Page
Chapter I. The Has-Been . 11
Chapter II. Auntie’s Salon . . . . 24
Chapter III. A Trip to Lake Como 33
Chapter IV. The Witch’s Eye . 51
Chapter V. Pigeon Necks . . . 67
Chapter VI . The Round Room 79
Chapter VI I . Flowering Lindens 98
Chapter VI I I . From Ancient Thebes in Egypt . I ll
Chapter IX. Under a Glass Bell . 122
C h a p t e r X. Encased in Stone During the Reign of
Catherine II * 138

PART TWO

Chapter I. Black Vrubel 157

Chapter II. The Goat God 168
Chapter I I I . The Clay Cockerel 187
Chapter IV. Five O’clock Sharp 202
Chapter V. The Drums 214
Chapter VI . Pancakes Everywhere 222
Chapter V I L A Certain Address 233
Chapter V I I I Back Home Again 242
Chapter IX. The Spider and the Hoopoe 251
C h a p t e r X. Mirgil . 256
\ P A R T
O N £
CHAPTER I

The
Has-Been
n the 12th of March, 1923, I, Sergei Rusanin,
m J became 83 years old. Something happened that
f m day that erased every last vestige I ever had
I M of a nobleman’s monarchist feeling. At the same
time, a seal fell from my lips, enabling me
to make public a matter I had kept secret all my life. But
I shall speak of this later.
I was born in 1840, survived four emperors and four
great wars, the last of which was without precedent and
world-wide. I was a cavalry officer,,received a citation for
bravery in the Caucasian campaign, and had a good ca­
reer ahead of me, but an event which took place in ’87
knocked me completely ofT balance; I never really re­
covered.
I resigned my commission and took up a hermit’s life at
my estate where I stayed until it was burned down during
the Revolution. Ugorye, our family estate in N. Gubernia,
bordered on Lagutin’s former estate.
Our grandfathers had purchased their land at the same
time and our grandmothers had planned the future mar­
riage of their grandchildren that would join the two
//
estates. With this in mind, and taking local topography
into consideration, our families kept adding to their land.
Yes, Vera Lagutina and I grew up, played, and studied
together. At seventeen we listened to the nightingale’s
song and pledged our love for ever. All would have gone
smoothly, and with our mutual consent, just as our grand­
parents had foreseen it, but for my own stupidity. As it
were, I dug my own grave.
I brought my friend Mikhail home for our last school
holidays. He had joined our third form in ’59, coming
straight from the Vladimir Cadet Corps in Kiev, but we
St. Petersburg cadets had a very poor opinion of the prov­
inces. Besides, he kept to himself and spent his time
reading. He was handsome and resembled an Italian,
with burning eyes and brows joined at the bridge of his
nose. He was from Bessarabia; his father had been either
a Rumanian or a Moldavian.
It is no wonder that his photograph was not in the ar­
chives, for such things are to be found only in the prison
files of persons eventually slated to be released—in case
they are arrested again. Mikhail’s destiny was different:
for twenty years on the first of every month the Emperor
was informed that such and such a person was in such and
such a prison, and each time it was the Emperor’s will
that his order, dated November 2, 1861, and stating that
Mikhail was to be left in solitary confinement pending
special decree, was to be continued in force.
The printer should always italicize these words, in order
that their appearance, so conspicuous beside the monotonous
type of the pages, might in some way startle the compla­
cent reader, completely absorbed in his own joys and sor­
rows.
Attention, dear reader! The special decree was never is­
sued!
A wonderful youth, was imprisoned without trial or jury,
on the basis of his own words alone, and spent his remain­
ing years in solitary confinement in the Alexeyev Ravelin.

12
 Chief of Police Pleve acquainted the next Tsar, Alex­
ander III, with the previous tsar’s order and made note of
His Majesty’s new decree: if the prisoner so desired, he
was to be released and permanently exiled to the far-off
wilds of Siberia.
One can assume that, according to a general system of
the foulest hypocrisy, the chief warden read the decree to
a totally insane man who had long since forgotten his own
name. In response to the solemn reading, and to the gen­
eral delight of the prison guards, Mikhail probably darted
under his cot and crouched trembling in a corner, as he did
years later whenever anyone entered his solitary cell at the
insane asylum at Kazan.
The only time he did not do this was during my last
visit, and only because he evidently had no strength left
to dart under his cot. It was his last hour on earth. The
frantic terror in his eyes at the sight of people approach­
ing him and the death agony of a tortured soul yearning
to flee from its tormentors have haunted me every day
and every hour of my life.
It could not have been otherwise, for I am the one real­
ly responsible for this unprecedented, unbearable, soli­
tary, and unnecessary death.
After reading my notes some readers may say that the
nature of my crime was, so to speak, psychological, and
that the most exacting court of law would find me inno­
cent. But has the reader never heard of any case in which
a completely innocent man, unanimously acquitted by
the jury, has taken his own life, having been condemned
by his own conscience?
Mikhail’s strange story has long intrigued researchers.
One even advertised in the papers as far back as 1905, in
an attempt to solve the mystery of this Russian “Man in
the Iron Mask,” and requested information on the subject.
I suffered a nervous breakdown, but did not offer any in­
formation.
13
 At the time I was not yet prepared; I was not then the
man I am now. I could not come out and say, “I, Sergei
Rusanin, a Konstantinov Academy classmate of Mikhail
Beideman, who was imprisoned without trial or jury in
the Alexeyev Ravelin, was the one who betrayed him.”
Quite recently the original documents on the Tsar’s most
important and hitherto secret prisoners were classified and
published.
Ivan Potapich, my employer, sometimes brings home
books; he also brought these pages, which he read and
then gave to me, saying, “See how these poor souls lived.
Even though they were criminals, it brings tears to your
eyes.”
I took the book and read it over many times. Oh, how
cruel and revealing were the events described in the terse
data on Mikhail! The room spun round, a mountain col­
lapsed, crushing me. It was probably the same sensation
as that felt by men in a mine-layer when they drop a mine
to blow up the enemy and destroy themselves instead.
I dropped my mine sixty-one years ago.
Why should an old man like me who had lived through
the reigns of four emperors survive the Revolution un­
scathed? Why did I not die bravely on the field of battle, as
my comrades had, or receive my death sentence from the
Revolutionary Tribunal as an unreconciled but honest ene­
my? What will I be to posterity? How will they regard me?
Come what may, my hour has struck, and I shall tell
all I know.
There are only two of us left from the class of ’61: Go-
retsky Junior, -an Infantry General, Cavalier of the First
St. George Cross and Gold Sword, and I. Goretsky Junior
now earns his bread as Savva Kostrov, a citizen of the city
of Velizh, the men’s room attendant in a theatre. He is
pleased with his quiet job, after starving for a time, and
boasts that his men’s room shines and that he makes
enough in tips to buy halvah. He squandered two for­
tunes in his day, but now a pound of halvah makes him as

14
happy as a child. The last time I saw him I said, “Re­
member the Gilkho attack, old man?” He perked up and
waved the old mop he was pushing around the tile floor
of his establishment as if it were a sword. He went into
all the details but he got his generals mixed up. It was
not Voinoransky, but himself, Goretsky Junior, who had
captured the mountain village in a reckless sortie. The
old man had left himself out of it, having forgotten his own
name.
In his insanity, Mikhail Beideman, remembering a
chance inscription on a wall, called himself Shevich. While
I . . . could it be that my fortune, as told to me in Paris,
would come true? But this is beside the point, although,
as they say in China, having published my notes, I shall
lose face. Sometimes a person is fated to die during his
lifetime and then seem to live on, or, rather, he uses the
last shreds of his remaining physical strength to drag his
worn-out body around until it falls to dust.
Goretsky Junior, his sword raised, reviewing his troops
—half a century ago there were such press photographs
of him—and Kostrov-Goretsky, the men’s room attendant.
I gave him enough for a quarter of a pound of halvah
when I recently kissed him good-bye. He is the only living
person who knows me as Sergei Rusanin.
I hope I will no longer be alive when this manuscript
is published and those who read it realize the kind of
friend I was. The story of Mikhail’s life lies here before
me accusingly. I, too, shall add my bit to the Archives
Committee. My contribution will deal with matters which
no sources, save my lost soul, can bring to light.
The large house I live in has a famous past. Fashion­
able balls were once held in the main ballroom with the
stucco ceiling, and it was here that I had my first social
successes. Later, when the house was sold to a private par­
ty, I often came out the loser when playing billiards with
Goretsky there, for he could shoot for the centre or cor­
ner pocket and never miss, and was famous for his klopf-

15
stosses. We would get dead drunk in the private boxes
and the valets would finally bundle us up in our greatcoats
and take us home at dawn.
Those drunken orgies were an attempt to forget my
love for Vera—but I will speak of her later. I remember 1
was especially reckless the year Mikhail, coming straight
from Garibaldi’s army, disappeared after crossing the
Finnish border; it only recently has become known that he
was buried alive for ever behind the stone walls of the
Ravelin.
But let us proceed with the agenda, as they say nowa­
days.
I live on the top floor of the third court of this house, so
full of memories. Ivan Potapich, the former footman of
the last owner, took me on as a boarder and nursemaid for
his grandchildren. He is sixty and a widower, yet the old
man is as strong as ever. His son and daughter-in-law died
of typhus, and the two little girls found their way to their
grandfather themselves, for whom else had they to turn to?
There is a hostel and a cafeteria in the house. Potapich
helps with the dishes, and the cook gives him three por­
tions of soup and two main dishes a day instead of a
wage. A bowl of soup and a piece of black bread are
enough for me; it’s the young ones who need the food. I’ve
become quite attached to the children, for they have been
my only consolation during these past terrible years.
I have no time for them now, nor do they have any need
of me since I took them to school for the first time; the
very next day they went by themselves. Potapich spends
his days washing dishes and says, “Everyone’s getting
rich nowadays—we’re using both the small and the deep
plates.”
The room is empty until dusk, and when I’m not out on
business, I have time to write. My business is begging.
I keep to the shady side of Nevsky Prospekt from Police
Bridge to Nikolayev Station, and back by tram, if possible.
My legs have been troubling me. They’re swelling badly.

16
 While begging I see quite a few familiar faces; we’re
all in the same business now. They donU know me, but I
recognize them. Although, as I’ve already said, I have been
out of things for many years, whenever I chanced to be in
the capital I was always interested in the latest news. Im­
portant people were pointed out to me and named. Ah, but
they surely know each other well enough! Yet, whenever
they meet with an outstretched hand, they pretend they are
strangers. They find it easier that way.
There’s the famous deputy minister selling papers, one
of which is the currently popular Atheist. If his customer
looks harmless and seems to be a man of the past, too, the
newsman can’t help remarking, “You should be ashamed
of yourself for buying this, mister.” And if the customer
replies, “And aren't you ashamed to sell it?” he will blush,
draw his beard into his old coat collar, and mumble, “I’ve
no choice!”
There’s no sense in my rambling on like this. Back to
my story. I find it difficult to express my thoughts consec­
utively, for I spend so much time with the children that
my speech has become childlike. However, this is my
plan: I shall write my thoughts down as they come to me,
and make no attempt to keep back the present when it
enters the scene of its own accord; and before sending the
manuscript to the Archives Committee, I shall try to put
it in order and edit it with but one aim in mind: to recon­
struct as faithfully as possible the tragic life of my friend.
I am saving up bonded white lined paper for the printer’s
copy, and to this end have doubled my walk along Nevsky,
covering the sunny side as well. I have given up paying
my fare in the tram, and if the conductor will not let me
ride free-of-charge (I can never bring myself to say, “Please
help an unemployed comrade,” as is the custom current­
ly), I get off at the nearest stop and trudge home slowly,
as a dog to its kennel.
I am saving all my money for paper, pen and ink for
the clean copy, and am using the reverse side of the for-

2—382 17
 mer Central Bank’s insurance forms for the rough copy.
Our girls brought up armfuls of the blanks from the ground
floor.
And now, dear reader, let me lead you step by step along
the sorrowful path Mikhail trod from the very first day we
met. First of all, let us stop near Obukhov Bridge, at the
site of our military academy. We were both cadets there
and upon graduation we were both commissioned to the
Orden Regiment.
The building has not changed much since then. The
noble fagade and Alexandrian columns are intact, but the
avenue has been renamed “International Avenue,” as
more befitting the revolutionary spirit of the times, and the
large red lettering over the entrance now reads: “First Ar­
tillery School.” However, the ground floor windows are still
crowned by lions with rings in their mouths and a bit
higher up are the plumed helmets. The two cannons at the
entrance are not ours—they were set there after the acade­
my became an artillery school. It was an infantry school
in my day. We carried rifles and stood guard in the Palace,
attended balls at the girls’ finishing schools, and were re­
garded as Guards’ school cadets. Mikhail’s tragedy result­
ed from this proximity to Court life, from the reading
of foreign books and the infernal Kolokol, published by the
Messrs. Ogaryov and Herzen.* But all this in due time.
The entrance gates still bear the shields with the
crossed poleaxes, and there is ia shady garden behind the
yellow stone wall where the once slender birches have
become stately trees.

* A. I. Herzen (1812-1870) was a Russian revolutionary dem­

ocrat, materialist philosopher and writer. He emigrated to Lon­
don in 1847 to escape prosecution by the tsarist government. There
he founded the “Free Russian Printworks” where he published the
Polyarnaya Zvezda (Polar Star) and the newspaper Kolokol
(Bell) which called for the overthrowing of the existing regime.
N. P. Ogaryov (1813-1877), an outstanding public figure and poet and
close friend of Herzen, worked with him on these publications.

18
 People of my generation must have been made of strong
stuff for me to have gone through what I did and retained
a clear mind and memory, for whatever I recall mate­
rializes instantly before my eyes. I remember the plan of
the garden, and when I look closely I see them there: the
two tall maples among the lindens, a symbol of our
short-lived friendship. I remember reading Schiller with
Mikhail and planting the two saplings in honour of Posa
and Don Carlos, though in fact I had had the two of us
in mind.
Oh, how portentous and significant one’s emotions can
be!
I swayed and felt giddy. There was a sharp pain in my
heart. Leaning on my cane (fortunately, Potapich’s girls
put a rubber tip on it and it does not slide any more), I
sat down on a benoh opposite the fence. The coloured post­
ers dazzled me: “Society of Friends of the Air Force”. ..
“Red Instructors Go to the Red Villages” ... “The Old
Church Is Reformed.” And above it all a poster with some­
thing like coloured snakes advertising: “The Synthetic
Theatre.” Kobchikov alone will show you everything from
a trapeze to a tragedy.
How can he do iall those things alone? My poor head is
spinning and I feel that I’m going mad. Thoughts crowd
my brain and it cannot encompass them all, for apart from
my present surroundings, the past, which history has
swept into its grave, arises more real than reality. It has
been swept away, but not forgotten!
I remember our first meeting. I was on fatigue duty be­
neath the clock for having been late to chapel when Petya
Karsky shouted as he ran past:
“They’ve brought some chaps up from Kiev, and I swear
the Devil’s there with them, too!”
They took the newcomers past me to the bath-house. There
were four of them. Three had no distinguishing features
to speak of, but the fourth was quite striking, tall and thin,
with coal-black eyebrows. Besides, there was nothing in

2* 19
his bearing that even remotely resembled our parade-
ground stiffness. He carried his head thrown back slightly,
his gait was graceful, and there was an expression of pen­
sive sorrow in his eyes. The sharp line of his brows seemed
drawn on his olive skin. I thought him quite handsome
and took a liking to him at once.
That very evening we had our first memorable talk.
Mikhail’s cot was to be next to mine. After supper and
chapel the cadets were left alone in the dormitory. This
was the happiest time of the day. Although cards were
strictly forbidden, every cadet naturally had a deck under
his mattress, and taking advantage of the unsupervised
hours, they played away. We had a whole stack of library
books on the table as a blind and drew lots to see who was
to read aloud. This time, however, the reading was not
merely a means of camouflage, for the cadets had surrounded
the reader; they sat on benches and tables and swallowed
every word of the fascinating Prince Serebryany * The
novel had not yet been published, and a friend of the
author had given the cadets a rare manuscript copy.
“I wonder how you can enjoy chewing this sugared
biscuit made with pink water,” Mikhail said with annoy­
ance as he made his way to his cot. Neither the reader nor
his audience paid any attention to these words, but I took
immediate notice of them.
Countess Kushina, my aunt, had told me that Prince
Serebryany, which the author himself had read at the
Empress’ evening gatherings, had created a furor at Court.
Upon completion of the readings, the Empress presented
Tolstoi with a gold locket in the form of a book. “Maria”
was engraved on one cover and “For Prince Serebryany”
on the other, with the beautiful Court Ladies who had been
present at the readings portrayed as Muses. True, Prince
Baryatinsky had found the novel dull, but that, quite under­
standably, was no more than the envy of one gentleman

* An historical novel by A. K- Tolstoi (1817-75).

20
 of society of the social success of another. However, nei­
ther his social position nor his tastes attracted Mikhail to
Court life. What could he have against Count Alexei Tol­
stoi?
I lay down on my cot, and when I saw that Mikhail was
not yet asleep, I asked him what he had meant. He explained
quite readily and without a trace of the haughtiness I had
expected:
“You see, Count Tolstoi himself, as I have been told by
one of his close friends, said that while writing about a
power-mad despot, he was often compelled to throw down
his pen, and not so much at the thought that such a per­
son as Ivan the Terrible could have existed, as that there
could have existed a society which endured him and was
subservient to him. But Re did not carry these civic emo­
tions over into his book; instead, he gilded them over. I
have much greater hopes for the trilogy he’s working on
now.”
“I’ve heard that this trilogy is the height of insolence
and that it will hardly be approved by the censors.”
“Quite possibly, for though indirectly and evasively, the
autocracy is condemned in the trilogy,” Mikhail said.
“That’s if the finished work is anything like the manu­
script he read to a group of friends. Once again Ivan the
Terrible is shown trampling all human rights to satisfy
his own tyrannical nature, while the author refutes the
idea of autocracy in the person of Tsar Fyodor, a man of
high moral principles. Boris Godunov is the reformer, but
the struggle for power destroys his will and drives him
insane. One can only welcome such a book at a time like
this, on the eve of reforms, and a civic-minded writer is
in such great demand.”
He added with great conviction:
“Don't you see, those higher up must be the first to real­
ize that reforms and the autocracy are mutually exclu­
sive. Once a policy of reforms is adopted, it follows that the
autocracy—that foul lie—should be abolished!”

21
 The moon was shining right on Mikhail’s face which,
with its fiery eyes and inspired pallor, seemed magnificent
and terrible.
“That’s outrageous!” I said. “I won’t even permit myself
to understand the full meaning of your words. They insult
me.”
“Oh? That’s interesting!” Mikhail raised himself on his
elbow and looked at me closely, as if seeing me for the
first time.
It was a peculiarity of his never to notice a person when
he was speaking. He had such a forceful personality that
only if he were contradicted would he suddenly rear up
like a wild stallion faced with a barrier, his flashing eyes
seeking a sure footing. However, he was very gentle by na­
ture and never wished to give personal affront.
“Why do you find my opinions insulting?”
“Because my own are the exact opposite,” I said. “My
aunt, Countess Kushina, was like a mother to me and
brought me up as a loyal subject, firmly convinced of His
Majesty’s sacred right to the throne.”
“Do Slavophiles visit your aunt’s house?” Mikhail in­
terrupted.
“Not really, but writers of kindred opinions do. Would
you care to come along with me this Sunday?”
I still cannot understand how I ever could have invited
him, though the next moment I realized that his insolent
remarks might easily cause unpleasantness, and hastened
to add:
“I want to warn you that my aunt is against the imme­
diate emancipation of the serfs, and you may find quite a
few things there unacceptable to you.”
“That doesn’t bother me in the least,” he said. “In order
to defeat the enemy one has to see him at close range!”
His small white teeth flashed as he smiled.
His nature knew no gradual changes of mood. Every­
thing about him, his sharp and sudden movements, his
black eyebrows on a pale face, and the unexpected changes

22
 in tone from threatening to childlike in its trustfulness
and artlessness were unmistakable signs of what is cur­
rently referred to as emotional instability. But, perhaps,
just because I had been brought up so strictly, I found
these qualities so fascinating. The suddenness with which I
brought him into the family and then introduced him to
Lagutin, Vera’s father, recommending him so highly that
he was invited to come to the Lagutin estate for the holi­
days practically the first time they met, seemed the doing
of some evil spirit governing our two fates.
CHAPTER II

Auntie 5
Salon

/>
M r ountess Kushina’s Sunday gatherings were held
m in her library, a room that spoke of its owner’s
m passion for occultism. It would have been a good
■ m place for Count Saint-Germain to preach or for
Caliostro to have his first great successes. Above
the velvet corner divan were a row of paintings in
weird frames which Auntie said symbolized Dante’s nine
circles of Hell. She considered Dante a disciple of the
same secret society of which she hinted at having been a
member since her youth. That is why she would say, point­
ing to a diagram she had done, and perhaps designed, too,
which hung on the wall opposite:
“My inspiration is exactly like Dante’s, and if he did not
agree with me, why then did he confirm it by rapping on
the table thrice?”
That winter table-turning and seances were in great
vogue, iand it was common knowledge that not only poetic
souls like Fyodor Tyutchev were great adherents of it but
people much more important, too.
24
 At first glance Auntie’s diagram which took up all of
the wall and was called “Ptolemy’s System, as Applied to
the Russian Empire,” seemed to be an enormous target,
like those in shooting galleries.
The light-blue satin background represented the firma­
ment; on it was a great white circle, the largest of several
concentric circles spaced at small intervals. Auntie had
appliqued each circle on the light-blue firmament. I remem­
ber that the truly magnificent bright-yellow circle within
the Divine White one represented the autocracy, and the
grass-green circle—the symbol of hope—was the nobility,
immediately followed by a black circle, symbolizing the
tiller’s labour. The circles were of the finest materials,
done in excellent tambour stitching, and were placed one
within the other like Easter eggs. The result was both at­
tractive and intriguing. As Auntie explained the meaning
of the diagram to some believer in immediate emancipa­
tion of the serfs, she would point to it with her small ring-
bedecked hand and say:
“But, my dear sir, how can you even think of disrupting
the balance of the Russian Sphere? If you take off one cir­
cle, all the rest will rip off, too. That’s what tambour stitch­
ing is: each loop is part of the next, and you must either
not touch it at all, or else, if you rip one loop, the rest
must go, too.”
The writer Dostoyevsky was an occasional visitor at
Auntie's gatherings. No one considered him a first-class
writer at that time, and if I compare his literary value to
one of military rank, this being more natural to my con­
ception, I will not be far from wrong if I say he correspond­
ed to a Major. As compared to him Grigorovich was a Colo­
nel, and Ivan Turgenev, as Auntie stated quite firmly, was
a General.
Auntie’s soirees were usually divided into two parts, the
first of which—the so-called talking part—took place in the
library and ended with a light tea, while the second was
a supper in the grand dining-room in a family atmosphere.

25
People of various backgrounds took part in the library
discussions, but only the family and a few close friends
remained for supper. The library guests knew they had
been invited for tea only and took their leave of the host­
ess soon afterwards.
Having risked bringing Mikhail along, I reminded him
on the way to tone down his remarks, or better still, to
keep them to himself entirely.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “a future public figure must
learn also to observe.”
Ever since the morning after our discussion of Prince
Serebryany Mikhail and I became good friends. As if by
mutual consent, we did not discuss politics any more, sub­
consciously trying to keep intact those ties of sympathy
which, regardless of human desire and for reasons un­
known to science, both in love and friendship will often
attract two totally dissimilar individuals.
Perhaps their paths cross in accordance with each one’s
horoscope, in order that each go through every trial he is
fated to on our sad Earth? My story will prove that such
was the case with us.
We entered the library. Mikhail kissed Auntie’s hand
with marked reverence, to which she responded benevo­
lently and familiarly, as was her wont:
“Ah, Sergei’s friend! You’ll do well to listen to us old
folk and mind what we say. Or aren’t you big enough to
understand?”
Auntie had bright eyes and grey curls, and always wore
black silk dresses with heirloom lace collars. Her fingers
were covered by a mass of amulet rings. She never changed
her mode of dress and was a bit eccentric, standing out
among the ladies of her circle and seeming a woman of
mystery, as the others were victims of the ever-changing
styles.
I was not acquainted with anyone there that evening ex­
cept Vera’s father, Erast Petrovich Lagutin, an impressive-
looking old man. There were elegantly attired ladies, many

26
officers, and pale young “archives” men, concerning whom
Pushkin had once wittily remarked, “One need only touch
them to loose a flow of universal knowledge, for they have
read everything and know everything.”
As we entered, these youths were snapping like a pack
of young and inexperienced borzois at a middle-aged man
of medium stature who stood with his back to the window.
His tone shocked me, for his answers were strangely curt
and out of keeping with the manner of speech accepted in
polite society.
“That’s Dostoyevsky!” Auntie whispered with a mixture
of pride and indulgence towards a man who did not know
the customs of our circle.
“Yes, I stated in my article and will repeat again and
again that we must believe the Russian nation occupies
a unique position in the world!” Dostoyevsky shouted.
He put such emphasis on the words “in the world” that
it seemed he wanted to imprint them for ver on his listen­
ers’ brains. I noticed that many winced, for any undue em­
phasis is considered bad taste in society, yet he himself
seemed the embodiment of stress. His movements were
anguiar, his voice hollow and unusually dramatic. In other
words, there was not a trace of that expansive pleasantness
about him which can endear a person to one forever,
though actually he may not have helped one in any way.
“What did you say, sir? That we Russians are unique
in the history of mankind?” a venerable and rather Euro­
peanized old man flared up. “Not really? Consider the
fact that we have just entered the family of civilized
nations, and then, only because we were afraid of Peter’s
club.”
“/4 propos," another old man and an ancient admirer of
Auntie’s interrupted, hastening in his role of experienced
social helmsman to steer the conversation into safer wa­
ters, "a propos, does anyone recall the way in which Po­
godin recently murdered a Slavophile Muse for censuring
this very club of Peter’s between the lines?”

27
 The archives youths vied with each other in their eager­
ness to quote Pogodin: “Though the porridge Peter made
was thick and salty,” one began, while another snatched
it up from there like a plate: “at least there is something
to chew on and we have a good example to follow.”
The situation was saved, and the social atmosphere of
the salon would not have lost its light and airy tone, which
excluded all the heavy subjects the seminary teachers pre­
ferred, if not for my cousin’s thoughtlessness.
“Why is it that you give the Russians such preference
over the English and the French?” she asked, focusing her
tortoise-shell lorgnette on Dostoyevsky.
His reply at first seemed to be in jest: “Madame, to this
very day no Englishman will ever credit a Frenchman with
any sense, and vice versa. Both notice none but them­
selves in the whole wide world, considering everyone else
a personal hindrance.”
But a moment later Dostoyevsky forgot the lady and
the salon and was like a hurricane, sweeping away the
dam of social niceties as he was caught up by the current
of his own inner thoughts. He boomed out at them with­
out bothering to fit his voice to the size of the room:
“All Europeans are like that. The idea of the brother­
hood of men is becoming lost among them. That is why
they cannot understand us Russians and our outstanding
character trait—that of loving all mankind—and con­
sider it a sign of lack of individuality. It is especially im­
perative now, at a time when the Christian ties that unite
the peoples are weakening.. . . ”
Something quite unexpected in salon circles happened
at that moment. Mikhail, who had not been able to tear
his burning eyes away from the speaker, forgot his prom­
ise and his surroundings and, stepping to the centre of the
room, shouted excitedly:
“If the former ties that united the peoples of Europe are
weakening it is a sign that the time has come for new
ties to replace the old ones—ties of socialism!”

28
 It was a thunderclap. The ladies gasped, the archives
youths whispered amongst themselves, and Auntie rose
menacingly7. Dostoyevsky paled slightly, looked at Mi­
khail with interest, and said:
“Our argument is a long one. Do come and see me.”
There is no telling what the results of Mikhail’s liber
al speech would have been if an accident had not saved
the situation. The valet had just brought in the tea ser­
vice with a huge English teapot full of boiling hot water.
He slipped as he headed towards Auntie, and if not for
Mikhail he would have scalded Lagutin, who was sitting
near her. Mikhail, who stood behind the old man, thrust
himself forward, receiving thereby the full pot of boiling
water on his right arm, which immediately turned lobster-
red.
The ladies oh-ed and ah-ed, Auntie brought down salve
and bandages, and turning Mikhail’s sleeve up authorita­
tively began to dress his wound.
At this point I would like to mention a seemingly mi­
nor detail, which, however, is of extreme importance to
my story: a little above his wrist Mikhail had a black birth­
mark which resembled a spider. Its thin legs seemed drawn
in ink on his white skin, and it was said to be the result of
his mother’s fright during her pregnancy. A kind-hearted
young lady screeched as she tried to shoo it off his arm
with her lace hankie. He laughed merrily and explained
its origin to her.
The guests were very solicitous and joked about the
spider and the young lady. Mikhail was gay and pleaded
with Auntie to forgive the valet who had scalded him.
Thus can an insignificant event change society's opin­
ion of a person. A minute before Mikhail had been con­
sidered a most unpleasant and suspicious young man,
but now he had suddenly come into everyone’s good
graces.
“Young man,” Lagutin said to him as he took a pinch
of snuff from his snuffbox with a gesture common only to

29
old nobles, “you saved more than my life. You saved me
from the horrors of being ridicule. I have been invited to
a rout at Mikhailovsky Palace this evening, but if my bald
head resembled a great blister I would have been com­
pelled to stay at home, with a kerchief around it, d la
Moscow fish-wife.’’
Dostoyevsky took his leave and repeated meaningfully
as he passed Mikhail, “I’m looking forward to continuing
our argument.”
Mikhail bowed silently.
It became gay in the library once again, the keen wits
were taken up with calculating the possible flight of the
teapot and making hilarious deductions as to who and
what would have been scalded if not for Mikhail’s brave
intervention.
On parting, Auntie said to him, “Come with Sergei
again; though you’ve a sharp tongue, my boy, at least
you’re not as mealy-mouthed as the archives lads. Give us
time, we’ll file down your teeth. Sergei said you were from
the Kiev Academy. I know where you get your id eas.. . . ”
Auntie was hinting at two famous Kiev pedagogues, one
of whom was related to Herzen and the other a teacher of
literature who had the most dangerous ideas.
To my great relief, Mikhail said nothing. Instead, he
kissed Auntie’s hand a second time.
Ah, yes, I must point out another most important factor:
there was among the guests a person upon whom Mikhail’s
scalded arm had made no impression of a soothing or com­
pletely eradicating nature as far as his impudent phrase
about socialism was concerned. This man was a successful
young general—Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov, Chief
of the Secret Police. He was tall and handsome, and the
magnificent features of his aristocratic face were of such
an immobile whiteness that they seemed part of a beauti­
fully-tinted marble head. His movements were precise, a
sign of an ability to act promptly in any emergency.

30
 Shuvalov went out into the front hall at the same time
vve did* Auntie’s old footman threw his coat lightly over
his shoulders, and as he wrapped himself in it he said,
peering into Mikhail’s black eyes:
“Young man! Permit me to offer you some friendly ad­
vice and a word of warning: haste does not always end hap­
pily. And remember what Kuzma Prutkov had to say:
‘Staidness is a reliable spring in society’s mechanism.’ ”
Mikhail smiled and answered cockily, “Kuzma Prut­
kov has something that may be applied to you, Your Ex­
cellency: ‘Don’t mow down everything that grows.’ ”
Shuvalov smiled politely, as a gentleman should, indi­
cating that in a private house he was not an official, and
added prophetically:
“Good-bye! I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Oh, how soon and how tragically his prophecy came
true!
On the way home I said to Mikhail: “I’d advise you to
be more careful with him. He’s head of the Secret Police
and a shrewd careerist who’ll trip you up if you don’t
watch your step.”
“A lot I care about him!” Mikhail flared up and, lower­
ing his voice, said with such feeling that I shall not for­
get it to the day I die:
“Believe me, Sergei, I’m as certain as Ryleyev* that I
shall perish, but not in vain. For, as that heroic poet said
so convincingly, the strength and honour of the revolu­
tion lie in the words: ‘Each one must be daring!’ ”
My phlegmatic nature and firm belief that the Hand of
Destiny guides each of us along the path unknown, pre­
vented me from acquainting Mikhail with the quite differ­
ent views on the ways of the world accepted by our house-

* K. F. Ryleyev (1795-1826), revolutionary poet and Decembrist.

He took an active part in organizing the December 14, 1825, uprising
in Petersburg against the autocracy. Was executed together with the
other organizers of the uprising.

31
 hold. Besides, after Auntie had mentioned the free-think­
ing Kiev pedagogues, I understood that Mikhail’s revolu­
tionary dreams and atheistic ideas were not due to his sin­
ful nature, but were actually the result of some other per­
son’s influence.
I therefore decided to contradict him only on extremely
important issues and keep up our friendship, inviting him
more often to Auntie’s house, where he would meet peo­
ple who were as eager to help their country as the Messrs.
Ogaryov and Herzen, but who approached this task in an
entirely different manner.
Oh, how childish and futile were those dreams! Mi­
khail flatly refused to visit Auntie’s salon again, saying
glumly, “A good hunter never goes to the same swamp
twice.” However, he became so solicitous towards me that
I resented it; he seemed to regard me as a plaything,
finding relief from his gloomy thoughts in wrestling or
playing leap-frog. At times he was wildly gay, or else quite
sentimental; he would call me a shepherd from a Wat­
teau painting and ask me to read Schiller with him. It was
then that we became so impressed by the friendship be­
tween Marquis Posa and Don Carlos and planted the two
trees in the Academy garden.
However, as I was soon to learn, I alone considered
our friendship so all-important, for Mikhail had already
concentrated all his thoughts and feelings, even the most
sacred ones, on bringing him closer to the criminal plan
that possessed him.
CHAPTER III

A Trip
to Lake
Como

M
T
m must now speak of the change in our relation-
ship caused by an incident at a finishing
m school ball, a change which transformed him
,M from a dear friend into a hated enemy—both
personal and political.
But how can I speak of this now, when 1 myself have
changed since the Revolution and no longer have any
faith in my former convictions? Thus do repeated storms
pull up a strong but unprotected tree.
As I entered the Palace Square on the above-mentioned
12th of March, I finally became convinced that not only
was the foundation shaky, but that my whole inner struc­
ture had collapsed.
As always, I felt a certain agitation while crossing the
square. There was the familiar Alexandrian Column that
had been erected during the reign of Nicholas I, and there
was the familiar angel on top of it. And there was the fa­
miliar chariot above the General Headquarters building,
and the prancing steeds. I remember seeing those steeds
3—382 33
 prancing and being held in check by warriors for seventy-
two years now, ever since I was a boy of ten.
There are four tall masts on the square now. They are
taller than the Headquarters building and there is a red
flag fluttering on each mast. Both flaps of the main banner,
as the ribbons of a gonfalon, curl in the wind like red
snakes.
There’s a man up there, fixing the banner, and from be­
low he seems like a midget. The banner unfurled, flashing
its clear silver lettering: “The Western Front Has Fallen.”
And the second and third and fourth masts are all decked
in crimson with silver lettering: “The Eastern, Southern,
Northern Fronts Have Fallen.” These banners are there to
commemorate the recent four fronts. They existed, but now
they are no more.
We humans are strange creatures, indeed. How my old
soldier’s heart soared with pride! Then I stopped short
and thought: Wlhat’s this? These flags are in no way a
concern of mine; in fact, quite the opposite. Was I not the
Squadron Leader who heard his Emperor say to him, “I
congratulate you on becoming a Cavalier of the St.
George Cross,” who firmly believed that the monarch was
God’s Anointed One? And when a worker came to see Po-
tapich in 1917 and said, “Chkheidze thinks it’s a great
joke: the Anointed One’s been greased for good,” I actual­
ly hung myself. They cut me down and revived me, but
what for? In order that I live to see days of bitter grief?
To become both my own judge and myjown executioner?
I am drawn to this square as an executioner is to the
scaffold, but when I approach it, I die a thousand deaths.
How can I ever forget the first time I passed here with my
father, a sapper of the Household Troops? Father pointed
to the Palace steps and said with great emotion:
“Sergei, on the unforgettable day of December 14, 1825,
Emperor Nicholas, the Lord’s Chosen One, led out his
first-born son and heir. The Tsar commanded the first man

34
of every company to kiss the child. I was one of the fortu­
nate ones.”
There are Red troops here now. One warm day towards
the end of winter I wandered here to the site of my exe­
cution block. The fog was so thick that the General Head­
quarters building seemed concealed by layers of fine-meshed
veils. Someone, also concealed by the fog, was review­
ing the troops from a high dais. The men seemed to be ma­
terializing from infinity, appearing for an instant and dis­
appearing again in the all-consuming gloom.
First came the troops of the Baltic Fleet wearing pea-
coats, bell-bottom trousers, and fur hats; they were fol­
lowed by shaggy white-caped ski troops who resembled
white winter hares; then came the cavalry. The horses’
■heads emerged from the pearly-white fog, followed by the
first rows of riders, but the animals’ croups were still a
part of the fog. The top half of the column, crowned by the
huge black angel, rose above the horses as if appearing
from the clouds. It was strange to hear the words of com­
mand which seemed to be coming from space. The men
obeyed and continued onward, like the mechanical toys
they used to be.
“They’re much better than the old ones used to be,” said
a voice in the crowd. “Those were like a herd of sheep, de­
vouring their commanders with their eyes, but these have
their own brains. They’re class-conscious, revolutionary
troops.”
I can’t take it upon myself to determine just how class­
conscious they are and Whether or not that is a desired
trait in an army man, but it’s quite apparent that they are
regular, disciplined troops and not the riff-raff the enemies
of the Revolution say they are. And when a country has
an army, it’s a country once again.
1 was so dizzy I don’t know how I dragged myself back.
“Look, he’s soused!” the boys in the street shouted after
me.. 1 finally found my way home. Luckily, there was no
one in the room, and I sat down and wept.

3 3 r>
 Civilians won't understand me, but an army man will
Could it really be possible? Though our former way of life
is gone, there is still an army. And if you’ve got an army,
all you need is a little time to show the world it is possible
to revive the normal course of life. And what if the new way
will prove even better? If there is an army, there is a na­
tion.
Was Mikhail right then? I remember him once, leaning
into the wind, his head thrown back, his eyes flashing,
and Herzen’s Kolokol clutched in his hand. He had rolled
it up and was waving it right and left like a marshal’s ba­
ton. Mikhail must have visualized a great throng of peo­
ple, and he addressed his loud, angry words to them:
“The complete annihilation of an idiotic autocracy will
produce a new form of government and a new and won­
derful life!”
And again I ask: What if Mikhail was right, having un­
hesitatingly given up his freedom and his clear mind for
this cause, and what if the new way of life, as I have al­
ready been noticing, proves definitely more just than the
former? If such be the case, then the Judas who doomed
Mikhail, both as a personal rival and as a fighter for this
freer and better life, deserves eternal damnation. But who
cares about me! He alone matters as long as my mind
serves me and my shaking hand can hold a pen.
As I said before, our estate was next to Lagutin’s. Since
Vera was of delicate health, at her father’s insistence
she was permitted to spend her summers at home, unlike
the other finishing school girls. After spending our holi­
days together, we could hardly wait to meet again during
the winter. We had many interests in common. We were
both seniors: I at the Academy and she at the girls’ school.
There were many feminine traits in my character, and
although I was not a bad soldier, I knew in my heart that
I was only good in file. The rash independence, so much a
part of Mikhail’s nature, is completely alien to me. I had a
passion for art and could spend hours admiring the effects

36
 of light and colour. Since this enraptured contemplation
played such a great role in my life, I surmise that I was
born to be an artist. Yet, a nobleman and officer was not
supposed to take up art seriously, and therefore my
thwarted artistic inclination found its outlet in an over­
sensitive nature. Mikhail noticed this right away and called
it “Poor Liza’s sentiments.”*
I adored Vera Lagutina from childhood, and she had al­
ways had the upper hand. Now that we were older this
would have to change, but I did not quite know how to go
about it. Would you believe the incredible? I talked Mi­
khail, whom I secretly envied and whose masculine ways
I tried to copy, into going to the grand ball so that I
might observe his behaviour with women and then adopt
the same attitude myself. Oh, fool that I was! How could
I fail to foresee that if I myself was so taken with his
charms, a being which Nature had intended to be charmed
by strength and courage would certainly fall under his
spell? But my head was in the clouds, and I had no con­
ception of reality.
Although this was Mikhail’s first visit to the school, and
I w:as a constant caller there, I was the more nervous of
the two. I suddenly decided that my cologne was too
strong, that my chin was not cleanly shaven, that I would
certainly slip on the mirror-like floor of the grand ball­
room and drag my partner down with me.
My deep reverence for outstanding works of art
caused me always to experience a feeling of awe when driv­
ing up to Count Rastrelli’s architectural wonder—the
Smolny Monastery Cathedral. On that fateful day the
white pilasters against a greyish-blue background seemed
part of the frosty evening air, making the extremely
light structure completely ethereal. The church towers
and monastery structures brought to mind Italian archi­
tecture and legends of knights, fair damsels, monsters

* Poor Liza, a sentimental novel by N. M. Karamzin (1766-1826)

37
and dragons. The lights flickered in suburban houses be­
yond the garden, across the blue ice of the Neva.
On a free Sunday in springtime I would rent the boat­
man’s fast skiff, cut across the still water, and never cease
to wonder at the magnificent proportions of the cathe­
dral, smoky-grey in the rays of the setting sun. In my
mind’s eye I would erect Rastrelli’s other structure, the
cost of which was so fantastic, even for Elizabeth’s extrav­
agant age, that it was never realized.
Rastrelli’s original plan was to erect a bell-tower 420
feet high on the bank of the Neva, one that would be cov­
ered with silver and gold and decorated with snow-white
ornaments on a dazzling turquoise background. Special
brick factories were built, whole villages were conscripted
as labourers, and the iron roof shingles were being cast
under the supervision of a foreign craftsman.
Oh, why wasn’t I born during the Renaissance, when all
three Parcae, at Fate’s command, wove an awakening
sense of the beautiful into the history of mankind! I would
have had my say then.
But Fate mixes up the labels nowadays, to vex us mor­
tals. Man is born out of his true place and century, into
surroundings alien to him. However, Yakov Stepanovich,
that wisest of old men whom I shall introduce into the
story later on, explained my unruly and puzzling thoughts
as follows:
“The wisdom of the way of the world is exactly opposite
to the human concept of justice, and our greatest misfor­
tune lies in the fact that we simply cannot fathom this.
Could we but understand this, we would not wonder that a
person who finds nothing more difficult than spilling his
fellow-creature’s blood is chosen to commit murder, and
a blood-thirsty person is cast in the role of a benefactor.
A man of great talent must fight an endless battle against
hunger, while the rich possess the dullest wits. But then,
does a person harness himself into a yoke or look deeply
into another’s life of his own free will? No, he is like an

38
arrow shot from a bow, flying in its own straight line.
Yet, people are not lonely arrows, they are the tiny drops
which make up the' great ocean. In order that it may grow
still broader it is necessary that we do not limit ourselves
to our own little shells.
“However,” he added, “you must understand this in its
proper light, otherwise you will merely add to the general
confusion of life.”
I’ve gone off at such a tangent it may prove ruinous for
the rough copy, for they’ve put an end to taking paper
from the cellar. The girls each had an armload yesterday
when the janitor came rushing up and made them take it
back. Be that as it may, I’d still like to say a few words
about the finishing school.
Auntie had told me that Empress Catherine had intend­
ed to create a school that would mould a “new type of per­
son,” as in France, under the close supervision of edu­
cated nuns.
To this end the Holy Synod sent the Moscow Metropoli­
tan an order to personally select the most deserving can­
didates among the Mothers Superior and nuns; however,
there proved to be so very few who were literate, or even
those who could be of use in the infirmary, that only sev­
eral were installed for the sake of decoration. In her
search for a suitable influence for the “new type of per­
son,” Catherine soon turned to channels closer to her own
personal tastes: namely, she called upon Voltaire and Di­
derot to assist in the undertaking.
Auntie Kushina, who despised the Encyclopaedists, said
that although Voltaire had promised to write a well-man­
nered comedy for the young ladies of the school, he had
become so used to blasphemy, that each time he sat down
to this chaste assignment he would suddenly be taken ill
with stomach trouble. Catherine complained to Diderot
that the old man was no longer able to produce an elegant
piece for the girls’ theatrical exercises, to which Diderot,
no less an atheist, was known to have answered, “I my-

39
self shall write comedies for the young ladies and, I trust,
before old age has claimed me.”
However, Diderot evoked the Empress’ displeasure by
his insistence that anatomy be the major subject of the
school’s curriculum; it was a science which, in Auntie
Kushina’s opinion, practically robbed a girl of her chasti­
ty.
The two trends Catherine had favoured at its inception
were colourfully blended in Smolny’s traditions to the
very last: a breath of the nunnery combined with the en-
ohanting liveliness of Voltairian society. The girls all wore
their cumbersome green, light-blue, beige, or white came-
lot frocks, white capes, pinafores, and cuffs as religiously
as the nuns wore their habits. Added to this were a devout
appearance, a multitude of holy pictures, superstitions, and
sacred amulets, plus the custom of keeping a piece of
blessed wafer in the cheek during the most difficult exams
and concealing a bit of cotton-wool especially brought
from Iversky’s in Moscow in the slit for the pen during
written maths examinations. But there were also the most
intricate arrangements for smuggling in and out love
notes, and the ease with which romances with “window-still
beaux” were begun and dropped was passed on from one
graduating class to the next. These romances were never
based on family or rank, a question of the utmost impor­
tance where marriage was concerned, for a girl could
choose to marry a civilian or a plain officer not belong­
ing to the Guards only if she were passionately, “fatally”
in love, or for purely practical considerations.
The girls were separated from their families from child­
hood until graduation. A specially chosen staff supervised
their studies and their dancing and needlework classes.
In accordance with the founder’s desire, they were also to
develop “merry thoughts” and be entertained by “inno­
cent amusements.” That is why Levitsky’s brilliant brush
captured the coy charm of the young ladies Khovanskaya,

40
 Khrushchova, and Levshina in masquerade costumes and
evening dress.
From Catherine’s time on the school remained close to
the Court, and as the young ladies frequented the many
social events held in the palaces and were patronized by
royalty, their royalist feelings were idealized and some­
what exalted. But Vera, influenced by her uncle Linuchen-
ko, of whom I shall write in detail later on, did not share
her schoolmates’ adoration of the royal family. She begged
her father to take her home before she became a senior.
However, old Lagutin, his Voltairianism notwithstanding,
was flattered by the thought that the Empress herself would
pin a merit badge to his daughter’s left shoulder, thus
giving her access to balls at Court and approximating her
to a lady-in-waiting. The title had turned many an ambi­
tious little head, and especially so now, when a pretty face
and graceful carriage would certainly attract the Tsar’s
attention and bring about a marked display of favouritism
towards the chosen young lady and her entire family as
well. This last circumstance often stirred up a lowly pas­
sion for procuration among the girl’s closest relatives.
Thus, in the case I shall speak of, the interested party was
none other than the father of the titled and wealthy young
lady who had been tempted by the glitter of Court life.
We drove up to the school. It was only Quarenghi’s
sensitive talent and noble style that could have created a
facade over 700 feet long yet neither dull nor barn-like in
appearance, though its only decoration were the thrice re­
peated half-columns crowned by magnificent capitals. The
school building was worthy of standing beside the breath­
taking splendour of Rastrelli’s cathedral. Thus, great ar­
chitects were able to pass on the torch of beauty, unham­
pered by petty rivalry. I still derive pleasure from the mem­
ory of Quarenghi removing his hat in front of Smolny
Cathedral in all weather and bowing low to express his
great admiration for Rastrelli.
Matvei Ivanovich, the towering elder doorman who car-

41
ried a bronze mace and whose crimson livery was adorned
with eagles, received us at the main entrance with a bow,
as he did the other guests. A second doorman opened the
door and a third took our greatcoats. We drew on our white
suede gloves and ascended the red-carpeted marble stair­
way. The strains of a waltz went to my head like cham­
pagne as I entered the ballroom behind Mikhail, apprehen­
sive that I would not be able to find Vera.
There were two rows of graceful columns on each side
of the huge white ballroom. Green garlands were strung
from the standing chandeliers along the walls. The mag­
nificently iridescent silks and gems and the dazzling
ermine mantillas of the full-length portraits of royal person­
ages could not rival the modest loveliness of the young
girls. They were dressed alike, their arms and necks
bare, and had on chiffon capelets with large pink bows.
These fresh young beings were like delicate apple-blos­
som petals blowing in the breeze as they flitted and danced
across the room. The headmistress, a tall, imposing wom­
an in a sky-blue regulation gown, surrounded by a whole
retinue of equally bright-coloured schoolmistresses known
as “blues,” nodded pompously in response to our reverent
bows.
Each time 1 found myself in this kingdom of women I
became confused and would mistakenly take one or the
other for Vera, while from every corner the girls would
shout, “Serge, Serge Rusanin!”
“There she is by the column,” said Mikhail, indicating
Vera Lagutina. I was amazed.
“How did you recognize her, if you’ve never seen her?”
“There’s nothing supernatural about it,” Mikhail laughed.
“Her father’s miraculously unscalded bald head was
my compass. Look, the chandelier is reflected in it as in a
mirror. The old man’s the image of a bemedalled gobbler,
but his daughter is quite charming.”
He crossed the ballroom with quick, light steps, bowed
low to Lagutin, was immediately introduced to Vera, and

42
waltzed off with her a moment later. When I came up to
ask for the next dance she had already promised it to Mi­
khail. The only choice left to me was to invite one of Vera’s
friends. I listened absent-mindedly as my partner chat­
tered on:
“Just imagine, the ‘tadpoles’ weren’t allowed to come
to the ball, they did something terrible—they used berga­
mot soap to perfume themselves!”
“How could they use soap?”
“They scraped some off with a knife, rubbed it on them­
selves and blossomed forth like a shopful of the foulest
perfume. Only the older girls are allowed to use scent, and
bergamot has an abominable smell.”
“Which scent do you consider acceptable?” I asked to
keep up my partner’s chatter and make it easier for me to
observe the pair opposite us.
Vera and Mikhail did not have party faces at all. They
would occasionally seem to realize this and would then
smile and exchange a few polite words. Yet I could see at
once that from the very beginning their conversation had
been most serious. And how could it have been otherwise?
Vera was a regular bookworm, and she had always had
dangerous ideas. She was a Decembrist’s granddaughter
who took all kinds of liberal nonsense to heart; she even
had a little volume of Ryleyev’s works locked up in her
desk in the village.
“Oh, he is really worthy of his name,” I heard her say
rapturously in reply to something Mikhail had said in a
low voice. “1 do not know a nobler heart.”
As she emphasized the word “heart,” I gathered the
whole to-do was about Herzen. I had always worried about
Vera’s outlook on life, but now I felt glad. I said to myself,
“No, romances never begin like this. Perhaps Mikhail will
be able to ‘propagandize’ her, as the new word was then
used, but he will hardly be able to awaken a feeling of
love in her heart.” As for his dangerous ideas, I would be

43
 able to fight them with the help of Auntie Kushina’s salon.
Auntie loved Vera dearly and the feeling was mutual.
However, an extraordinary event swept away all the
cunning moves of my little game of chess, like the hand
of the giant Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians.
There was a sudden commotion among the young ladies.
The dancing ceased, and they all rushed to the windows,
shouting:
“There’s a carriage at the main entrance!”
The central entrance was always locked, and was
opened only for royalty. The schoolmistress, crimson with
excitement, led off a group of the prettiest girls who soon
reappeared in the wigs and costumes of marquises and mar­
chionesses. The other girls formed a semi-circle, conceal­
ing the ones dressed as in the times of Catherine. When
the Tsar appeared, accompanied by the headmistress, they
all dipped in a low curtsey to appropriate strains from the
orchestra. There followed a traditional minuet. The mar­
quises and their marchionesses burst forth from their hid­
ing-place 'and, forming a column, advanced toward the
Tsar.
Alexander II was wearing a hussar’s uniform. As de­
picted by Court painters, he was very imposing in a sleigh
or on horseback at a parade, but was much less impressive
when deprived of the necessary military background. He
was magnificent in the forefront of a painting, towering
above his troops, the great herculean chest he had inher­
ited from his father thrust forward, his bearing truly
royal. Yet he seemed merely pompous when surrounded
by blossoming youth, where intimate charm was more
appropriate than monumentality. Besides, his no longer
youthful face was shockingly yellow, and his eyes belied
his delighted smile and his pleasant manner of trilling his
r’s—they remained dull, leaden, and motionless.
A very pretty senior recited several stanzas in greeting,
and blushing deeplv at his invitation to sit by him, sank
into an armchair. The Tsar motioned to the musicians, and

44
the ball was resumed. The sovereign, accompanied by his
aide, soon departed to have tea in the headmistress’ suite
During the intermission, when Vera, Mikhail and I, her
two pages in attendance, were having lemonade and
sweets in a pleasant corner, surrounded by hyacinths and
potted palms, Kitty Tarutina, Vera’is friend, and her law-
student escort joined us.
Kitty, a merry, snub-nosed blonde, said, “Would you like
to come along on a trip to Lake Como?”
Vera and I knew what this meant and laughingly agreed,
having first shared the secret with Mikhail. One of the
schoolmistresses was an extremely popular young Italian
woman who had nothing in common with the priggishness
of the other “blues.” She gladly let the young ladies receive
their brothers and cousins in her room. She was young and
gay herself and sympathized with her young charges’
pranks; however, in order that she be not held responsible
in case they were found out, by mutual agreement the
door to her room was kept shut, but by no means locked.
In case those in the room were caught by the inspectress,
they were to say they had entered without permission.
Concealed behind a dozen camelot skirts (for all of
Kitty’s friends were very keen on naughty adventures) we
slipped out of the ballroom unnoticed by the wary eye of
the inspectress on duty. A trail of endless corridors led to
the Italian teacher’s room, where a large painting of
beautiful Lake Como hung on the wall; thence the name of
the merry journey.
“Do you know that Zemphira disappeared as soon as
His Majesty left? She’s madly in love with him,” Kitty’s
young man said, referring to the girl who had recited the
stanzas in greeting. She had been nicknamed Zemphira
because of her Oriental looks.
“Yes, she is. And everyone has noticed how much atten­
tion His Majesty’s been paying her, but she’ll never be the
Empress’ lady-in-waiting,” Kitty remarked in an an-

45
noyed tone. “She’s poor at her studies, and the headmis­
tress hates her and will not recommend her favourably.”
“Does His Majesty visit you often?” Mikhail asked.
Flattered by the attention of the handsome, until now
silent cadet, Kitty began to chatter away, telling him how
the adored monarch loved to make unannounced visits to
the school.
“He appears mostly in the evenings, during the hours
set aside for dancing lessons for the upper classes. Some­
times he comes to the dining-room, sits down at the table, and
drinks tea with us from a plain school cup. Naturally, after
he leaves we break it and divide up the little pieces. Many
of the girls carry their piece in a small bag and wear it
round their necks as an amulet. One girl even ate her piece.”
“She must be related to a goose,” Mikhail smiled.
“Oh no!” Kitty objected naively to our general amuse­
ment and continued her chatter, which, as I noted from Mi­
khail’s furrowed eyebrows, annoyed him not a little. But
Kitty was not embarrassed:
“During dinner His Majesty sits down at one table, and
then at another, in order not to offend anyone. But he usu­
ally goes to the seniors now and sits beside Zemphira and
she purposely takes the last seat on the bench. Last year
at Lent, His Majesty joined us at Vespers and kneeled in
prayer with us.”
“That’s a good way to prepare for the reforms!” Mi­
khail noted sarcastically, causing Kitty to stop in confu­
sion and her escort to look him over with icy disbelief.
Vera blushed, but quickly changed the subject.
“Hurry, let’s run, or someone will get there before us!”
she cried, grabbing Mikhail and me by the hand and dash­
ing off down the long corridors which crossed and recrossed
like a labyrinth. Kitty and her law-student followed us.
We finally reached the Italian teacher’s room. The door
was closed, but it opened at a slight tug. We tip-toed in
quickly as the sound of voices came from just round the
corner. Like a flock of birds familiar with the bark of the

46
hunter’s rifle, we perched warily on the edge of the large
couch, ready to take off or hide at the slightest sound.
Danger lurked behind the doors of an adjoining room,
which belonged to the same teacher but was connected
with the inspectress’ room by a small passage. The in­
spectress, under the guise of friendly patronage, liked to
drop in on her neighbour unexpectedly, to check on the
pretty and light-hearted teacher. Kitty stole out into the
corridor like a little mouse and came back to tell us she had
made sure the inspectress wasn’t in and that we were safe.
Suddenly, we heard voices coming from the next room which
was 'also locked on the inside: a woman was weeping and a
man was consoling her. They were speaking in French.
“I did not go to all the trouble of trying to get away
from the headmistress in order to drown in your tears, my
charming Zemphira. As concerns your father, rest assured
that my tender feelings towards you have long since re­
ceived his paternal blessing, and his joy at seeing you a
lady-in-waiting.. . . ”
We had no difficulty in recognizing the voice which
spoke words of love with the same trilling of the r’s as in
the familiar public addresses and at parades.
“And so, until our next decisive rendezvous. And it will
not be too far off, will it? I’m not against mythology, and
admire the mischievous Zeus.”
These words were met with a forced laugh, followed by
the sound of kisses. We jumped to our feet, frightened at
our involuntary eavesdropping, and rushed towards the
exit. But Mikhail’s face was terrible as he rose and stalked
to the door leading to the adjoining room.
“It’ll be your undoing,” I whispered to him, as 1 grasped
his arm tightly. “His Majesty may come out this way
any minute.”
“I won’t let him ruin . . .” his eyes burned with such
fury that it seemed they were capable in themselves of
causing a person harm.

17
 I rushed out into the corridor. Kitty and her escort had
already disappeared and Vera stood alone in an alcove
like a ghost, her face and shoulders a pale white in the
gloom. 1 came up to her and gently took her hand. It was
inconceivable that the teacher’s door had remained un­
guarded, but two figures at the far end of the corridor
soon explained the riddle: the young teacher and the Tsar’s
aide, carried away by their own flirtation, had abandoned
their responsible post. Apparently, the Tsar had left the
headmistress to return to the ballroom and had gone to
the room adjoining “Lake Como,” where, by previous ar­
rangement, Zemphira was to await him for a final deci­
sion.
The minutes dragged on tike hours. Then the door of
the locked room opened and someone walked out. At that
very moment Mikhail said in a hollow voice choking with
anger:
“That was . . . despicable!”
We gasped. For some reason or other I expected to hear
a shot. But there was none. His Majesty walked away with
scurrying steps, his head drawn into his shoulders in a
manner quite unlike him, as if not wishing to be recog­
nized. In another second he had turned the corner. The
frightened aide and teacher rushed up to him.
“Was that her brother?” the Tsar demanded furiously,
apparently recalling the unpleasant Shevich incident.
“She has no brother, Your Majesty,” the deathly-pale
teacher said.
“No one was supposed to be there.”
The enraged sovereign did not appear at the ball again;
he left, accompanied by his aide. From my hiding place in
the deep alcove I watched the Italian teacher run into her
room to see who had been there, but Mikhail had opened
the opposite door to the passageway and had safely dis­
appeared. Vera and I dashed back to the ballroom.
On a winter’s day in 1918, after a lapse of over half a
century, I somehow' found myself at Smolny once again. I

48
had been wandering about the capital, sick and idle, seek­
ing refuge with former friends and acquaintances. Many
had died, others were no longer at their former addresses.
Drawn by the ties of the past and an artist’s undying at­
traction, I finally made my way to the school where Mi­
khail and I had attended a ball.
As on that day, the>immense facade was ablaze with
lights, and people were streaming into the huge building
just as they had been then. But this was not a long string
of carriages with footmen on the boards. There were no
thoroughbreds, expensive lap-rugs, or drivers crowning the
boxes like idols.
An endless procession of people with passes was filing
through the central entrance, once reserved exclusively
for royalty, and now guarded by armed Red Army men.
Automobiles, motor-cycles, grey armoured cars, all of them
flying red flags, sirens screaming, horns blowing, dashed
back and forth through the gates guarded by two rows of
sentries. There were machine-guns everywhere. Motors
roared, people with brief cases scurried about.
The shaggy fur caps made the faces seem stern. Many
were in khaki, their greatcoats bearing the traces of hasti­
ly ripped off tsarist insignia buttons and shoulder-straps.
The peasants had bast shoes on over their cloth-wrapped
feet. Their rifles were slung on strings over their shoul­
ders. Everyone was shouting and arguing. When two civil­
ians came out of the doorway and clambered on to a large
crate to speak, they were unable to finish. Their words
were drowned out by the Internationale, coming from every
corner of the square.
“What’s going on here?” I asked a heavily-armed man
with a rosy and strangely familiar face.
“A special meeting of the Petrograd Soviet, Grandpa,”
he answered readily, and then jumped up on the crate and,
raising his voice to a shout, addressed the crowd:
“Comrades! Socialism is now the only means by which
our country can escape the horrors of war and famine! ’

4 -3 8 2 49
 A picket lighted a bonfire and the blaze suddenly illu­
minated the speaker. When he had finished and jumped
down I suddenly cried out, “Why, I know you!” and named
him. His father had been a good friend of mine and it
had not been long since I had seen the young boy in a
gymnasium student’s uniform; I remembered him for his
extremely leftist anti-war speeches. Speeches which
brought Mikhail to mind.
The young man was now a fervent Communist. He, too,
recognized me. It was he who gave me some money and
helped me find lodgings at Ivan Potapich’s place. He said
he was rushing to the “Red front,” where he soon fell
bravely, one of the first casualties. I read his name in the
Izvestia which Goretsky Junior brought me. We both
drank to the memory of the brave youth and also of his
father and grandfather who had died just as bravely among
the first casualties in their own time, but on other fronts.
CHAPTER IV

t was an early Easter that year. The forest was

/
a mass of light-green fluff and the old pines
seemed a sinister black against the opening
buds. That is how I always remembered the
journey to Lagutino—as sinister,
it was 1860. Serfdom was living out its last days.
Among the many trends and circles, both for and against
freeing the serfs, there were quite a few individuals, well-
educated, Voltairian nobles, who accepted neither God’s
will nor human decrees and were governed, first, last, and
always, by their own wilfulness.
Such was Vera’s father, Erast Petrovich Lagutin, one
of the most intelligent men of his time, who, to quote his
own words, believed neither in dreams, nor in black cats,
nor in any other superstitious omens. He regarded civili­
zation as world piggery, which fact did not, however, pre­
vent him from having an admirable collection of paintings
in his Lagutino estate. He viewed the freeing of the serfs
as the termination of his own power and habits, and to­
wards the end he let himself go with a bang, as they say.

A 51
 Erast Petrovich was a widower and a ladies’ man. His
muzhiks did not complain about the corvee, but because
he could never let a pretty wench or wife pass by, their
hatred of him was great, indeed.
H-is daughter Vera had been brought up by a succession
of French women who were treated as the mistresses of
the house one day and demoted to the position of gover­
ness the next, all depending upon the master’s fancy. None
of the governesses ever stayed for any length of time.
Vera learned to be independent and sought comfort in
man’s most reliable and modest friends—the numerous
books of her father’s library.
Though our estate was next to theirs, Vera never did
feel close to my mother, a wonderful and ever bustling
housewife. Vera was rather shy and uncommunicative and
my mother never understood her. Perhaps the relationship
would have improved in time, but my mother soon died
and Auntie Kushina was appointed guardian of the estate.
I was Vera’s only companion. We used to gather mush­
rooms and berries all summer long and learned French
and dancing together. Vera liked the drawings and stories
I dedicated to her. Although we were of the same age, I felt
that she was more mature than I. I never shared her
doubts about the purpose of life or her grief at the Decem­
brists’ fate. I considered the Decembrists to have been ordi­
nary insurgents who had sinned all the more for being of
noble birth and well-educated. But they were Vera’s heroes.
Both during my mother’s lifetime and later, when Auntie
was my guardian, life flowed along serenely at our estate,
as was the case with other comfortably well-to-do land-
owners. A host of common interests, relationships, and
mutual likings bound generations of Ugorye owners to
their peasants.
Vera’s closest friends were a couple whom I found ex­
tremely unpleasant and who were to play an important
part in her strange life. They were Linuchenko, an artist,
and his wife, Kaleria Petrovna, who lived about three

52
miles away from Lagutino. He had studied with the famous
painter Ivanov, the very same one who had spent nearly
thirty years working on “The Appearance of Christ before
the People.” When the painting was put on exhibition it
was placed next to a battle scene by someone named Ivon,
and, to tell the truth, Ivon’s excellent portrayal of horseflesh
made a greater impression upon the viewers. Everyone
was repeating the witty poet Fyodor Tyutchev’s epigram
that Ivanov's enormous canvas looked more like a family
portrait of the Rothschilds than a portrayal of the Apos­
tles.
Linuchenko was Vera’s uncle. I would like to add that
just as our family had always been sedate and had un-
questioningly fulfilled its duties as loyal gentry, so had
the Lagutin family been unsettled. They were notorious
for the extraordinary adventures of their forefathers, for
kidnapping other men’s wives, for routs and duels and,
during the reign of Alexander Blagoslovenny,* for occult­
ism and other ungodly acts.
The Lagutins were tall, broad-shouldered and curly-
haired, they had straight noses with attractive nostrils, and
keen, light hawk’s eyes beneath arched brows.
Vera's grandfather had taken a liking to one of his
Ukrainian peasant girls and had fathered her son, Kiril
Linuchenko, whom he had sent to study with >an artist. He
had given Kiril’s mother a dowry of a hundred and eighty-
five acres adjoining the village, but had not given her the
deed to the land. Instead, he had said, “It’s yours as long
as I’m alive.” His son, Erast Petrovich, had reaffirmed his
words.
And so this middle-aged painter and uncle was also
Vera’s bosom friend. He was a peasant on his mother’s
side and had a swarm of relatives in the village whom he,
far from being ashamed of, stood up for in every possible
way, continuously setting Vera against her father. Be-

* Alexander I (1777-1825), called the “Benefactor.”

53
sides, he gave her free-thinking books and never ceased
talking of the rights of man and other atheistic ideas of
the French Revolution, of which he was an ardent sup­
porter.
He succeeded in distorting in Vera all the inborn, natu­
ral feelings characteristic of a noblewoman. No wonder
then that the dangerous seeds sown by Mikhail’s hand
flowered so abundantly in her restless and noble soul. Yet
it was not until later that I realized the full extent of his
pernicious influence on her.
After the incident at Smolny, Mikhail and I had such a
terrible row that we lost all desire to continue our friend­
ship. He heaped abuse on the Tsar for a human failing that
was understandable in one so handsome. I defended my
sovereign, saying that half of his alleged love affairs were
no more than slander, while the other half were his accept­
ance of the challenge flung at him by the flighty though
fair sex that secretly considered their “ruin” in the mon­
arch’s embraces a great joy. The particular case we had
witnessed resulted from the wealthy, titled girl’s father
acting as a panderer and her own ambitious desire to be­
come a lady-in-waiting.
As usual, Mikhail interrupted me with a seditious out­
burst against the autocracy, saying, “I’d pull them up by
the roots like nettles, and all the nobles, too. Give us time
and we’ll do it!”
I told him not to try my patience any longer, for as a
loyal subject I should then consider it my duty to challenge
him to a duel, since I considered it beneath my dignity
to denounce him and was duty-bound to stop his slan­
derous words. Mikhail suddenly burst out laughing amia­
bly and said:
“Well, bloom on in innocence, I shan’t infuriate you
any longer. If you make out in life, with God’s help, you
may even live to hang me!”
From then on we spoke only of trivialities; however I
was not in a position to prevent his visit to Lagutino. The

54
old man himself had invited him, pleased with his grace­
ful dancing. He felt kindly towards him since the fateful
evening at Auntie’s when Mikhail had saved him from be­
ing scalded. The old man had no idea that Mikhail was
seeing Vera at the school, having been presented there as
her cousin. Vera had been permitted, by way of exception
to go home for the holidays, in view of her frail health and
anemia, and it seemed that her father had finally yielded
and agreed not to send her back again.
We rode on in silence most of the ten miles from the
post station to Lagutino. I was admiring the sunset, the
wide sweep of the fields, and, as always, the heart-warming
scene made me feel sentimental. In veiled terms I tried to
tell Mikhail of my love for Vera. I mentioned Plato’s myth
about the two halves of a person which, when they met,
must either join or perish. Mikhail understood me and said,
“Such love is not worthy of Man. One must never die from
something, but only for something. A person who believes
himself to be a man should have appropriately high ideas.”
Then he added, “However, this is our privilege. The fair
sex is usually doomed to perish in the flame like a butter­
fly”
“Does that mean you believe woman is incapable of
facing death at the stake as Jan Hus and others like him
did?” I asked, unable to conceal my joy. I decided that
Mikhail was vexed at Vera for the small effect his rebellious
speeches had had on her.
“A woman is capable of anything,” he objected, “but
rarely of her own accord. Most often she will follow the
one she loves.”
How happy I was. Once again I could hope! In Vera’s
meetings with Mikhail I had never once noticed those tell­
tale clues of young love, a sudden blush, or eyes that were
downcast one moment and burning with passion the next.
Of course, I knew that when Mikhail attended the dances
at the school and handed Vera a box of French bonbons
with a courteous bow, there was always some kind of liberal

55
 book inside the box. Their conversation was always serious
and, I thought, extremely dull. I waited impatiently for Vera
to become bored with this schooling and seek diversion in
arts as more natural to poetic youth. In order to become
completely versed in my field, and thus counteract his influ­
ence, I spent all my time at the Imperial Hermitage and
read many foreign books on outstanding collections of
paintings.
Old Lagutin met us on the steps decked with fresh fir
boughs. The many feathery-tipped branches were attached
to tall poles in a very unusual manner. It seemed as if a
grove of date palms bad suddenly sprung up in N. Gubernia.
A sizeable hillock before the house was covered with young
grass and about twenty of the prettiest girls in attractive
sarafans and youths in scarlet shirts were rolling coloured
Easter eggs. There were many wooden grooves set in rows
from the top of the hill to the bottom, and it was fun to
watch the blue, red, green, and yellow eggs roll down like
precious stones into the emerald-green grass. Afterwards
there was a traditional round-dance and all the girls and
women went to the master to proclaim “Christ has risen”
and exchange kisses. He gave some women a ruble, others
a kerchief.
“This custom of kissing is what I like best in all of
Christian religion,” the old sinner Lagutin said and laughed
loudly, flashing his large, strong teeth. He was a big,
handsome man, but his completely bald head and fleshy
Adam’s apple, as Mikhail had pointed out, made him re­
semble a gobbler.
I looked at Vera. Her pale face wore an expression of
anxiety, and her eyes did not leave Moseich. This ugly man,
with his large head and child’s body, was Erast Petro­
vich’s evil genius. He was a descendant of French noble­
men, well-educated and cruel, and was engaged by Lagu­
tin for a salary. His name was Charles Delmasse, but the
peasants had nicknamed him “Moseich.” All the perversity
of an intelligent devil was embodied in this creature. Hav-

56
ing learned to speak Russian, he combined in his person
all the cynicism and refinement of his godless nation with
the cruelty <and coarseness of our ways. Erast Petrovich
could not have found a better confidant and advisor as far
as immoral and sadistic pleasures were concerned. That is
why, in his uneventful country life, he valued Moseich so
greatly, respecting him also for his perfect French.
When it was beautiful Martha’s turn to kiss the master
—she was the young wife of the groom Pyotr, an excellent
fellow—Moseich whispered something to Erast Petrovich.
The latter smirked and pretended he had not noticed her
hide behind her neighbour and then dart into the crowd of
girls to escape her master’s kiss. However, when they had
all thanked him and set out for home singing, Erast Petro­
vich turned to the Elder, a foul, snivelling man, and said
carelessly:
“Pyotr will have cause to remember this!”
Vera blushed and, stepping up to her father, said boldly:
“No, Father, you won’t harm Pyotr!”
Erast Petrovich’s brows twitched, his keen, light eyes
seemed to become lighter still, and his nostrils dilated. Yet,
he controlled himself and, turning to his daughter, spoke
in French:
“It is my wish that your youthful dreams be confined
to your library walls.”
“And now,” he said, addressing us, “please dine with­
out me. I’ll see you again in the evening. Make yourselves
at home. There are excellent riding horses, a boat, and car­
riages. But no matter where you may be, return the minute
you see three rockets go up over the manor house. I’ve ar­
ranged for a play and a surprise—the last, I hope, will be
equally unexpected to all three of you!” Erast Petrovich
looked at us in turn, and his gaze made me feel very un­
comfortable.
Dinner, meticulously served by butlers, was very formal
and stiff. Old Arkhipovna, Vera’s nurse, sat at the head

57
of fhe table—such was the master’s whim after the last of
the French women had been banished.
“Let’s go to the village and visit the Linuchenkos. Per­
haps they’ve come already!” Vera said after dinner.
Each of us was lost in his own turbulent thoughts as we
walked slowly through the village. At the very edge we
turned into a lane as narrow as a pipe: two carts would
never pass there. Iron bars hung at the sides of the shut­
ters like dogs’ tails, and although it was a great Feast Day,
the yard was littered with troughs, rags, and bits of clay
shingles.
“What ignorance!” Vera cried. “The village has burnt
down so many times, yet each time they rebuild it the same
old way, though Father has a whole shelf-ful of books on
improved methods of building wooden structures. No one
cares about the poor peasants at all.”
“Give them time,” Mikhail objected, “and they’ll see the
light. It is we who must be on our toes.”
Naturally, I did not care for their conversation. We were
passing through lovely meadows strewn with bluebells and
honey-coloured dandelions that nodded their golden heads.
I picked the largest one and handed it to Vera, saying:
“This is just like a daisy, all you have to say is: ‘Deacon,
deacon, let your dogs go!’ and little black bugs will creep
out.”
Vera stared at me with eyes as light as her father’s and
said with an ironic smile:
“Serge, you were born too late. Really, you should have
been a little shepherd on a Watteau canvas.”
This was the first time she had spoken to me so sarcas­
tically. I felt it was Mikhail’s influence and did not reply.
Our path now wound through ravines and now got lost
in the wide stretches of sand. I watched Vera clutch her
wind-blown chiffon scarf and could not tear my eyes away
from her face. It was truly amazing. It seemed there were
two faces, though not blended together; rather, two in one.
Her thin body leaning against the wind and narrow, slop-

55
ing shoulders, as on ancient paintings, reflected an almost
sugary, docile femininity. Her too-white complexion and
unnaturally pink cheeks made her face look like a doll’s
face. When she walked with bowed head, as now, her golden
braids hanging down her back, she called to mind a faith­
ful wife of the Middle Ages. I imagined her holding her
knight’s stirrup or sitting at her needlework, waiting
for her master, out late carousing. But suddenly Vera raised
her eyes as she answered Mikhail’s question. Her other
self was in her eyes. They were grey and firm and had her
father’s hawk-like expression; she might die, but still would
never reveal against her will their hidden thought.
Our visit to the farmstead was in vain. The watchman
told us Linuchenko had sent a letter saying he could not
come, and then he handed Vera a note. She turned pale as
she read it. i
“Kaleria has consumption, and they’ve gone to the Cri­
mea for a year. Oh, how terrible my life will be here with­
out them!” she cried out suddenly. Without noticing it, she
had taken Mikhail’s arm. He squeezed hers, as if promis­
ing his protection.
Apparently, Watteau’s little shepherd no longer counted
as far as she was concerned.
“We’ve lots of time until evening. Let’s go to the lake,”
Vera suggested.
And so we did. There was a strange place not far from
the farmstead, along the old road to town. Several steep
hills covered with broad-leaved coltsfoot and some kind of
fragrant bushes stood side by side, encircling a small round
lake with a flat shimmering surface. Its origin was a mys­
tery, but legend had it that an old nobleman’s wife had
cursed her unruly daughter who had run off with a passing
hussar. The mother’s evil thoughts had caught up with the
runaways at the spot, causing the horses to sink in the
quag and springs to bubble up over it. By morning there
was a lake there as round as a cup. At this point in her
story Vera’s nurse, Arkhipovna, would add, “The old woman

59
 was a witch, you know. She had been drinking tea at the
time. Then she frowned, turned her full cup around on the
saucer, and said, ‘Let the fate of the disobedient one be
the same!’ That’s why the lake is as round as a cup of tea.
Just like a witch’s eye.”
Vera told Mikhail the familiar legend as we walked
along and when she finished she looked at him significantly
and said, “I like the lake because of the daughter’s un­
ruliness.”
Mikhail laughed. They certainly had something up their
sleeve and I’d have to be on my guard. Vera sat down on
a large stone and Mikhail beside her, while I sat on the
ground at her feet. The sun had set and the sky was a deli­
cate green.
“Look, there’s the first star,” Vera pointed. “See how
clean it is, as if it’s been scrubbed. We should hurry home,
for they’ll send the rockets up soon, but to tell you the truth,
I wish 1 could stay here all night.”
“There’s only one star I like,” Mikhail said. “It’s Hes­
perus, the herald of dawn, the one the poets love. Do you
know why 1 like it? When I was a boy I read somewhere
that the alchemists believed Venus gives the earth a third
of the energy it receives itself from the sun, and it re­
ceives much more than the earth does. That’s why the spirit
of the earth is subordinated to the spirit of Venus, that
full-blooded vital spirit of experienced knowledge. The
fable is charming and quite to my taste, but I’m sure Ser­
gei must prefer the poem: ‘Come, mourn with me, O Moon,
friend of the sorrowful!’ ”
“I don’t understand you,” I said. “What do you mean by
experienced knowledge?” '
“I mean that if a daring fellow of old felt something
strongly, he did not suppress it in the name of earthly
virtue and some kind of heavenly reward. He gave himself
up to this feeling and accomplished what he had to. Only
an experiment which has been brought to its logical conclu­
sion can cast off all that is detrimental to growth. And

60
 when real, free people finally create a wonderful life for
the future generations, it will not have been accomplished
by cowardly side-stepping, but only by an attempt to over­
throw the useless forms and replace them by better ones,
even if it has to be done by force. And so in the name of
Life one must be the master of Lifel”
Vera listened to Mikhail as if he were a prophet, but
his high-handed tone disgusted me, and I said:
“But who in the world appointed you master over the
others, and who can prove that you are wiser and better
than the others?”
I shall never forget Mikhail’s face: he first flushed and
then threw his head back as he always did, and said with
great feeling and not at all high-handedly:
“Sometimes a person can find no happiness in life as
long as others suffer. Even if such a person does bind him­
self by some tie other than the happiness of mankind, he
will never get much satisfaction from it and will only suc­
ceed in losing his vital and precious freedom. Yes, it is so.
In other words, there always have been people and there
will be more and more of them who will not demand per­
sonal happiness, but will joyfully seek a way and means
of helping to liberate and bring happiness to all mankind!”
Mikhail bent down and put his hand on my shoulder, a
thing he had not done in a long time.
“Dear Serge!” he cried. “You find pleasure in every sun­
set, in the moon, and in poetry. But havo^you ever stopped
to think why you should have a right to this when all
around you people—perhaps better and wiser than you—are
born, live, and die slaves?”
“Mikhail.. . ” Vera began, but for some reason said no
more.
I felt a stab in my heart. Had she stopped from excite­
ment, or because she was used to addressing him thus and
had unconsciously disclosed their tender relationship?
Suddenly we heard a moan. Someone was sobbing at a
grave—there was an old cemetery close by the lake.

61
 “I think it’s Martha at her mother’s grave!” Vera ex­
claimed, and flying easily over the ditch that separated
us from the cemetery, she ran up to the young woman,
Martha fell prostrate at Vera’s feet and wailed:
“Oh, please put in a word for Pyotr, or the master will
send him away to the army for life!’’
Vera seemed downcast and pale.
“Father never listens to me,” she said.
“What shall I do then—kill myself? They’ll send Pyotr
away and he’ll take me into the house instead of Palashka,
you know he will. I’d sooner drown myself.”
“Listen, Martha!” Vera cried. Her eyes were hard and
glittered as her father’s did when he would softly say,
“Whip him in the stable.” “Wait for me in the dovecote at
dawn tomorrow. That’s the best place. And I’ll tell you
what I’ve decided. You must believe me when I say I shan’t
let you suffer. Be patient till tomorrow.”
When Martha had calmed down and went home, Vera told
Mikhail, “We’ll include her in our circle. We’ve no choice.”
“Very well,” he said. “She seems to be all right.”
The two of them had quite frankly forgotten all about
my existence and really did believe I belonged in Watteau’s
era.
Three rockets shot up in quick succession. We rose and
hurried back to the manor house. It was illuminated by
multi-coloured lanterns which were strung like gleaming
garlands from the top floor balcony to the ones below. The
house, built by Auguste de Monferrand, the designer of
Isaakiyevsky Cathedral, was magnificent with its main
front portico adorned by snow-white columns and framed
by arches.
Mikhail and I washed in our rooms, put on new uniforms
and patent-leather ballroom boots, and, trying to step light­
ly and with dignity, we appeared among the guests.
A grotto with a lovely fountain had been erected in the
centre of the hall and there, sitting on the rocks beneath
flowering oleanders camouflaged to conceal their wooden

62
tubs and giving the appearance of growing right from the
rocks, sat the Graces, shepherds, and nymphs. Guests in
costume peeked mischievously through the slits in their
black silk masks. Immense wall mirrors reflected the splen­
dour of the scene, repeating it to infinity. There was a
raised stage at the far end of the hall, and when the mas­
ter clapped his hands the nymphs, shepherds, and Graces
suddenly flitted off towards it, to the accompaniment of a
chorus, hidden among the verdure.
Enast Petrovich was wearing his grandfather’s velvet
coat, complete with shoulder sash and regalia—the old man
had been a courtier in Catherine’s time—and now, appro­
priately wearing a powdered wig, Lagutin seemed an im­
portant arrival from another world. The only other guest
besides Mikhail and myself who was not in costume was
Prince Nelsky, a wealthy neighbour and an extremely well-
educated and humane man of about forty, whose face re­
flected the wonderful qualities of his soul. Erast Petrovich
insisted that we dress as marquises. The Prince donned a
velvet jacket and we put on identical light-blue coats and
wigs. Mikhail and I were of the same height, and once we
had put on our masks, we could easily have passed for each
other. This fact proved to be but another link in the terrible
chain which Fate had forged so capriciously to join us.
Just before supper Vera, looking lovely dressed as a
pompadour, whispered in my ear:
“Hurry to the arbour!”
I asked foolishly, “Will you be there?”
Vera started at the sound of my voice and replied:
“No, I won’t, Sergei. I was just teasing.” And she flew
off as lightly as a piece of fluff.
I realized the invitation had been intended for Mikhail
and became as one possessed. A piercing hatred towards
the friend whom I myself had brought here to destroy me
devoured my soul. What truth there was in the words of an
old wise man Auntie Kushina liked to quote: “Evil spirits
are not stronger than man, but when he lowers himself to

63
 their level he becomes one of them and cannot rid himself
of them for they are legion.”
A legion of base passions awoke in my soul. Alas! It
did not turn out to be a great ocean, but a miserable little
swamp covered over on the surface by a pleasant screen of
emerald duckweed. Revenge, hatred, insulted love, and the
petty pride which Mikhail had offended drove me down the
steep path to the pond and the arbour. I hid among the
bushes.
The fireworks display was set off. Hundreds of fiery balls
soared in the dark sky and, bursting from within, they
exploded on high, raining down as multi-coloured sparks.
The great watery mirror of the lake reflected the lights.
My artist’s heart was so enchanted that for a moment every­
thing hateful seemed to leave me. Then I heard two famil­
iar voices coming from the arbour. Oh, they were not at
all concerned with the beauty of the world, nor with my
life they were ruining! We Rusanins all love but once in
life. Two of my aunts had become nuns because of unre­
quited love, and my uncle Pyotr had shot himself for the
same reason.
“My darling!” Mikhail cried with a passion of which
I thought him incapable. “Then it’s not a dream, and you
have decided to unite your heart with mine?”
Her gentle voice answered, “Do you still doubt it?”
For a moment there was silence: they kissed.
I felt sick, and the rockets that were falling into the
water seemed to be falling into my own heart and burning it.
“But I must warn you,” Mikhail’s voice had suddenly
become abominably harsh, “that if necessary I will sacri­
fice my love for my cause. A woman once tried to turn me
into her possession and I came near to murdering her. That
was in the Crimea. Shall I tell you about it?”
“I don’t want to know your past. I’m joining you for the
future,” Vera answered with dignity.
“But, my dear, nothing but hardship awaits you with
me. And that is the most favourable outcome. My decision

64
is final. I shall dedicate my life to bringing about an up­
rising of an enslaved nation against its despot. Failure
will mean not only penal servitude, but the gallows.”
She interrupted him with words as ancient as the world,
as ancient as love itself. “Then I shall follow you to the
executioner’s block!”
Again there followed an agonizing silence. They were
kissing again. Then, laughing like a child, she said:
“Father will announce my engagement to Prince Nelsky
at supper. He just spoke to me quite seriously and was
amazed that I did not object as I usually do when we speak
of less serious matters. Imagine, that was to be the sur­
prise he had promised the three of us! Father mentioned
both of you: ‘Your beaux,’ he said significantly, ‘will not
take this as calmly as you.’ And 1 said, ‘So what! I gave
no one false hopes, and although I do not love the prince
either, I can’t very well marry one of those boys!’ Father
does not suspect that I’ll run off with one of those boys to­
morrow.”
Mikhail laughed. “You’re a regular Machiavelli, my dar­
ling! But when will you do it?”
“I’ll tell Martha everything in the morning and she’ll
tell Pyotr. If we can’t get to your mother’s place within
the short time we planned, then I’ll send you a letter with
Serge—he’s reliable.”
“He does seem to be a trustworthy chap though he’s not
very bright,” Mikhail said condescendingly.
Wretch! Those words sealed his doom. They rooted out
the last vestiges of magnanimity of which I was still ca­
pable. So, I was to renounce all the joys of life, aid in
the happiness of my rival, iand for all this receive the
hardly complimentary definition of being a none-too-clever
fellow!
The sounds of a gong and bugles summoned the guests
to supper. Erast Petrovich rose, surrounded by the spar­
kling dinnerware and fragrant llowers which had been
brought in from the hothouse for the gala occasion. He was

5 382 65
still wearing the velvet frock-coat of bygone days and
seemed especially solemn, like a French Court Marshal, as
he held his glass of champagne on high.
“My dear guests, I consider it a great honour to an­
nounce the engagement of my daughter, Vera Erastovna,
to Prince Nelsky.”
There was a flourish from the orchestra, followed by
toasts and congratulations in honour of the couple. Unable
to stand the sight of Mikhail and Vera’s perfidious faces,
I fled. This seemed a natural expression of my great disap­
pointment, for everyone knew I had been Vera’s long­
standing admirer. Thus, I was left holding the bag once
again, for I had involuntarily aided them in their plan.
CHAPTER V

Pigeon
Necks

# he sky was grey and drizzling. This greyness

m of nature suited my tortured nerves. Towards
m dawn I entered the arbour where Mikhail and
K Vera had met the evening before. There was
something white beneath the bench. Bending
down, I saw that it was several pages of the Kolokol,
which Mikhail had probably dropped. I picked them up
with disgust. These pages were the loop-hole of a hungry
wolf, through which he, a murderer and conspirator,
was able to rob me of my peace and joy. At the sight
of those two-columned sheets I felt as Prince Oleg had
once felt upon seeing the snake of Death crawling out of
a skull. Mad rage was getting hold o,f me as I recognized
Mikhail’s speeches practically word for word in the
printed text, and thus I did not notice Moseich enter the
arbour.
“1 never expected to see you interested in such seditious
ideas, sir,” he said in French, his big mouth pulled in a
grin.

5* 67
 “You’re right, my dear Monsieur Delmasse,” I answered,
as always calling him by his real name, a fact which had
earned me his friendship. ‘ Noblemen like you and I should
not be traitors to our class. The owner of such poison can
only be one who is infected with it.”
“Such as your friend Beideman?”
“I did not name him.”
“But I have my own opinion. Give me this cursed m ag­
azine," Moseich said. “I consider it my sacred duty to fight
an enemy of my class. In this case it is also a question of
shielding a young girl’s soul from evil influence. Do you
not see that Beideman has bewitched Vera Erastovna?
When her engagement was announced yesterday I noticed
something quite peculiar: they winked to each other with
the look of conspirators. They have plotted something which
must be stopped, though perhaps the fate of an innocent
victim does not concern you,” the dwarf added craftily.
“I will die before I see her ruined!” I cried passionately.
“Then give me the magazine.”
I cannot say, as I have told myself all my life, that I
did not fully realize what I was doing when I placed the
sheets in Moseich’s long, monkey-like, grasping hand. Of
course, I had no way of knowing the form which that first
treachery of mine would take, but, naturally, I was aware
that Mikhail would get into trouble as a disseminator of
forbidden literature, especially since I was giving the maga­
zine to such a villain as Moseich.
I have now reached an age when a person does not wish
io escape his conscience any longer and when no excuses
will reassure him. There is but one comfort left to me, in­
glorious, but proud: I am to be my own severe judge. A
moment after I handed Moseich the Kolokol in a rage, I
ran after him to take it back. Experienced villain that he
was, and knowing all the turns of a weak nature, he slipped
into the cellar of the house before I had had <a chance
to change my mind. He had a workshop there which had
gained him ill fame and where, in the labyrinth of the pas-

55
sageways, I could never have found him anyway. 1 felt
flushed and feverish. My thoughts were jumbled and the
one uppermost in my mind was to be near Vera and not to
surrender her to Mikhail.
In my mind’s eye I kept seeing the executioner’s block
on Red Square and the executioner himself with Vera’s
golden braids twisted round his fist. Her white neck was
on the block, then the axe flashed through the air. I was
ill and these were hallucinations. Suddenly, my brain re­
created the conversation I had overheard the night before.
Vera’s fate would now be linked to Martha and Pyotr, and
she had promised to meet Martha in the dovecote.
The first faint rays of the sun touched the tops of the
birch groves and the little birches fluttered their greeting
to the sun. I stole to the dovecote and hid behind a heap
of rubbish dumped in a corner. I shan’t lie and say I felt
ashamed, though I knew my actions were contemptible;
however, at that moment I had no mercenary motives. I
no longer thought of my own happiness. I had to save Vera,
deluded by the rebellious spirit of a person who was pos­
sibly not sound of mind. Mikhail had told me that there
had been insanity in his family. This striving towards a
single goal and the fire that was ever consuming him might
well have been the first symptoms of the disease. I was
horrified when I overheard him confess he had nearly mur­
dered the woman he loved. And then, his telling Vera that
in joining her life with his she would not only have to
share the horrors of Siberia, but the hangman’s noose as
well, revealed the unbounded pride of a heartless villain.
Those words burnt my heart, for if Vera were to follow him
she would never stop half-way! I would not have her suffer­
ing deprivations in prison or in exile. I had to save her.
She did not love Mikhail, it was all an evil spell. Besides,
as a loyal subject, knowing of the dangerous intentions of
a cadet who, ias I, was soon to become an officer, I felt
duty-bound to stop him. There was no telling where his

69
evil will would lead him. Had he not repeated time and
again, “If he who holds supreme power will not relinquish
it, he can be made to do so”?
I heard a rustling sound, like that made by a cat. Peep­
ing through a chink 1 saw Moseich. “What has he come
for?” I wondered and suddenly felt frightened. Moseich
walked up to the cages with young pigeons, pulled one out,
and wrung its neck; then another, and a third. The expres­
sion on his face was horrible, like the sorcerer’s in Gogol’s
Terrible Vengeance. Moseich’s nose, too, seemed larger
than normal. A yellow incisor protruded from his half-open
blood-thirsty mouth. The bony fingers of his over-long
hands would suddenly grip the fluttering bird’s beak and
head like a steel vice. He would twist the grey neck once,
and again, like a cork-opener in a bottle, making the bones
crack. The old pigeons flapped their wings and cooed plain­
tively.
My indignation was so great that I was ready to grab
the scoundrel by the scruff of his neck when he suddenly
snatched up the dead birds and scampered to a far corner.
Vera and Martha were coming up the stairs.
“Oh, dear!” Martha cried, rushing to the open door of
the cage Moseich had not had time to close. “That hunch­
backed devil has carried off three little pigeons again!”
“Whom are you scolding?” Vera asked.
“The dwarf Moseich wrings their necks and eats them.
He says they’re tastier than chickens. There’s no one worse
than that devil in the whole world, Miss. It’s he who puts
those ideas in the master’s head.”
“What a low person!” Vera blushed. “But let him be,
time is precious. Leave the pigeons and come sit here by
me.
Despite my anguish, I could not but appreciate and re­
member for ever the magnificent scene. A golden ray of
sunshine coming through the little window pierced the
gloom as in a Rembrandt painting and fell upon their
heads. I can still see Vera’s delicate features and adamant

70
eyes, which, in her excitement, made her resemble the angel
of justice. Her small, girlish hand lay lightly upon the gold­
en mass of Martha’s lovely hair; the woman was a true
Russian beauty in a white embroidered blouse and deep
blue sarafan so popular in those parts.
They agreed to run away that very night. Pyotr, being
one of the head grooms, was to steal a pair of black horses,
harness up a light carriage, and wait for them at night
beyond the village. Towards evening Martha was to bring
old Lagutin’s customary decanter of wine to his room, but
with a sleeping powder in it to prevent her having to dance
for him as usual. Vera said little and was calm. She had
already planned everything.
“But, dear Miss, where will we go then?”
“Then we’ll go to Lesnoye near Petersburg. We’ll be
sheltered there until Linuchenko comes. We can’t delay.
Let the pigeons out and hurry to my room. Oh, to be free!
We’ll make out all right.”
“I’d go through fire and water with you, Miss!” Martha
cried.
Vera rose and walked over to the steps. When she bent
to go down, her light chiffon scarf brushed against my face.
Martha followed her, and the pigeons, now freed, pushed
off from the wooden cages with their little red feet and
soared above the birch-trees.
I sat there stunned by all I had heard. What great power
Mikhail had over Vera! Two months ago they were not
even acquainted, yet now he was forcing her to renounce
her old father and home for ever and run off with the serv- .
ants, aided by a series of treacherous lies. And I, the
friend of her tender childhood, had flown out of her mind
as the fluff from a dandelion after the first breeze.
“A la bonne heur,” I suddenly heard Moseich say. “That
was quite a catch!” Then he added with as much cordiality
as his own ugliness could suffer, “I will not ask, sir, how
you happen to be here. I hope we are both of the same
mind as concerns the young ladies’ plot. They have not

71
 even forgotten the sleeping powder—just like in a melo­
drama—and it’s all the innocent result of her father’s French
library. For their own good we must not let our heroines
act out the comedy in real life. However, this will also be
‘in character.’ I beg your pardon, but my Gallic appreci­
ation of wit never deserts me.”
This Quasimodo repulsed me, yet I found myself agree­
ing with his desire to interfere with their flight. The idea
that Vera would go off to Mikhail for ever dimmed my
thoughts and robbed me of all chivalrous impulses.
“Not a word, my friend,” the hunchback whispered.
“Leave everything to me. Let the evil abductor leave with
hopes of a speedy reunion, and let the heroine and her
golden-haired accomplice prepare everything for their
flight from her father’s home. They can try, but at the edge
of the village we’ll snatch them up like mice in a mouse­
trap. We’ll let them get into the carriage with their bun­
dles and souvenirs, mon ami, and the moment Pyotr cracks
his whip, trustworthy guards will block their way with
shouting and lanterns. We can even set off a rocket or two
that were left over from the engagement party! Ha-ha!
The bride-to-be will naturally faint and be dispatched off
to her room and locked in. Pyotr, according to local tradi­
tion, will be sent to the stable to be whipped, and golden­
haired Martha—” Moseich’s face looked like a filthy ba­
boon’s— “will get what’s coming to her! That leaves you
alone, as before, to console the heroine.”
“You wretch!” I cried, shaking with rage. “I’ll be no part
to your filthy plans.”
“Oh-ho!” Moseich backed away towards the little win­
dow, and, to be on the safe side, thrust his feet out on to
the top step outside. “You, sir, are a participant in abso­
lutely everything, for you were the one to begin the fami­
ly drama. It was you who betrayed Beideman by handing
over the Kolokol."
I rushed to the stairs and shouted, “What have you
done with the magazine?”

72
 “Nothing to worry about. I merely handed it oyer to the
most trustworthy of libraries—Erast Petrovich’s enraged
paternal hands.”
“Oh, what have you got me mixed up in!”
“Now, now, mon cher, you’re not a baby.” Moseich no
longer tried to conceal his contempt. “As the Russian prov­
erb goes—you don’t want to have feathers on your snout, but
I, sir, have the courage to kill my own pigeons for my din­
ner. It’s still not too late,” the devil said, and once again he
spoke the truth. “Go on and warn Vera Erastovna!”
He never doubted my baseness.
When I came down the attic stairway the daylight blind­
ed me. The grey sky was now a bright enamel-blue. I wan­
dered towards the manor house, and when I reached a bench
which offered a distant view of Vera’s vine-covered bed­
room window, I collapsed from exhaustion. The events
had been nerve-shattering and I .had not slept all night.
If Mikhail had suddenly appeared beside me and asked me
what was wrong, I would have told him everything, re­
gardless of the consequences.
Ducks were making clucking sounds as they fished for
worms in the stream beyond the bush; a herd of cows
clumped by heavily on their way to the watering place.
There was a faint jangle of bells as a troika rolled up to
the porch. 1 realized it was for Mikhail, since he had bid
everyone farewell the previous evening, wishing to reach
the city and catch the train to Lesnoye to spend the last
day of the holidays with his mother.
Suddenly Mikhail, wearing his cap and greatcoat,
popped up from among the dense box bushes which grew
beneath Vera’s window. He rapped on the window lightly
with a willow-branch. His tap had obviously been expect­
ed: the window was thrown open and a beaming and ra­
diant Vera in a light-pink dressing-gown, reflecting the
sunshine that streamed down from the clear, cloudless sky,
stretched her thin 'arms towards him. Mikhail jumped
lightly on to the window-sill. They embraced.
73
 Fate was certainly mocking me, making me see with my
own eyes what I had merely guessed at during the night.
Vera whispered to Mikhail for quite some time: she was
apparently telling him her plan. He hurried her and kept
glancing about, anxious lest someone see them, and looked
in my direction twice. The lilac-covered arbour concealed
me, though I could observe them through a small gap
in the bushes. They took leave of each other so joyfully,
and were so full of wonderful hopes, that I did not notice
the slightest shadow of pain, that constant companion of
lovers’ parting, no matter how brief.
Mikhail jumped off the window-still and turned round.
She waved the branch he had left her and stood gazing at
the road until the last cloud of dust stirred up by the troika
had settled again. I watched her as she turned, the same
triumphant and radiant smile still on her lips, and then
disappeared into the recesses of her room. If she had only
known that glorious morning that she had seen Mikhail
for the last time! However, this is not entirely correct, as
she did see him once again. But then it was no longer >he.
My holidays were to end in several days, but I could no
longer stand the torture. There was a tenseness in the
house, as before a storm. Old Lagutin said he was ill and
kept to his room; Moseich never left his side, and they
were apparently plotting the trap together. Vera would occa­
sionally appear with an absent-minded look, her thoughts
obviously somewhere else. She spent most of the time locked
in her room with Martha, and it later turned out that
they were putting aside all her valuables to be taken
along. Finding a convenient moment, I approached Vera.
“Farewell! I’m going hunting and will probably not
have a chance to say good-bye tomorrow, since you usually
sleep late. I have to leave at dawn, as Mikhail did today.”
Purposely emphasizing the last phrase, I looked at her
defiantly, inwardly begging her to become apprehensive at
my tone, to question me and demand an answer. Who
knows but that if she had paid the slightest personal at-

74
 tention to me, I would perhaps have told her about Mo-
seich. There would have been no end to my gallantry, I
would have thought of a new plan of escape, and I myself
would have aided her! What person really knows the depth
of baseness and the height of selflessness of his own mys­
terious soul?
Vera started at the mention of Mikhail’s name, but then,
probably remembering my simple-mindedness and dis­
gusting “nobility,” decided that the emphasis had been unin­
tentional and said absent-mindedly, “Oh! Well, good-bye,”
and then returned to her room, for Martha was calling her.
I grabbed my gun and stumbled out. I wandered about
all day long, shot nothing, and cared less. As a fatally
wounded animal seeks a place to hide and lick its wounds,
I tramped groaning through underbrush all night. At
dawn, possessed by an unbearable concern over Vera’s
fate and feeling guilty towards her and despising myself, I
approached the Lagutin estate.
As I was passing the stable, I heard a terrible moaning
coming from within. I listened closely: the crack of a whip,
followed by a grunt after each lash, as if a great weight
were being lifted, spoke only too clearly of the abominable
punishment taking place inside.
“Wait!” I heard Moseich say. “He’s stopped breathing.
Douse him with water!”
I yanked at the door with all my strength, tearing it
from its hinges, and entered. Pyotr, deathly pale and
bound tightly, lay on a bench. He was unconscious. His
strong, naked body was covered with purple welts and
blood.
“You dogs, you flogged him to death!”
“That was the last of it,” a huge muzhik said calmly.
“Let him sleep it off.” And he began wiping the three­
pronged whip clean of blood.
Moseich squinted his poisonous eyes and lit his pipe.
“The little escapade is over,” he said. “We wrung all three
pigeons’ necks!”

75
 “Where is Vera?” I shouted.
“The princess is under lock and key, and though she’s
not in a round tower, she’ll hardly escape. The old king
revived the birth of Aphrodite from the sea foam famously
last night—with the aid of golden-haired Martha.”
“What has he decided to do about Vera Erastovna?”
“Something you’ll like. She is to be married to Prince
Nelsky immediately, and as he is twice her age, a young
man to console her will be most welcome.”
I slapped the old devil, knocking him off his feet, and
then ran towards the house. It was still very early, the
doors and shutters were locked. I pulled myself up by my
hands, as Mikhail had done the day before, and rapped on
the shutter of Vera’s window. After a while old Arkhipovna
opened it a crack. She waved her hands at me frantically,
hissing, “You’ll get us into trouble! Go away! They’re
guarding the place!”
I heard Vera’s voice, asking who it was. Arkhipovna
stuck her head out again and looking round, whispered,
“Wait in the bushes.”
I jumped into the thick acacia like a hare, and just in
the nick of time. Gypsy Grishka, Moseich’s aide, sprang
up from beyond the corner, club in hand, shouting, “Who’s
there?” I remained in hiding for a whole hour, until Grish­
ka was called to the servants’ quarters and Kondrat, a
nice young fellow with whom I often spent ia night in the
meadows, looking after the horses, took his place under
the window. He was devoted to me, and I wanted to buy
him from Lagutin.
“Kondrat,” I called.
“Oh, go away, sir,” he said. “They’ll flog me if I let you
in.”
Arkhipovna’s wrinkled hand, with a bit of red woollen
yarn tied round the wrist to cure her rheumatism, stuck an
envelope out of the window.
“Hurry, Kondrat, give me the letter.”
Kondrat looked round warily, took the envelope from the

75
old nurse, and handed it to me. I hid it on my breast. The
shutter banged close.
“Kondrat, quickly, tell me what happened.”
Kondrat said that towards evening Martha had brought
Lagutin some wine which the young mistress had drugged,
and since Moseich had already told the Master everything,
he substituted the decanter with one he had prepared be­
forehand. He told Martha to dance for him and pretended to
fall asleep. As soon as Martha felt certain he was sleeping,
she rushed to the young mistress. The two of them snatched
up their bundles and ran to the edge of the village.
Pyotr was waiting for them there with the carriage. No
sooner had they got in than Erast Petrovich blocked their
way, waving his revolver. Although he was shooting into
the air, both women fainted from fright. Pyotr lashed the
horses; but he stood no chance against a posse. They
dragged him down, poor soul, bound hand and foot, and
turned him over to Moseich, a past master at dealing with
such things. The young mistress was carried to her room and
locked in with her nurse, and Martha was made to dance
all night.
“Dance!” the master had cried. “They won’t whip Pyotr
as long as you dance, but the minute you stop they’ll go to
work on him! They’ll be cheering him up till morning.
Well, let’s see you shorten his sentence!”
And Martha had danced like mad all night until she
had finally collapsed as a sheaf under the scythe, and was
now ill.
“You’d better go, sir, or there’ll be more trouble.”
Kondrat spied the watchman and darted away, while I
set out to order my horses.
Vera’s letter was not sealed. She must have hardly con­
sidered me a person at all, to care so little whether or not
I witnessed her innermost feelings, and apparently felt
she could rely completely on my devotion and magnanim­
ity. How insulting and dangerous at times is a quality
called respect, which in reality is often no more than the

77
 greatest indifference and a convenient acknowledgement
of an exalted nature. This callous acknowledgement makes
a person immediately lose all these qualities, sad proof of
the fact that complete selflessness in the name of a noble
deed is the lot of but a very few chosen ones.
In her letter to Mikhail Vera described her unsuccess­
ful flight and the reasons that had prompted her to decide
not to undertake any new steps without first consulting
him. Her father had come to her with the sheets of the
Kolokol, saying that he would take the matter up with Mi­
khail’s superiors and tell them that his daughter was being
politically led astray. Vera was concerned lest Mikhail im­
pulsively reveal his beliefs and thus immediately lose his
freedom and with it a chance to really work for the cause of
the Revolution.
“However,” she concluded, “if you think it necessary to
disclose your views at this point and be apprehended as
the one responsible for everything, then I beg you not to
forget to take me with you, for we are united for ever-----”
There followed a confession of her love in words which I
would never have dared to say to Vera even in my
thoughts. And she had no doubt at all that I would give
him the letter! Well, she should have known better!
CHAPTER VI

The Round
Roorrf

t has been raining so much this summer! I

/
can't seem to get warm after the cold winter. I
had the bright idea of sewing linoleum soles on
my felt boots to make them waterproof, for I
can’t afford a pair of rubbers. The girls thought
it was very funny, but they helped anyway.
Their little hands brought me luck: 1 collected more these
days than ever before. The passers-by felt sorry for an old
man in the rain with felt boots and checkered linoleum
soles. People are really greater artists than they think. They
are not bothered by poverty, but rather by its new and col­
ourful manifestations. Before, when I splashed through
the puddles in my wet boots, I felt much worse, but I got
less. Yet now, when this ingenious substitute for rubbers
has improved my health, 1 find that people are touched and
give me twice as much.
I bought half a pound of bones at the butcher's, some
bread, and a caramel each for the girls; then I rein.in­
hered that the boys who hawk sweets always lick them to

79
make them shiny. But that’s all right, I’ll scald them as if by
accident. The girls will really like them.
I came home by trolley today. As I sat in a corner I saw
an ad about a visiting professor of psychology who was
to expose the fortune-tellers and hypnotists’ swindle. Then
I suddenly recalled Paris and a fortune-teller named Ma­
dame de Tebbe. There was a plaster cast of a hand in her
waiting-room which I definitely associated with playing
cards. I looked at it closely and said, “Why, this is Gen­
eral D.’s hand!” Madam de Tebbe was startled.
“How did you recognize it? Let me have your hand.”
And suddenly she became very sad and close to tears.
“You have a terrible future.”
“Tell me,” I insisted.
“A great artist has died in you. Once a person has
killed the artist in him, a villain will come to take his place:
such are the laws of the spirit. But that is your past.”
She finally yielded to my pleas and in answer to my
question: “How will I meet my death?” turned pale and
said:
“You will die from exhaustion, sir, after twenty years
of inhuman suffering in solitary confinement and an insane
asylum.”
I’m eighty-three now. Even if I am arrested today, it
is highly unlikely that I shall live another twenty years—
even in a state of complete insanity—to die at the age of a
hundred and three. Well, ias they used to say at the Acad­
emy, Madame de Tebbe sat down in a puddle as far as her
prophecy was concerned. Who’d ever bother an old beggar?
I have nob been able to write these past few days. The
rain brought on an attack of rheumatism, and I kept look­
ing at the grey sky, waiting for the sun, as a sick animal
looks up from its lair.
Today is the first of May, a day I shall always remem­
ber as the one on which I took the second step towards
dooming Mikhail. The reader will recall that the first step
was taken in the arbour when I handed the Kolokol to

80
Moseich. I shall speak of the consequences in this chapter,
but I must first note down more recent events for my own
use: I mean the May Day festivities in the sixth year of the
Revolution.
It rained buckets yesterday, and our girls cried because
they would not have a good holiday on the 1st of May. How­
ever, today the sun suddenly broke through and was as
hot and glorious as on the nicest day in July. The girls
chattered happily, pinning red bows on each other. Old
Potapich adjusted a Communist badge on his jacket: it
was a hammer and sickle on a red star; then he stuck a
pin with a portrait of Comrade Lenin in his red tie. I
watched him shave and put on these new badges, a sign
of the new government’s strength.
Everyone left, and I was home alone. The girls rode off
with their schoolmates on a truck adorned with fir-branohes
and huge banners proclaiming the advantages of lit­
eracy over ignorance. Old Potapich is also keeping in step
with the “educational workers”—'he’s a watchman at the
District Educational Centre. He said proudly as he left:
“We have our own banner, and the embroidery is excel­
lent. Just imagine—ears of wheat on crimson velvet, and
there’s a slogan, too.”
I was not alone for long. Goretsky came in, panting
from the many flights of stairs. He’s a strange old man
who likes spectacles, and there’s a bird’s-eye view of Nev­
sky Prospekt from our windows. Goretsky is now in his sec­
ond childhood. He has completely forgotten the past and
lives only in the present. He immediately asked if I had
any sugar and said it would not be a bad idea to have
some tea. We sucked our tea through the lumps of sugar in
our mouths—such is the luxury of contemporary living.
However, this is the sugar I’ve been saving for the girls.
Goretsky was very enthusiastic in his description of the
floats and the intended order of the procession. His clients
often leave him their newspapers and chat with the talka­
tive old fellow. Considering Goretskv’s excellent state of

6—382 81
health, as compared to mine, I made him promise me that
in case of my death he would take my notes to the ad­
dressee. He was reluctant to undertake this mission, saying
that he never had any free time, but after I promised him
a pound of cheap tobacco, he in turn promised that if any­
thing happened he would personally take my notes to the
publisher.
Suddenly there was a blare of bugles: we looked out and
saw the procession stretched out along Nevsky Prospekt
from Nikolayevsky Station. There were workers, troops,
and children. They were just common people celebrating
their holiday. In the middle was a truck carrying a huge
globe. The countries where the Revolution was either an
accomplished fact or else shortly awaited were marked off
in red among the light-blue seas and oceans. There was a
moving belt with the slogan: “Workers of the World, Unite!”
around the equator. And when a chorus of clear girls’
voices chanted from all sides of the huge globe the same
appeal that Mikhail used to whisper to me with such firm
belief in the future, I thought that, unseen, he was here. I
must confess it was inspiring and wonderful. Another truck
carried a huge galosh with the merry rich of the world
sitting inside. They exchanged witty remarks with the on­
lookers, to the enjoyment of all.
The troops followed in orderly procession. They were
wearing well-made uniforms with multi-coloured insig­
nia, and they all had helmets, like Vikings. Where had so
many tall, strong fellows come from? Russia’s strength
was not becoming drained! How recently had the battle­
fields been strewn with the best of her warriors, yet she,
like virgin soil drenched with sun, never tiring of push­
ing up strong new shoots, had swelled the ranks again.
The sound of an army band playing martial music made
poor Goretsky suddenly remember the past.
“Sergei, sometimes in a fit of old-age spleen I lie. I’m
only a watchman now. But it was I, I, who captured Gil-
kho!” He looked ready to sob, but then he said suddenly

82
with an expression of triumph, as if he, too, were a partic­
ipant in the May Day celebration:
“Aha, you see, it’s all right now. Now the red banners
are all right. But what about before?” His irresponsibility
enraged me.
“Fool!” I cried as only an old friend can. “Why were
they not all right before, blockhead? Because of people like
you and me. Did you ever protest when they hung terror­
ists, or sent people to prison? No, sir, you were all in
favour of it.”
“Well, tnoti cher,” he answered blandly, “that’s some­
thing else again. Terrorists wanted to use force.”
I dropped the subject. The old man was obviously going
out of his mind. To top it all, he was extremely pleased
that the militiamen now had new well-made black uni­
forms with red collars.
“Mon cher, we have a new police force and it is so much
more respectable-looking than the previous one. Ma foi—
it’s European. Oh, if I had only known it would be like
this, I would never have been a saboteur! And between
you and me, they were in too .much of a hurry to exter­
minate us. They should have immediately taken us into their
confidence. However, I can’t complain. I have a quiet place,
■an au-toc-ra-cy, actually. I’m my own boss, and there’s no,
ha, ha, and there’s no ledgers and things.”
Goretsky had tired me, and I was glad when he decided to
leave. However, I immediately felt ashamed that this last,
dear, close friend annoyed me, and offered to see him home.
On my way back I fell in with the general stream of peo­
ple and found myself on fateful Uritsky Square. A crowd
of thousands listened in perfect silence to the orators
standing on a high grandstand. When the red banner was
raised and unfurled thousands of voices burst forth in
song. They sang the Internationale.
What did I actually see and what was a hallucination?
Was it not on this very square that another anthem had
thundered mightily, for ever inseparable, it had seemed,
6' 83
from the word “Russia”? How long ago had that been? In
time but a fleeting five years, yet in all that had transpired
since then i't seemed centuries. And now the Internationale
had become just as inseparable from the nation.
The girls came home happy, they had sweets and fa­
vours, and Ivan Potapich had obviously had a drop too
much.
“The co-operators treated me to some beer and it
wouldn’t have been comradely to refuse,” he explained.
Then he removed his new badges, and, desiring to-make
May Day a family tradition, shouted as loudly as he had
in the streets, “Long Live the Red Proletariat!” He then
put on his dressing-gown, yawned, and asked the girls
quite seriously:
“How long will the Tsar’s holidays last?”
Sashenka, the younger one, answered with annoyance,
“Ha! La-a-st! Lessons begin tomorrow.”
The Revolution had certainly become a part of everyday
life. And how fast this had taken place! It takes longer for
a rooted-out old forest to push up young trees. The new
forms have held their ground and are becoming popular.
Why, oh why then did Mikhail die in obscurity, while I sur­
vived? For it was he, not I, who so desired to see this new
way of life.
Perhaps it was the sunny day, the music, or the high
spirits of those around me that soothed my rheumatism.
When everyone left the next morning I sat down to
write, keeping to my schedule. Where did I leave off my story
of Mikhail? Oh, yes, I wrote of the letter Vera had given me
with such 'assurance of its being transmitted. I never gave
him that letter. I still have it. This letter is my evidence,
my treasure, my shame, and my excuse. May it enter
the grave with me as it is, faded with the years, with
traces of bitter tears on it.
Why did I not give Mikhail a letter so important for his
and Vera’s future? As is always the case in such circum­
stances, my ill-will seemed to create conditions favour-

54
able to my actions. I returned from my holidays on time,
but Mikhail had not yet arrived. He came a day late and
submitted a doctor’s note in his defence. Naturally, no
one believed him, but it was the accepted thing to do. To
my great surprise, I suddenly felt so ill from all I had ex­
perienced that I fainted during Vespers and was taken to
the infirmary. It was an'attack of nervous fever. I kept Vera’s
letter in my breast pocket and was just able to drop it
into the drawer of the night table while the attendant un­
dressed me. I was unconscious for three days.
The first thing I did upon coming to my senses was to
see whether the letter was still there and hide it deeper in
the drawer beneath various toilet articles. I was allowed
visitors a week later. Mikhail was among them. I will al­
ways remember that day, the first of May. When we re­
mained alone he asked what had happened at Lagutino
and whether there was a letter for him. I was silent, as if
too weak to speak, yet the thought flashed through my mind:
if I tell him Vera’s flight failed, he will certainly find a way
to make her do something rash while I am still lying flat
on my back, unable to protect her. Thus, pretending to be
more ill than I actually was, I said:
“I’ll tell you all the details later. Nothing very special
happened. Vera is still at Lagutino and should write to
you soon. She had no time to give me a letter for you, as
I left quite unexpectedly at my aunt’s summons.”
Mikhail, having once fitted me into a niche, took so lit­
tle notice of me as an individual, that he did not find it
necessary to take a closer look at me.
“I have no letter,” I had said.
But here, I still have it, a light-blue envelope within a
large bonded linen one. Both Mikhail and Vera have turned
to dust, and even Mikhail’s clothing, which, with him,
was imprisoned for twenty-one years, became thread­
bare. According to the warden’s report, he ordered it burned
in the presence of two gendarme officers. But I still have
the letter.

85
 I made up my mind not to tell him the whole truth. I
was evasive the only time Mikhail deigned to speak with
me after I left the infirmary, saying that I had spent my
time at Lagutino hunting and knew very little.
It was the end of May and Commencement was draw­
ing near, a glorious day in the life of every cadet, a day
never to be repeated in his career. In later life many days
might be happier or more festive, as, for instance, the day
on which an officer was awarded the St. George Cross for
bravery; but never again would the great psychological im­
pression of stepping from one social level to another be re­
peated. Receiving our commissions was like being knight­
ed. When yesterday’s cadet received his officer’s shoulder-
straps he had to suddenly swallow and digest an exten­
sive code of tactics, master the laws of honour, the rights
and duties of an officer. This complicated code was rather
peculiar and often in direct contradiction to the accepted
human code of living. Many writers have described our
strange way of life, and the only reason I mention it now
is that for many years it was to me as a chick’s shell, en­
compassing everything necessary for nourishment and
growth. However, the moment a chick pecks through its
shell, it’s firmly on its feet, while I know not where to put
mine, having emerged from among the broken pieces.
The Tsar attended our Commencement Exercises. He
congratulated us and kissed the Sergeant Major and the
corporal-cadets. I noticed Mikhail was deathly pale. His
burning gaze never once left the Tsar’s face, for he, too,
was a corporal. While the Tsar listened to the Sergeant
Major’s report, his eyes met Mikhail’s. I saw his face
twitch: he had recognized him. The Tsar turned and spoke
to Adlerberg. Adlerberg’s nephew, a fellow cadet, later told
me the Tsar had asked, ‘'Who is that cadet?” When he was
told his name, he repeated" it twice, the better to remember
it, “Beideman, Beideman.” Then he added, “A most un­
pleasant face!”

86
 Mikhail pulled out his handkerchief. Pressing it to his
face, as if to hold back a sudden nose-bleed, he left. He did
not wish to be kissed.
When we headed towards the dining-room for a festive
dinner, I could not resist saying to Mikhail:
“Why are you like Melmoth the Wanderer, concealing
an ominous secret amid our general joy?”
“Don’t worry, it won’t always be a secret, but it will al­
ways be ominous for some!”
Suddenly he bent closer and asked:
“Were you telling me the truth when you said there was
no letter from Vera?”
Lowering my eyes, I lied shamefully again:
“Oh, yes, there were a few lines in pencil, and it wasn’t
even sealed. Forgive me, I misplaced it during my illness
and did not have the strength to confess. But I told you
all I knew, and if you wished to, you could have done
something.”
“With my hands tied?” he seethed. “Remember, if you
haven’t lost the letter and lied to me, hindering our cause,
I’ll kill you!”
“If you want to duel, I’m ready. Tomorrow, if you wish,”
I replied.
We could not tear away from each other. Mikhail was
the first to come to his senses:
“Forgive me,” he said. “At times I feel that you will
cause me great misfortune. I won’t fight a duel with you,
because I owe my life to the cause.”
I was nearly completely happy. Mikhail had begun to
take notice of me. Those who have an artistic nature are
made very strangely, indeed! I realized that I was prob­
ably as fond of Mikhail as I was of Vena. I grew bold and
asked:
“Will you shy away from a duel if your officer’s honour
is at stake too?”
“My honour is the honour of a human being and not of
an officer,” he answered thoughtfully.

87
 “You’ll never last a month in the regiment!”
“Whoever told you I intended to stay there?”
Towards evening an orderly summoned me from the din­
ing hall where we were drinking down our new commis­
sions. He said a strange private was waiting outside with
a letter for me. I went out to the foyer and was amazed to
find Pyotr there. Although he looked very fit and was
standing smartly at attention, I could not but remember his
deathly-white face in the stable >and his terrible back, all
purple and bloody. My first question quite naturally was:
“How do you feel?”
“Well, sir, I lay around for about a week and then
they signed me up and sent me here to the Guards.
There’s two letters from the young Miss—one for you and
one for Lieutenant Beideman.”
Mikhail was standing in the doorway. When he heard
his name mentioned he walked over, looked at Pyotr, and
immediately recognized him. He blushed, paled, and silently
stretched forth his hand for Vera’s letter.
“When Lieutenant Rusanin dismisses you, come find me
in the library,” he said as he hurried out.
Pyotr told me Vera had married Prince Nelsky. She
had induced her father to give her Martha as part of her
dowry and now the woman had sent word that the new­
lyweds were preparing to journey abroad and were tak­
ing her along. I couldn’t believe my ears and kept ques­
tioning Pyotr, but he could tell me no more. He had been
dispatched to the regiment, but insisted that Vera was not
upset. He said that the Prince visited her often before the
wedding and that she willingly spent long hours walking
along the shady paths of the orchard with him, always
deep in discussion.
Vera begged me to take Pyotr on as my orderly. She
mentioned in passing that she had married Prince Nelsky
because he had proven to be an invaluable friend. They
were to go abroad soon and would pass through Peters­
burg, where she hoped to see me. Words of endearment

88
which I had not heard in a long time followed, then she
repeated her request concerning Pyotr. I promised him I’d
take the matter up immediately and showed him to the li­
brary. Soon they both came out, and Mikhail looked as elat­
ed as if he, and not Prince Nelsky, had married Vera.
“Good-bye, Rusanin!” he cried. “I won’t be at the party
tonight, for I’m in a terrible rush. I have to leave for Les-
noye today, my mother’s expecting me. I’d like to say a few
words to you before I leave, though.” He looked at me
closely. “You lied. There was a letter for me. And not just a
few lines, either. But all’s well that ends well. As concerns
the cause, things have turned out better than I could ever
have hoped for.”
“The cause,” I began and stopped short before I said
that Vera as a person was obviously of no use to him. How­
ever, the thought made me feel good. This fanatic was
apparently capable of loving only momentarily. Had he not
confessed to Vera that a woman would never rule his life?
Had he not hinted at a tragic event when he had nearly
killed the woman he loved for becoming too possessive?
Then again, he might have been boasting and invented it
all. However, I reasoned that he did not seem a liar at all,
and the amazing way in which our lives were intertwined
caused me to later verify his statement.
Mikhail strode swiftly towards the gate along the im­
mense drill grounds drenched in the rays of the setting
sun. The glass panes of the brick buildings were aflame.
He was so brilliantly illuminated by the flaming colours,
that when the Officer of the Day, much the worse for drink,
looked out the window, he yelled, “Help! Fire!” But no one
bothered to look, and someone replied, “Then pour some
liquid down your throat!” <and they all burst forth with a
drinking song.
I suddenly felt very sad at the sight of Mikhail’s tall
figure rushing off all alone through the dazzling blood-red
light of the sunset reflected from the windows. Following

89
an irresistible desire to warn him against something, 1
grabbed up my cap and dashed out after him.
“Let me see you to the post carriage. I feel like taking a
walk,” I said when I caught up with him.
“Fine,” he answered amiably.
We walked along in silence. I felt as light-hearted then
as I had during the first days of our friendship, and as I
had not felt for a very long time. We reached Police
Bridge, where Mikhail had to buy something. At that moment
a middle-aged bearded man in nonedescript clothing came
abreast of us. He seemed familiar, but I could not place
him. The man looked at Mikhail closely and said:
“Good evening! Why didn’t you come to see me? I
thought you would.”
It was Dostoyevsky. At first he did not notice me, but in
answer to my greeting he said with exaggerated cordiality,
“I believe you were at the Countess’ salon that evening,
too?”
“Countess Kushina is my aunt,” I answered stupidly, as
if I had been snubbed.
Mikhail was excited by the encounter, but said nothing.
“I live nearby, so let’s go up to my place, gentlemen,
without putting it off again,” Dostoyevsky suggested.
Mikhail still had a few hours before his carriage left
for Lesnoye, and as a night of drinking awaited me, it
mattered little whether I arrived an hour earlier or later.
We both followed Dostoyevsky.
Whenever I later chanced to read a description of the
writer’s personality, or recollections of Dostoyevsky, the
man, I was always amazed at the lack of perception and
the meagre impressions left on the authors. They are tak­
en in by the mask every intelligent person wears for the
sake of convenience when mingling with other human
beings. They regard this mask as his true self.
I had grown up among people whose outward appear­
ance was extremely deceiving, where the crassest of all,
who knew nothing of the arts or sciences, had learned the

90
art of small talk and could hold forth on any subject, mak­
ing each statement seem full of hidden meaning, whereas
it was actually no more than an effectively done stage set
with a distant perspective—all on a small piece of card­
board cleverly made to deceive the eye.
Thus, in judging a person, I came to disregard complete­
ly the means he used to impress the world.
I must confess that at the time I had read nothing by
Dostoyevsky, and perhaps that is why my impressions were
so spontaneous and unprejudiced. I have always laughed
at those slobbering half-wits who fancy themselves to
be “like Dostoyevsky.” Quite the opposite qualities im­
pressed me when I studied the man closely.
He had an outstanding character trait, peculiar to very
few society women who are far from beautiful but who
possess something greater than mere beauty. They have
a winning, captivating charm. Once you have met such
a woman, all your impressions of life not connected with her
become bleak and shabby. Her presence exhilarates you, it
doubles your strength and goes to your head like cham­
pagne, enriching your whole being. Some day scientists will
discover that the secret of this charm lies in the fact that
the spark of life is much more forceful in some than in
others.
Due to this concentrated elixir of life, the impression
Dostoyevsky made upon one was swift and disarming, as
the beam of a floodlight which flashes on suddenly, drench­
ing an object in light.
Perhaps strong-willed, strong-minded people who are
not artistically-minded are immune to such personalities;
I, however, followed Dostoyevsky in a state of agitation
comparable to that loss of all feeling I experienced in the
Imperial Hermitage as I stood before one of my favourite
paintings.
I glanced at Mikhail and noticed that he, too, had been
affected, but in a different way. His manly face became
harsher, he straightened up, fixed his bandolier, threw

91
back his shoulders, as if on parade, and stepped more firm­
ly and distinctly.
“I see you’re officers now,” Dostoyevsky said, smiling,
“but you were still cadets then. This calls for a drink. By
the way, I have some very good wine which I’ll serve you
in a wonderful room. It’s mine while my friend is abroad
and my own place is being painted.”
We climbed four flights and found our way through dark,
sinister passages to a rickety door. Dostoyevsky went into
a closet beside it and pulled a door-knob out by a string,
just like a fish. He inserted it in a hole in the door and
turned it. We entered a dark foyer cluttered with fire­
wood and subframes. Our entrance frightened two rats
who squeaked and dashed into a corner.
Dostoyevsky pushed a door and we found ourselves in
an amazing room. It was tremendous and completely cir­
cular. Three large bay windows faced on Nevsky Prospekt
and the yellow-green waters of the canal. One window
was wide open, the window-sill a mass of fragrant sweet
peas, and I still remember that they were all different
shades of violet. This foreground was in perfect harmony with
the panorama of the city. Another of Rastrelli’s wonders—
the red Stroganov Palace—seemed a mirage beyond the
haze of soft violet petals. The palace front was adorned by
two rampant foxes which seemed alive in the changing
light of the sunset. Though I knew the streets and the
houses, too, the sudden view from the fourth floor of a great
expanse of golden-purple sky, when all the buildings
seemed afloat, made me feel more keenly, as it always does,
the genius of those that built the city, and then I fancied that
Petersburg was somewhere in Italy.
Oh, the hour of sunset is a time of magic! Thus, I once
felt as joyous at the sight of the Bois de Boulogne in
Paris as I do when I see the little ravines of our own mod­
est Smolensk Gubernia. Perhaps the many homesick Rus­
sian emigrants strolling there brought on this feeling.
Dostoyevsky seemed to have guessed my thoughts. He

92
pointed to the first lights flickering on the dark waves of
the canal and to a long boat beneath the bridge, saying,
“Look, is it not Venice? You know, reality is not one bit
worse than fancy. This boat came from Cherepovets
stacked high with earthenware. It’s all been sold, but yester­
day our own crocks sparkled in the bright sun no worse than
the mosaics of St. Mark’s. Well, gentlemen, be seated and
we’ll celebrate your commissions.”
We retired to one of several tremendously long divans
that circled the walls and were interspersed with book­
cases. There was no other furniture in the room. The clean,
dull parquet floor was in need of polish, and it seemed to
have scattered its beautiful diamonds for some fairy-tale
game. The Bysantine chandelier was also round and had
coloured icon-lamps instead of candles. Dostoyevsky
filled our glasses with excellent Marsala.
“I’m as happy as a child to have this fantastic room,
if even for a short while,” he began, when Mikhail sud­
denly interrupted him, saying with unusual feeling:
“I recall that in the first chapter of Insulted and Hu­
miliated you say that you wish for a very special self-con­
tained apartment, and that if it is only one room, it should
be very large. You also note that your thoughts are cramped
in a small room and that when you are planning your
stories you like to walk up and down.”
“How do you know all this? The book has not yet come
out.”
“Our Professor Selin had your manuscript for safekeep­
ing, and as I was his secretary, he let me read it.”
“Ah, yes, Selin. He’s one of Herzen’s in-laws. Yes, I re­
member him well. However, you have repeated it word
for word. Have you read my book so thoroughly?” Do­
stoyevsky seemed surprised.
“We Russians cannot do things otherwise—we can't do
things superficially. I heard that Strauss thought the paint­
er Ivanov raving mad for having first learned his Life

93
of Christ by heart and then wearing him down with mat-
ters in it the author himself had long since forgotten.”
‘‘Is that your intention, too?” Dostoyevsky asked with
a smile.
“Yes,” Mikhail replied without a trace of a smile. He be­
came very grave. “I read your works very carefully and
was troubled by several things concerning you, personal­
ly. However, I have discovered the answer in one ‘how­
ever’.”
“This sounds very interesting.”
“There is a phrase that goes like this: ‘However, I al­
ways found more enjoyment in planning my works and
dreaming of them being written than in actually writing
them.’ And you follow this by a question: ‘I wonder why?’ ”
“I see. And you have decided to answer the question?”
“God forbid. Let your conscience be the one to answer
it.”
I looked at Mikhail in surprise. His words had sounded
rather rude and were completely out of place, I thought.
What was wrong with someone preferring to dream rather
than write? As far as I was concerned, it sounded roman­
tic, for a dream was certainly the more impartial.
Yet Dostoyevsky was not surprised. He tilted his head
and listened to Mikhail’s words intently and with great
respect, as- if he were eager to learn something.
If Dostoyevsky had impressed me as being extremely
awkward in Auntie’s salon, I now found myself captivat­
ed by his charm and the great tact with which he tried to
put Mikhail at his ease, as if he understood his emotions
perfectly.
“Why did you not come to see me before? It was cer­
tainly no accident? Confess, you did not want to come, did
you?”
Dostoyevsky’s words had the effect of stripping off the
superfluous barriers one by one, until he entered a per­
son’s heart as simply as one opens a gate and enters a
garden.

94
 “You are no stranger to me,” Mikhail replied without
raising his eyes, “but you are the most cruel and harmful
person as far a s . . . as far as my cause is concerned.”
Mikhail’s words were clear and precise. He was on his
guard, as one is in an embrasure, surrounded by enemies,
but unwilling to surrender. His perturbation, which I did
not understand, as I did not understand any of their con­
versation, was passed on to me.
“That was my opinion of you,” Dostoyevsky said with
apparent approval.
“Your Notes from the Dead House ended everything
and alienated me completely. Of course, each man is his
own judge, and as I’ve already said—let your conscience
be your guide. Here’s a case in point: to the very same ex­
tent that you, as you have stated, find it much more pleas­
ant to dream than to write, in other words, more pleasura­
ble to retain your inner wealth instead of making it the
property of others and sharing it with them, you...... Well,
in other words, you have made the very same choice as
concerns reality and life.”
Suddenly Mikhail flushed and said with a deep hurt in
his voice:
“You have chosen the easy way out! How could you,
with all your knowledge and all that you have seen!”
He was too upset to speak and walked over to the win­
dow. I felt terribly embarrassed as I looked at Dostoyev­
sky. I shall never forget his face as it was that moment.
Suddenly a beaming, joyous look burst through the deep,
great and ancient sorrow that never left his face, even
when he was smiling.
Dostoyevsky walked over to Mikhail, while I remained
seated, my eyes drawn to the dark figures silhouetted
against the still pink background of the sky.
Mikhail was in one of those moods when, burning with a
wild fire, he no longer reacted lo his immediate surroundings.
He was like an arrow shot from a long bow which could
only pierce something, but never waver from its course.

95
 “When you were released from penal servitude,” his
deep voice thundered angrily, “when you said good-bye
for ever to the blackened logs of the barracks where you
bad marked off the days of your imprisonment on the stock­
ade posts with such agony, can it be that it was your
literary genius alone that recorded that which you left
behind as you were set free? I have memorized that part.
This is what you wrote: ‘How much youth had gone to
waste within these walls. What energies had perished
unused, for if the whole truth must be told, these men who
were here were no ordinary men. Perhaps they were in­
deed the most highly gifted and the strongest of our people.
But this mighty force had been lost—uselessly, unnatural­
ly, irrevocably; 'and who was to blame?’ And then you ask
once more, this time you indent it, the better to impress the
reader: ‘That’s just it: who is to blame?’ ”
“What do you think I should have done?” Dostoyevsky
asked gently.
“I only know what we must do.”
“Who are ‘we’?”
“We, the youth! Young people will die rather than sur­
render to oppression. They are not fated to pass on their
experience orally, they will use themselves up. They will
sacrifice their lives! When the martyrs followed the path
of Christ, I doubt that there was any great need in ecu­
menical councils. There always was, is, and will be but
one choice in the battle against the dark forces of evil, and
that is voluntary death for freedom’s cause. Why then
should I have come to see you? You are seeking a compro­
mise, you are seeking a way out, while our cause calls for
firmness and self-sacrifice. Good-bye.”
As Mikhail headed towards the door, Dostoyevsky took
his arm.
“Wait a minute. I’ll light your way. It’s very dark in the
passage.”
I felt utterly crushed and at a loss as I silently followed
my friend. Dostoyevsky walked on ahead with a candle

96
which threw a flickering light on the nearby walls but was
unable to dispel the shadows of night that had gathered in
the many niches, dark corners, and branchings of the main
passage. Just as Petersburg, seen from the window of the
strange circular room, had so recently appeared as some
Italian city, so now the dimly lit stairway and passages
of the strange house evoked thoughts of catacombs, the
early Christian martyrs, and the Inquisitors.
Now, when all the events have come to a close, I clear­
ly see what a true premonition of reality my upset emo­
tions gave me that evening. When many years later I tried
to find out more about the unusual circular room I discov­
ered that Dostoyevsky’s friend had moved out shortly there­
after and that the new occupant, a Madame Florence, had
had it until the Revolution, using it as a parlour for the
young ladies of her disreputable but profitable establish­
ment and their gentlemen callers.

7 -3 8 2
CHAPTER VII

Flowering
Lindens

m
m
T mmediately set about trying to fulfil Vera’s
wish and was able to get Pyotr transferred to
I our unit and have him appointed my orderly.
m However, I was at a complete loss as concerned
M. the other events.
Mikhail’s apparent joy on discovering that Vera had
married the Prince could only mean that the marriage was
a fictitious one to some extent. Her emphasis on the fact
that the Prince had turned out to be a priceless friend indi­
cated that there was something unusual about their rela­
tionship. But what about the trip abroad? I did not for
a moment think that Vera’s love for Mikhail had cooled,
yet how did the coming trip fit in? Mikhail would certain­
ly be unable to accompany her. His commission compelled
him to remain at his post for at least another three years.
The answer soon became apparent. Mikhail Beideman
disappeared.
They waited for him in vain at the Orden Dragoon Regi­
ment. He never showed up. He had told his mother that he

98
was going to Finland for a short while, but when she had
had no word from him, she appealed to Grand Duke Mi­
khail Nikolayevich, head of all the military academies, to
help locate her son.
Beideman was as cruel as all fanatics in that he never
thought of those who surrounded him. He had not1taken the
trouble to put himself in his poor mother’s place. Other­
wise, how coujld he have failed to realize what any other
person in his position would? His childish lie upon part­
ing—and they were fated never to see each other again—
would certainly be discovered within a few days, causing
her terrible anxiety. It was in his power to spare her this
unnecessary suffering, for she was an unusually strong,
courageous woman. But he never thought of her, he simply
took the easiest way out at the moment.
Mikhail did not go to Vera. He did not want to arouse
any suspicion as far as she was concerned and thus hinder
her departure for Italy, where they were to meet’. The Gover­
nor of Kuopio reported the fact that Beideman had crossed
the border to the Governor-General of Finland; I shall re­
construct the events on the basis of that document.
Late at night Mikhail arrived at an inn, where he ex­
changed clothes with the bar-keeper, saying that he intended
to go hunting the next morning. He left quite early, and in­
stead of returning to the inn, walked from Uleaborg to Tor-
neo. This was all the authorities knew at that time.
I longed to see Vera and was about to apply for a short
leave to tend to matters of my estate when I suddenly re­
ceived a note from her, begging me to come immediately
in connection with a matter of the utmost importance. I told
Pyotr to start packing. Just then I was informed that a mid­
dle-aged lady wished to see me. It was Mikhail’s mother.
I shall never forget that woman. Mikhail was her last,
late child. She wore a black dress with snow-white cufTs,
was rather prim, in the German fashion, and impressed me
with her great poise, a quality one finds so rarely in women.
It seemed as if her whole life flowed on somewhere deep in

T 99
the inner recesses of her soul, .and but .a few words and ges­
tures, necessary to communicate with others, escaped to the
surface. Withal, her beautiful, bright-blue eyes glowed with
gentleness. This was not the polite, disinterested good-na­
turedness demanded by society, it was kindness that came
from the heart, that could be relied upon. Perhaps that ex­
plained her grave manner of listening and observing so
keenly.
I felt at once that Mikhail could have entrusted his plans
to such a mother as she. As I looked at her, I also under­
stood where he had got his deep, passionate nature.
Beideman’s mother came right to the point, saying:
“I have come to ask you to see Vera Erastovna, as I be­
lieve she alone is in a position to shed some light on the
whereabouts of my son.”
I pointed to my packed bags and showed her Vera’s note.
“Come straight to me when you return, I shall be wait­
ing eagerly for you!”
Naturally, I promised that I would, and kissed her hand
with true filial devotion.
I was in a state of great agitation as I got into the car­
riage that had come to take me to Prince Nelsky’s estate
and was relieved to think that I still had four hours in which
to gather my thoughts. However, my conscience was clear,
and I had persuaded myself that fate bad so juggled my
actions as to have made both instances “lucky” for Vera
and Mikhail. The fact that the Kolokol had fallen into her
father’s hands through my doing and had provided him with
a dangerous weapon caused Vera to enter into a fictitious
marriage with the Prince, which had apparently limited
neither her freedom of action nor affection. And then, my
not giving her letter to Mikhail prevented him from doing
something rash. They were now far from each other, and
life itself would prove whether or not they were to unite
their destinies.
I was touched by the grief of a wonderful woman—Mi­
khail’s mother—and felt flattered by Vera’s insistence that

iOO
I come immediately, and thus was in a romantically benev­
olent mood. I felt no jealously of the Prince.
The road lay through fields and birch copses. The white
colonnade of Lagutin’s mansion suddenly appeared from be­
hind the ancient, mighty lindens heavy with honeyed blos­
soms. As I had no desire to visit the old man, I had warned
the driver to muffle the horses’ bell at the last stop, in or­
der that it not tattle and cause Moseich to start investi­
gating as to who had passed and not stopped off to pay his
respects to Erast Petrovich.
A half-mile from the house I noticed charred rafters and
trusses, the sad remains of a burned threshing-shed.
“Was there a fire?” I asked the driver.
“Lagutin’s muzhiks burnt it down to pay him back for
insulting their women,” he answered.
I asked him to tell me what had happened.
“Well, when the Land Decree was .announced and the sur­
veyor and arbitrator started on their rounds, the muzhiks
all shouted, ‘We don’t agree to it!’ Before, each family had
about nineteen or twenty acres, but the new decree gives the
Krasnensky District peasants only about ten and a half
acres each—that’s why they felt cheated. The prince’s peas­
ants teased Lagutin’s and said their lots were not bigenough
for a bull to stand on—the animal nibbled grass from an­
other’s field and fertilized the master’s.
“Then the officials came, and they called the people to­
gether and began dividing up the land. They first drew the
boundaries, then the surveyor checked the stakes; he had
just set up his instrument when a woman with child sud­
denly appeared and flopped down on the boundary-line,
belly up, and wouldn’t let him mark off the corners! Howl­
ing at the top of her voice, she was.
“What a sight! Lagutin himself laughed the loudest. He
winked to his dwarf and whispered something tb him.
“Well, they finally got rid of the woman and measured
the plot. The surveyor told the others when their turn
would come up.
IOi
 “Ah, what happened the next time! But Lagutin won't
get away with it now, he’ll soon stop amusing himself at
the cost of the peasants’ misery.”
The angry driver fell silent, but I offered him a drink
from my flask and he continued:
“That damned Moseich came to us with some good ad­
vice from the master, so he said. He wanted all the pregnant
women to get together and keep t)he surveyor from fencing
off the land. They were all to lie down, bellies up, like the
other woman had, but this time they had to be naked. The
only reason the other woman didn’t get her way was be­
cause she had had her clothes on. No one poked her to see
if she hadn’t stuffed something under her clothes on pur­
pose. But the law would be on the side of the big-bellied
women. If they would all lie down in a line, who’d ever
think of whipping them? They’d certainly make an excep­
tion and the women would save the plots. And what do you
think? The women believed him. The wiser men tried to
knock some sense into them, but the whole village was
ready to stone those men. The sillier a thing is, the more
people there are ready to believe it.
“The officials came back on the appointed day and
wouldn’t you know, there was nothing but big-bellied women
all round. The master howled with laughter and told them
all to go to the threshing-shed where he gave them some
vodka to make them feel better.
“As soon as they got drunk he told them to get undressed
and go to the surveyor, stark naked, mind you. By then
two of the helpers had started measuring off the boundary,
and you know how long a seventy-foot line is. No matter
how the muzhik cheats and moves the stakes, the surveyor
and the master always come out the winners.
“Well, they were pulling out the line when all the women
suddenly flopped down on the ground and began to howl.
No one whipped them, but the chief of police had them all
thrown in the jug, just as they were. In all the commotion
two lost their babies and one went out of her mind. They

102
 became the laughing-stock of the village, and one woman
was just too proud to stand it and committed suicide.
“Lagutin better watch out now. That woman was lame
Potap’s wife, and he’s not even afraid of the Devil! Before
you know it he’ll have the whole village up!”
“How does the Prince treat his people?”
“Oh, no one will ever say a bad word about him, and
since he married Lagutin’s daughter, he’s been just like a
father to them. He freed all his serfs and gave the ones
that didn’t want to leave him such big plots that they’re
real landowners now.”
I wanted to find out more about Vera, but we had come
in sight of the out-buildings of the Prince’s estate .and were
approaching the long house. It did not resemble the
mansion of his neighbour, for it had been built by a serf-
architect and was intended for a leisurely and comfortable
existence.
Vera was standing on ,a vine-covered balcony surrounded
by jasmine bushes. She wore a white organdy dress,
and I thought she seemed taller and more beautiful than
ever.
“Dearest Serge, how happy I am to see you!” she cried.
“Gleb Fyodorovich has been awaiting you, too,” she added,
pointing to the Prince.
We embraced. Then he took my arm and led me to my
room.
“You can wash here, and then please join us in the sum­
mer dining-room next door.”
I would like to say a few words about the Prince.
I shall not debate the current assertion that we are all
products of our environment, but I would like to say that
there are people, and often men in high places, who' live
out their lives without ever being able to express their real
selves. In my youth I knew men, long since forgotten, who
were born fifty years too soon and were therefore forced to
accept positions which in no way corresponded to their na­
tures. Thus, my own father, a man of deep and serious

103
thought, who hated wars and the whole political life of his
country, was fated to spend his life as an outstanding army
general. Then there was my Uncle Yuri, a talented archae­
ologist, well known in Europe for his 'archaeological dis­
coveries, who has forever gone down in history as a conquer­
or of Eastern lands—all this because of a brilliant sortie
which he led, as he later confessed, not as a military man,
but, rather, as a bom and avid chess-player.
Prince Gleb Fyodorovich belonged to this category of
men. His inner self did not correspond to his title or his so­
cial position. Despite a refined European education, 'he was
one of those Russians who never make any demands on
life. They tread the earth lightly, .accepting offerings with
the right hand and distributing them with the left. Such
people, if they are commoners, are truly pilgrims; they are
not crass parasites, but the wise and simple souls which our
writers Tolstoi and Turgenev were keen-sighted enough to
see.
Had it not been for 'his calculating old aunts and grand­
mothers, Prince Gleb Fyodorovich would have long since
given away his lands and gone off to beg his bread through
the countryside. His deep mind and free, unbiased way of
thinking added a strange charm to his conversation, making
it convincing in its utter frankness. When he first met
Vera he realized how proud and independent she was and,
as I later found out, he had asked her to marry him long be­
fore, in order that she attain complete freedom and acquire
considerable means as well. The Prince was highly cultured
and had no desire to make tongues wag. Thus, he was al­
ways able to appear as a man of society without arousing
any particular sympathies or enmities. However, his mar­
riage to Vera and her passionate desire for immediate im­
provements in the existing state of affairs made him go about
putting the land reform into action with great enthusiasm,
thus earning the .hatred of his father-in-law, Lagutin.
Vera and the Prince then went about correcting the

104
“Draft-bill”* as they saw fit—to the benefit of the peasants
and to their own detriment, providing the best possible op­
portunities for each tiller. Old Lagutin stopped coming to
see them. At this moment of family conflict, and actually in
connection with it, I had been summoned from my regi­
ment.
The terrace was covered with morning-glory vines and
crimson Turkish creepers. A shining samovar that boiled
beside a plate of golden-brown buns aroused my appetite.
Vera had dismissed the maids and presided at the table her­
self.
That fresh, early-morning hour spent with the two best
people in the world—and one of them the only love of my
life—has become fixed in my memory -as something perfect
and of unmatched beauty.
May the reader forgive me this sentimentality. That hour
was like a thread, spun of the apple blossoms of May, which
the cruel Parcae let slip accidentally into the bloody cloth
of our three lives. If fate had not granted me that hour, I
would -never have been able to accept as I do now the ter­
rible events that were to follow.
I should like to say a few words about that morning hour.
Why have I set it apart from the rest and remembered it as
the happiest of my life? And then, what can we mortals look
back on as happiness before we die? Is it not the time when
one has been able, if only for a moment, to smash the chains
that bind his own insignificant soul and suddenly leave
the stifling confines of a ditch and enter a great, warm, sun­
lit sea?
Countless rivers feed the sea. The wiser one is, the short­
er and purer his way. However, do not judge me too se­
verely and believe me when I say that the filthy under­
ground sewer leads there, too. One thing is all-important:
that is to find yourself at least once, if only for a fleeting mo-

* One of several draft proposals of an intended peasant reform

which did not include freeing the serfs.

105
ment, in this boundless sea with a great expanse of clear
blue sky above you. No matter where or how this happens,
nothing in the world can make you ever forget what you
have seen.
My blessed hour struck that morning, during a simple
village breakfast.
The sun on the terrace was so bright that the tender
young leaves of the vines formed ,an emerald background
for the dazzling crimson flowers. Bees buzzed as they flew
back and forth from the blossom-heavy, fragrant old lin­
dens; .a little river flowed on quietly below.
Prince Gleb Fyodorovich bent his head close to mine as
he explained the purpose of the summons. His delicate com­
plexion made him appear quite youthful, and his large kind
eyes were shining.
“I must say that we have formed a natural triumvirate,”
he began, smiling paternally at Vera. “I represent the treas­
ury and experience, Mikhail is a passionate will, and Vera
Erastovna is a wise heart, as a poet once said. These three
factors are indispensable in order to realize and make pos­
sible a new and better way of life. What’s the use of book
phrases—we only want to give the muzhik a decent chance
in life after abusing him for centuries.”
At this Vera took my hand and said gently:
“Serge, we have chosen you to be our intermediary be­
tween the old world and the new. To begin with, won’t you
go and visit my father and induce him to give Linuchenko
the deed to his house and at least thirteen hundred acres?
He never did give him the deed and that is a very impor­
tant point for our cause. Linuchenko must be his own mas­
ter on his land, and such a despicable person as Moseich
should have no authority whatsoever over him.”
“What does Linuchenko have to do with your cause—and
what actually is your ‘cause’?” I asked.
“I cannot go into all the details, for they might only con­
fuse you. I know your heart can sense the beautiful, and do
trust it now. We three—Prince Gleb Fyodorovich, Mikhail

106
 and I—want our enslaved nation to be free and are ready
to sacrifice our lives for this cause, if needs be.”
Vera rose. Her white organdy gown made her seem ethe­
real as she quickly paced back and forth and then came to
stand before me. The breeze played with the tiny curls that
had escaped from the lovely golden braids wound round
her head.
Her grey, wilful eyes shone as brightly as the Prince’s
while she looked deep into my soul. Taking both my hands
in hers, Vera repeated, as one speaks words of love:
“We are prepared to die, if necessary. But Serge, you
have your own life and your own aims. All we ask of you
is that you believe us. Help us do our duty, and in no way
shall you be forced into any danger.”
“Vera, I would gladly give my life for you,” I said.
“But I ask more of you than that,” she replied gravely.
She sat down beside me, still holding my hands. “I ask that,
despite your own opinions, you help not me, but1our cause,
and help it on the strength of your trust in me.”
I understood her. Yes, she was asking for more than life
itself. Despising their political beliefs as I did, I was to help
them solely on the basis of my love for her, never once
doubting that a person such as she could do anything but
good. Dear reader, it was then that I really understood the
vague passage: “He loveth best who giveth his all.” The
text is usually interpreted as voluntarily sacrificing your
life for something. Yet it is clearly “soul,” and not “life”
that is meant.
Oh, what perfidy it was: in order to attain complete free­
dom from myself I first had to betray myself!
But Vera gazed deep into my thoughts and her pale lips
whispered once again, as the murmur of sweet love:
“We are doomed, Serge.”
Nothing mattered now. I was swept up after her into her
boundless, dazzling sea beneath a great expanse of bright
blue sky.
“My life is yours!” I cried.
107
 Vera kissed me. Then Prince Gleb Fyodorovich kissed
me.
Later, over a cup of fragrant tea, fanned by the honeyed
breeze from the lindens, we discussed practical matters.
Mikhail was not there, for after he had been commissioned
they 'had to be extremely cautious. Vera and the Prince had
to settle the question of the peasants and see to it that Li-
nuchenko got the deed to his land, after whioh they would
leave for Italy, where they were to meet Mikhail. Linuchen-
ko’s place was to be the centre of the Russian group. I
would receive letters from Vera there, too. They promised to
tell me all the details that evening, and urged me to go to
Lagutino before the old man found out that I had passed
by and not stopped over.
I was supposed to appeal to Lagutin’s sense of fraternal
pity for Linuchenko, who had brought his ailing wife back
from the Crimea. He wanted to take her straight tfo his cot­
tage, but more than ever before he felt his dependent state
and did not want Moseich to order him around. I was to
implore Lagutin to give him the deed.
There was not a single contrary thought left in my mind.
With all the passion of my twenty years, I was swept up
by the romantic desire of young Werther to sacrifice my life
not only for Vera, but for the Prince, for Mikhail, and for
all the downtrodden of the world.
Though I have remembered this idyll the rest of my life,
it lasted no longer than an hour.
Suddenly, a messenger galloped up to the porch, his
horse covered with foam, and shouted from his saddle that
Lagutin’s muzhiks had rebelled and were about to set fire
to the manor house.
“Where’s my father?” Vera cried.
“The Master escaped on horseback and headed towards
the mill. If there’s no ambush there, he’ll get away. The El­
der and the dwarf Moseich are locked up in the warehouse
with the fireworks and gunpowder. They’ll be blown to bits
the minute it’s set on fire!”

108
 “Saddle my horse!” the Prince ordered.
I asked him to let me have a 'horse, and Vera insisted he
let her .and Martha go in the gig. The Prince and I decided
tb take different roads: I was to ride to the mill, and he was
to head for the manor house, where Vera would later catch
up with him.
Oh, how flighty and illusory are the days of our lives!
Many were the times in Naples when I would ride to the
top of Vesuvius, which seemed covered by purple splinters
of slate, and wonder at the childish irresponsibility of the
villagers who tended their vineyards at the crater's mouth.
They did not expect any great eruptions, and in case of
trouble they hoped—as had their ancestors—to have time to
escape.
But where is a man to run, if, as Buddha said, you pluck
the flower and the wicked Prince Mara has already hidden
a viper beneath it?
We three had just' been sitting together on the terrace,
and there I was, galloping towards the mill to avert a
crime. Alas, I was too late!
The drunken mob, brandishing axes and long sharp
stakes, had formed a close circle around the two red-headed
youths administering the sentence. They held aloft an
armless and legless mass. The mill had been started at top
speed, and they stood at the edge of the foaming, churning
yellow water, so terribly deep at that spot. I had no time
to get a good look at the mass from afar, but I guessed it
must be old Lagutin, bound hand and foot, and that they
were about to toss him under the mill-wheel. I fired into the
air, determined to halt the murder, and spurred my horse
on. But1he suddenly snorted and balked: a corpse lay on
the road. I shot out of the saddle, fell on my head, and lost
consciousness.
I later discovered that the body on the road had been Po-
tap, killed by Erast Petrovich. Potap had made him white
with rage by his angry speech in defence of the disgraced

109
 women. When he threatened to avenge his wife’s death, La­
gutin had shot him dead on the spot.
This sparked the rebellion. Lagutin was bound with a
pair of reins and then hurled into the millpond, while I lay
unconscious from irny fall.
I was disarmed .and locked up in a storehouse. All night
long I lay there in dreadful fear for Vera’s life. A Cossack
punitive expedition, which Lagutin had summoned from
town the day before (having been told by Moseich that the
peasants were going to rebel), rescued me the next morn­
ing. The Cossacks told me that Prince Gleb Fyodorovich
had died in a fire, trying to save the old nurse Arkhipovna
from the flames: in her terror she had sought escape in her
little room. Neither hide nor hair was found of Moseich and
the Elder—both were buried beneath the ruins of the caved-
in roof. Vera was alive and safe at Arkhipovna’s daughter’s
house.
Though I was not in a condition to think clearly, I never­
theless realized that fate had untangled all the knots in the
lives of Vera and Mikhail, which in one way or another !
had helped to tie.
Old Lagutin, the only enemy Mikhail had who was pow­
erful enough to ruin him and interfere with his coming
back from abroad and marrying Vera, was now dead, leav­
ing his daughter an orphan. Thus, she was now in posses­
sion of a great fortune, and nothing stood in the way of
their mutual cause any longer. But I, uprooted from my for­
mer way of thinking and not a party to theirs, wished I
could die. The violent death of my accomplices to some ex­
tent restored my once clear conscience. As I fell into a deep
coma from weakness, my last near-joyful thought was that
this, finally, was the end. Had I only been right!
CHAPTER VIII

From
Ancient
Thebes
in Egypt

TI T
J W hen Vera regained her strength, I took her
a M / and Martha to the capital, straight to Beide-
a /a / man’s mother, to whom I had previously
I f Ir written in great detail. The old woman greeted
f f us warmly. She embraced Vera and showed
her to her room, which, like its mistress, was rather prim.
She was told of the impending meeting in Italy and of
things one dared not whisper, let alone write of, in those days.
She was a most amazing woman. Though her love for her
son knew no bounds, her respect and faith in him were
greater still. She was not well versed in politics and, as any
woman of the upper classes, had been brought up a loyal
monarchist. However, she was somehow able to retain her
own principles and not be frightened by nor interfere with
her son’s convictions. She refrained from asking many
questions and waited impatiently for word of him. It was
not long in coming.
Linuchenko returned north with his wife and brought a
letter from Mikhail, passed on by some mysterious inter-

111
 mediary. Beideman wrote enthusiastically of Garibaldi and
said he was with his “Thousand” when they had taken
Naples. He added that Garibaldi thought he should serve his
own country, and not another, and had.urged him to go to
Herzen in London, which he had decided to do.
Soon Vera received a letter through the same mysterious
channels. Mikhail wrote that he had read of the terrible
events in Lagutino and instead of waiting to meet Vera in
Italy would soon join her in Russia, since it was also in
the interests of the cause that ihe return. In the succeeding
days, while Vera awaited his arrival, she became happier
and visibly stronger.
Linuchenko, whom I so detested, seemed to spend all his
days at her place. A high-strung man who could never sit
still, he seemed to be constantly peering at something
through his narrow green eyes. He was broad-shouldered and
squat, with a mass of black hair, a high forehead, slanted
eyes, and a large nose. However, when he spoke, his face
was intelligent and grave.
At his studio on Vasilyevsky Island I met the person who
was to become my only support in the terrible years that
followed. If that person were alive, I would go to ask his
advice, rather than a priest’s, in solving the last problem I
have in this world.
But he is no more. Yakov Stepanich, that great wise man,
has died. He was a palace footman who had earned himself
a pension which he distributed to the last copper among the
many poor. He was known as a clairvoyant and was fa­
mous on Vasilyevsky Island. As he had many connections
and some influence, Linuchenko found him useful in some
of his undertakings. The old man loved him dearly and of­
ten visited him at his studio. Once, as I was taking Vera
to the Island, she persuaded me to come up to the studio
where Yakov Stepanich was posing for Linuchenko.
It was a great room, criss-crossed by a system of ropes,
like the communal attic of a cheap apartment house. These
ropes were Linuchenko’s invention for better observing the

112
anatomy of the human body. Some ropes hung down as
swings, others were pulled so tight that they hummed if one
touched them. A heavy rope tied to the lamp hook in the
ceiling hung down to the floor and, like a snake, dis­
appeared in the far dark corner of the room.
‘This reminds me of the Inquisition,” I said to Linuohen-
ko jokingly.
“The janitors never heard of the Inquisition, but they are
quite frightened, too,” he answered. “However, they all man­
age to leave here alive. We can turn your arms inside out
so that every muscle appears clearly,” he said, pointing to
the lamp hook, “but we’re not torturing Yakov Stepanich.
He’s comfortable enough.”
“I’m sitting here, looking at him, and wondering why
he’s so sad,” the old man replied, pointing to me. Yakov
Stepanich was a little fluffy white man, neatly dressed, his
face a mass of kindly fine wrinkles. I was surprised he had
guessed how wretched I was, for I thought my appearance
did not disclose my inner feelings. I had just been laughing
gaily, though I felt as dead tired as one does before faint­
ing or falling seriously ill. There was an emptiness within
and heavy weights on my arms that seemed to drag me
down. My one desire was to lie down and never get up.
I was completely confused. My love for Vera had drawn
me into alien friendships and I could not, as Mikhail’s moth­
er had, blindly combine the incombinable. Each new day
brought me new torment, and I was afraid that I would
lose control of myself; Vera would then discover my true
emotions, and I would have to leave her. However, this
would have been equal to death, and thus I forced myself to
assume the role of a good-natured fellow.
Old Yakov Stepanich seized a moment when Linuchcnko,
telling him to rest for a while, had turned to speak to anoth­
er artist. He trotted over to me, wrinkled up his face in a
smile, and said:
“Don’t be sad. You must keep your chin up! A man is
born without a name and knows not whether he has a soul.
8 -3 8 2 1/3
He tries this way and that to overstep it until he finds its
limits. And once he has suffered many moments of
spiritual death and has come out the victor, he receives
a name and at his own risk joins the great work that
is man’s hard lot on earth. After all, brick is baked in
flame.”
“But what if the brick cracks in the fire?” I .asked in the
same tone of voice .and smiled.
“If you can’t stand the smell of burning, if you go back
on yourself and say: anyone who wants to can rule me as
long as I am left in peace, you’ll be a traitor to yourself,
my boy. Though you’ll look like everyone else, you’ll really
live in vain, like an empty shell tossing on the waves. Don’t
you know the saying: you can’t bury talent? Did you think
it could be otherwise?”
“I don’t think about such things at all,” I laughed.
“Well, be proud while you can,” the old man smiled, “but
remember mv address .all the same. It’s the third house on
17th Line.” '
He repeated the house number twice with such insistence
that I could not but remember it. And when my hour struck,
I came tb this address, although this was much, much later.
Then, however, I brushed the old man aside and looked
round at the other artists. There were five or six of them and
two young girls, all students at the Academy and Linu-
chenko’s friends.
“Why aren’t we painting?” a very tall one asked.
“We’re waiting for three others,” Linuchenko answered.
“They’ve stopped bv at the Professor’s place to see a Gior­
gione.”
To all intents and purposes the session was over, for no
sooner had they sat down, with Yakov Stepanich posing for
them, than there was a knock at the door. Shaggy-haired
Bikaryuk, Linuchenko’s friend, entered, shivering in his too-
small coat. He was followed by Mashenka, his wife, and
another artist, of short' stature. Mashenka’s eyes were red
with crying.

IN
 “Were you disappointed?” Unuchenko asked. “Was it a
fake?”
“No, it was a genuine Giorgione,” Bikaryuk answered
glumly. “The Professor found it in a pawn-shop. If a person
is lucky he’ll find pearls in a dung-heap. Oh, to hell with
him. I’m concerned .about Krivtsov.”
“Krivtsov?” Linuchenko turned pale, walked over to Ya­
kov Stepanich, and said, “We won’t paint .any more today.”
“Krivtsov hanged himself.” Bikaryuk’s words were like
a bark.
Everyone was silent Vera’s eyes seemed to beg them to
say it was not true. Mashenka and the two other young
girls began to cry.
“He got a letter from his village saying that his father
had been flogged to death. They are serfs from Kazan Gu­
bernia, you know. He had been paid for and freed two years
ago. His father was sentenced to a thousand lashes, but’ his
heart was weak, and the old man died. They found a letter
from the sexton in Krivtsov’s poeket. He only got it today.
He did it in a fit of temper. He tacked a note to his last
painting: ‘Cursed be the despot and cursed be this land of
slaves!’ Here it is, I took it off. If they found it, they would
have arrested his sister. She doesn’t know yet. We were the
first ones there.”
Linuchenko paced back and forth heavily. Everyone
seemed to have shrunken in the stillness. It was dark, but
they had forgotten to light the lamp. The large, strangely
flat moon descended from the light northern sky and
seemed to be hanging somewhere right beyond the window.
Shaggy Bikaryuk crouched on the window-sill, his tangled
beard jutting sharply forward and his long hair a black
mass against the delicate lacework of branches.
His voice rasped, as he said with great emotion:
“You know what picture Krivtsov was working on? It
was our Ukrainian ‘hopak’.* Oh, it wasn’t just a white

* A Ukrainian national dance.

8* Ilr>
hut with some sunflowers and a lout dancing—it was the
real Ukraine! Ah, what a great artist they have destroyed!”
“It’s we who have destroyed him! Do you hear me, we
are responsible for it!” Linuchenko thundered. “Until we
have pledged all our strength and our lives to the last
drop of blood to the fight against tyranny, we are on the
same side as the murderers!”
“Are we to go to battle armed with our paint-brushes
and palettes?”
“There are times when a country needs not artists, but
citizens, and a citizen will always find a weapon. You’ve
all read the Kolokol of April 15th, and do you not all agree
with it? The Tsar has duped the people! Serfdom has not
been truly abolished. The struggle against a dishonest gov­
ernment that has used bloody executions to drown the
just demands of the unfortunate peasants is a matter of
honour and duty to every honest person. Our comrade was
a young genius, but he could not accept the slave-like way
in which his father died. He took his own life, cursing
this land of slaves. You must accept these curses as long
as you yourselves are slaves. Who is with me?” Linu-
ohenko shouted. “Atayev’s group appealed to us to join
forces. Together we’re twice as strong. Friends, may
Krivtsov’s untimely death take us at least one step for­
ward!”
Bikaryuk jumped to his feet and whispered something
to Linuchenko.
“I’m not afraid!” Linuchenko said brusquely. “In fact,
I’ll give you away, too.”
“Gentlemen!” he said, walking over to me. I stood next
to Yakov Stepanich, who, though calm, had turned very
pale. “My comrade said that there are outsiders among
us. I’ve known you for many years, Yakov Stepanich, and
respect you as a father,” he bowed to the old man, “and
though you are an officer, Serge, you’re iVera’s childhood
friend and.. . . ”

116
 “I vouch for Sergei,” Vera said walking up to us.
I was shaken by the unfortunate event, for I had known
the talented youth well; however, it was quite another mat­
ter to be drawn into a political group for which I had no
sympathy. I was taken aback and could not immediately
collect my thoughts and find the right words to make it
clear once and for all that I was not one of them. I walked
to the middle of the room and was about to speak,
when a loud knock at the door drew everyone’s atten­
tion.
When the newcomer turned down the collar of his over­
coat and took off his cap, of a kind worn by junior clerks,
I was dumbfounded, for the man was my orderly, dressed
in civilian clothes. My amazement grew when Pyotr, who
had not yet noticed me in his obvious agitation, ap­
proached Linuchenko as a friend and equal and began
talking with him. Then suddenly he saw me, started vio­
lently, and automatically snapped to attention.
“Your Grace.. . . ”
The blood rushed to my head and the officer in me
won out over all my other feelings.
“How dare you!”
Vera grabbed both my hands and shouted angrily:
“Do not say another word, or I shall never speak to
you again! There are neither soldiers nor officers here.
Pyotr is our devoted comrade. He suffered at the hands of
my father, and his enemies are my enemies.”
Linuchenko led Vera aside, saying:
“Calm down, I shall explain everything to him.” He
walked over to me and said:
“Pyotr is a member of our group, the one we are asking
you to join. It is up to you to accept or reject our offer,
but I know you will never be a traitor. If you, as an offi­
cer, cannot accept this breach of discipline, there’s a sim­
ple way out: hand in a request to have Pyotr transferred,
although that will undoubtedly harm our cause. One of

117
Pyotr’s in-laws is a watchman at the Third Department*
and through Pyotr he passes on the most valuable infor­
mation about political prisoners that enables us to aid them.
I’m telling you this as I know you are a person whose
honour is impeccable. Now, Pyotr, tell us what brought
you here in such haste?”
I was enraged: how dare he speak so insistently of my
honour? I was too agitated to collect my thoughts and
decided that very same day to put down in writing my
refusal to have anything to do with Linuchenko’s group.
However, I forgot everything in the world when Pyotr
began to speak. This is what he said:
“At five p.m. on the 18th of August Captain Zarubin,
the Gendarme Adjutant, took custody of Mikhail Beideman
aboard the ship that had arrived from Viborg and placed
him in the Third Department prison!”
Vera fainted. We laid her on the couch and tried to re­
vive her. Meanwhile, Linuchenko was asking where Beide­
man had been brought from and what else was known
about his arrest.
All Pyotr had been able to find out from his in-law was
that Mikhail had been arrested in Finland while crossing
the border into Russia. He carried 'a broken pistol, a pock­
et-knife, and a comb in a case. He had been brought to
Viborg from Uleaborg and from there he was taken by
boat to Petersburg.
I would like to quote an excerpt from the little book
of archives findings that I always carry with me: “On
July 18, 1861, the Royal Police Sergeant Kokk noticed a
stranger at the Korvo Station of the Northern Finnish
parish of Rovaniemi, Uleaborg Gubernia. When the ser­
geant iasked him who he was and what he was doing there,

* The “Third Department,” created by Tsar Nicholas I in July

1826, was a section of the Russian Emperor’s private bureau, em­
powered to sound out trends of thought in the country and the tsarist
government’s chief tool in suppressing all progressive thought and
the revolutionary movement.

118
the stranger answered that he was Stepan Goryun, a black­
smith from Olonets Gubernia, and that he had gone to look
for work in Finland, but not having found a job, was return­
ing home through Arkhangelsk Gubernia. However, Ste­
pan Goryun could not produce his passport and so the ser­
geant arrested him and ordered the parish watchman to take
him to the governor in Uleaborg. He was put in jail and
repeated his story when questioned on the 26th of July.
Four days later Stepan Goryun requested a new hearing.
He stated that he had lied and was actually Lieutenant
Mikhail Beideman and had crossed the border into Sweden
at Torneo in July 1860. From there he had gone to Ger­
many and was now returning to Russia.
The Grand Duke was informed of Beideman’s arrest,
and he ordered the prisoner immediately transferred to the
Third Department prison.
Vera became delirious. The Linuchenkos put her to bed
and sent for the doctor. I looked round for Pyotr, but he
had disappeared. I left the studio, accompanied by a
down-hearted and silent Yakov Stepanich. As we parted
he said:
“Remember my address, sir. You’re an orphan and or­
phans need advice!” He said this very matter-of-factly,
bowed, and walked off. I remember watching him and won­
dering at his youthful gait: he stepped lightly and firmly,
his straight back unbent, as if he did not feel the heavy
weight of his years.
It was late. The same great disc of a moon hung in
the twilight sky, and the heavens above St. Isaac’s seemed
a void. The Sphinxes gazed at one another like weary ti­
gresses, and for the thousandth time I read the inscription
beneath them: “Sphinxes from ancient Thebes, Egypt.
Brought to the city of St. Peter in 1832.”
That moment has never been forgotten. The heavy, mer­
cury-like waters of the Neva rolled on beyond the granite
embankment. The barges loomed black. A few lights
flickered like eyes among the empty hollows of the

J'J9
countless windows across the river. The hulking Academy
of Arts loomed up behind me, so muoh closer than in the
daylight; there was no statue of Minerva on its roof then—
it was erected many years later.
I stood there in dismay, having lost the light that had
guided my actions and my life. My sense of honour and
duty as a nobleman and officer and all my familiar moral
and civic concepts reared up in protest against my human
attachments—my boundless love for Vera and my faithful­
ness to her friends—as against a bitter foe. And then,
what was I to do about Pyotr? How would we meet at
home? Every fibre of my body told me he should be shot
for treason. And what was to become of Mikhail? It was
not too difficult to guess that I would be the one asked to
appeal to Auntie’s connections and to beg Shuvalov and
Dolgorukov, in the name of our family ties and mutual
affection, to intervene on his behalf. And what was I to
demand of them? That they set free the Tsar’s worst en­
emy! And why was he to be set free? In order to be able
to develop better and more cunning means of force and
violence.
No, that was asking too much. If they had any respect
for me at all, they should spare me, and, if necessary, use
the cunning so much a part of all their actions to
shield me from the unbearable torture of leading a double
life.
But they considered me no more than a useful tool.
Thus, as one throws coal into a steam engine to make it
work, they were appealing to my well-known sense of
honour to make me fulfil their wishes.
I walked down the stone steps. It was cold near the
water, and the heavy waves gleamed dully. Should I lie
down upon them, I wondered. Let them carry me along
beneath the grey heavens until they tire, then let me sink
slowly to the bottom. And these two, who have been brought
from ancient Thebes, will not once turn their tiaraed stone
heads. Then I thought of Vera and turned towards home,

no
shivering with the cold. I knew that she would need me
all her life.
At the same hour of dawn on that very spot in 1918 I
once again experienced the same emotions. I wandered
about the city day and night, dressed in rags, for I had
already become a beggar, my age alone barring me from
all suspicion. At this very hour, when the large flat moon
gleamed in the same dull way, I saw a man drown himself
in the Neva.
In the twilight I could see a large ugly scar that extended
from his right ear to his nostril. I knew that scar. How
could I not know it! He had received it from a Turkish
sword when he and I were galloping ahead wildly, break­
ing through the enemy lines. Our men followed and cap­
tured the Turkish advance guard. Captain Alfyorov received
the St. George Cross for that scar.
He was now an old, unbending man, and once again
he was putting himself in Death’s hands, simply and cour­
ageously as befitted a military man. I watched him bow
to all four corners, according to the Russian custom, then
undress slowly, enter the water, swim off a bit, and disap­
pear beneath the waves. I did not call to him. He was right
in his own way. I, too, walked down the steps. The leaden
waves lapped hungrily at the granite, drawing me down
to the black depths.
But the thought of iVera stopped me once again. Though
she had long since passed away, I was honour-bound to
make known the truth of Mikhail’s great suffering; then
only would I be free to leave this earth.
I mounted the stairway. The great Academy building
loomed up as it had years before, once again devoid of
Minerva, who had come crashing down through the ceil­
ing in the nineties. Yet, the Sphinxes still gazed 'at each
other mysteriously and wearily, and the same inscription
of the ages was there beneath them: “From ancient
Thebes, Egypt.”
CHAPTER IX

Under
a Glass Bell

stopped short before Auntie’s mansion. A

/
carriage had just drawn up at the curb, and
Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov, attired in
a magnificent beaver coat, jumped lightly down
and headed towards the door. I suddenly became
intensely absorbed in the display of the flower shop adjoin
ing the last half-column of Auntie’s house, and peered
into the great glass pane. The Count’s quick, all-seeing
eye noticed my manoeuvre and he walked up to me, an
unexplainable smile of complete satisfaction on his
face.
“Let us go in together. Why bother old Kalina unneces­
sarily?” he said.
Kalina was Auntie’s old and respected footman who
just wouldn’t relinquish his right to preside at the main
entrance. “Great personages” were frequent visitors at
Auntie’s home, and Kalina considered the matter of greet­
ing them part of Court etiquette, somewhat akin to the
duty of the Court Master of Ceremonies.

122
 The Count’s manner was completely natural. He seemed
to be in an exceptionally good mood, and the usual sharp
glitter of his eyes was dulled by the polished manners of
a strikingly handsome man who does not realize the power
he wields.
Though I chatted on amiably, 1 shuddered inwardly. A
sudden thought occurred to me which made me feel certain
the Count had come to Auntie solely on my behalf and
had been afraid he might not find me there.
As one who has dipped his hand into the lottery urn
and come up with the first prize, he could not, despite his
perfect self-control, hold back the wave of purely animal
good-will that came over him, the kind one experiences
at ia great success that has come effortlessly. I once saw
a cat pounce on a mouse and then amiably let a dog eat a
piece of fat that had been thrown to it. Since I do not
know the scientific limits of an animal’s reasoning, I can­
not decide whether it was merely a coincidence, or the
feeling I have described. Unfortunately, I have positive
proof that Count Shuvalov’s behaviour that unforgettable
evening was akin to that of a kindly tiger pleased at a
successful kill.
It is regrettable that we were taught .to trust facts and
logic implicitly and scorn the warning signals of our
hearts as romantic rubbish inherited from our ancestors.
Had I been wiser, I would have heeded that inner voice
of woe upon being confronted with the marble-white face
with its glittering eyes and would have turned round and
gone home. But I was not wise, and so I followed Shu­
valov in.
Auntie’s salon was livelier than usual. Instead of the
great personage which she was wont to serve up as a
maitre .d’hotel serves up the piece de resistance, the room
was filled with noisy young people of both sexes. Since
there was no salon “lion” present, the guests had drifted
into groups, each discussing the topic it found to be of
greatest interest.
123
 Auntie, seated in an armchair, presided at the round
table, surrounded by her “cronies.” They were mostly high
officials and the topics of conversation were quite fashion­
able: the proposed closing down of workers’ Sunday schools,
the unrest in the universities, and the notorious “woman
question.”
“I stand solidly behind Count Stroganov,” Auntie was
saying, “for I feel he is the only one who is speaking the
truth when he says that a higher education must solely
be the privilege of wealthy noblemen. Can you imagine
some commoner getting an education and strutting about
in front of his uneducated father! Or another might get
a headful of education and then hang himself from hun­
ger, as the one in the papers yesterday. So there it is,
we must all live as God intended it.”
“What do you think of Baron Korf?” an old man asked.
“He proposes that we abolish classroom study at the
University.”
“Rubbish! We haven’t reached the parliamentary stage
yet, my friend. If we go to the watering-hole without a
switch, we’ll trample the field, just like cattle!” Auntie
snapped.
“Kovalevsky’s note is rather interesting,” Shuvalov said
casually in his usual questioning tone, intended to keep
his own opinion in the shadows, while baiting the others
on, like a sparrow with a crumb, to draw out their views.
“Pay a fine! A fine!” everyone cried, holding out a
Saxon vase with silver coins to him.
“There’s a fine for mentioning Kovalevsky now,” Auntie
said. “We’ve been having a regular battle over him for
the past hour. I saw that it was a burning question and
decided I might as well shear the lamb for the sake of
the poor little orphans. Pay your fine, dear Pyotr Andre-
yevich, and see that you don’t mention him again; he’s
stuck in our teeth like Turkish delight!”
“What’s the use of talking since his case has been
decided! Stroganov, Dolgorukov, and Panin have been

124
appointed,” the old man shouted excitedly and added, “Ko­
valevsky’s—out!” as he sliced through the air in the di­
rection of another old man, as if cutting off the top of a
dandelion.
“Pay a fine!” Auntie held the vase out to him as every­
one laughed.
The artist in me always enjoyed a game, and I marvelled,
as one does at the way skilled skaters skim along deep
chasms, at this delicate salon art of touching on every­
thing without going deeply into anything, creating, as on
the clear surface of the ice, a series of the most intricate
word combinations and figures.
Yet today, this social flightiness disgusted me. Perhaps
I felt that way because Mikhail was in the Third Depart­
ment prison, at the complete mercy of the self-possessed
man sitting opposite me.
“Well, we’ve collected quite a sum on Kovalevsky. It’s
your turn now, Maria Ivanovna. Saddle your favourite
horse, as the saying goes, but bear in mind that if you're
still talking by Augustine, you’ll have to pay a double
fine,” Auntie warned, alluding to her antique German clock
which chimed the first bars of “Mein lieber Augustine” on
the half-hour.
“I don’t want to ‘saddle my horse,’ ” Maria Ivanovna
replied with a smile. “I prefer the old-fashioned troika
with all its comforts and me giving all the orders. I see
no harm in being a woman. My mother, grandmother, and
great-grandmother before me were all the mistresses of
their homes, and I am perfectly content to be the mistress
of mine.”
“You’re a clever woman, no one will deny that, but tell
us about your daughter,” Auntie said. She considered
Maria Ivanovna ia girl as compared to herself, though the
woman was well past forty.
“Oh, Lubinka is causing me no end of worry. Fancy,
she’s an artist.” Maria Ivanovna turned pink, as if she
had said something impolite. “Why, I wouldn't mind if she

125
painted for an hour or two, but just imagine, she’s at it
all day long! The other day she burst into tears. Her draw­
ing master said, ‘You’re very talented. What a pity you’re
not a young man.’ And truly, he didn’t mean to hurt her
feelings. She flew into a rage. ‘Why, you’d never tell the
Chinese ambassador he was a clever man, and too bad he
was slanty-eyed, but yet you dare say such things to a
woman! Get out of my room!’ And then she says to me,
‘Mamma, I don’t feel like a young lady at all. I want to
live like a man.’ ”
“Bring your Lubinka round tomorrow,” Auntie said. “I’ll
tell her about a nice young man I know, for it’s high time
she got married.”
“It’s a feminist rebellion!” a little old man cried. “If
women had any sense, they wouldn’t carry on so. Why,
science has proved that on the average their brains weigh
much less than a man’s brain. And has anyone ever heard
of a woman genius? Even in literature? No one will ever
make such a splash as George Sand, and even she was
called a cow by Baudelaire.”
“What about Jeanne d’Arc?” the eldest of the unmarried
ladies present asked, and blushed.
“Joan of Arc was born before her time. And then, Mad­
ame, Voltaire has made her completely harmless. Her
heroism and unusual gift for military strategy resulted
from .. .'ah, how can I put it more delicately?”
“Don’t even try. Just be still,” Auntie shook her finger
at her favourite old man, a great one for telling risque
French stories.
“In a word, Jeanne d’Arc is no example of an outstand­
ing woman, as she was not a woman at all,” Shuvalov
added casually.
“Why, is such a thing possible?” the old maid asked.
Everyone laughed heartily. Auntie was in the best of
spirits and shouted:
“Another fine, Pyotr Andreyevich, for making a maiden
blush!”

126
 Soon, however, the conversation took a serious turn.
Someone mentioned Leskov’s article in Russkaya. Rech,
and though the clock had struck long ago and chimed
“Augustine” twice, the guests were still on the same sub­
ject. The beginning of a feminist movement was of great
concern to the parents of young girls, and instances of the
new ideas taking root had caused many family tragedies.
I walked over to the window, trying to conceal my emo­
tions, for the fashionable “woman question” was close to
my heart, too. It alone was responsible for the fact that I
would never know happiness in life and that Vera had
been charmed by Mikhail.
Fate was kind to me: a well-known conversationalist
and society painter suddenly attracted everyone’s attention
by his witty remarks. I found his pompous manner of
speech somewhat unpleasant, though what he said seemed
to make sense.
The reader may be amazed at my recording minute de­
tails of foolish conversations while writing of a decisive
moment in my life—a fact he has undoubtedly guessed
from the beginning of this chapter. And then he may begin
to wonder whether I really did remember all this or, hav­
ing used a convenient blind, am fooling myself and indulg­
ing in a flair for writing which has awaked in me so late
in life, concocting a description of a social gathering.
I shall answer the question with a question. Has the
reader never noticed how a person who has had a terrible
loss that has ruined his whole life tells his story to another,
going oil into the minutest details? He must appeal for
help to the familiar things of everyday life in order to with­
stand a blow beyond all human resistance.
As for my memory which has imprinted like a photo­
graph everything that happened fifty years ago, why, this
old-age memory of mine is like the sun: it doesn’t dis­
tinguish big things from little. However, I will permit my­
self a few more details, as impressions that flash through
the mind of a person being led to the gallows.

127
 The above-mentioned talkative artist wore a velvet coat
and gesticulated as he spoke.
“Permit me to open your eyes to the secret of art which,
above all others, is able to delve into the mystery of Man
and Woman,” he said to Auntie.
“Please do,” she replied with her usual sense of humour,
“but remember: it is improper even for a statue to be com­
pletely nude. At any rate, speak in French when you tread
on dangerous ground.”
“I hope to skirt between Scylla and Charybdis in Rus­
sian. But let us return to the subject. Suppose I decide to
draw Hermes. As I trace his strong, sleek muscles, I feel
that I am forging a treasure. When I have noted a muscle
and transferred it to paper correctly, I feel, if I may say
so, that something akin to cold planning and logic was
moving my pencil. It is like walking along the brink of a
chasm and forcing yourself to move ahead by sheer will
power.”
“Who is he? What is his name?” people whispered.
“A talented parvenu, the Countess’ protege.”
The artist continued:
“In other words, Mesdames, these emotions are the joy
of good aim, of a bullet streaking to its target.”
“Never mind lecturing us on the art of shooting,”
Auntie interrupted.
“Patience, Countess, I was just about to speak of Venus.
In painting her, I sense the godly forms in the shadows,
rather than in the lines. I seem submerged up to my neck
in a warm blue sea beneath a glorious blue sky. I feel gay
and hear the Easter bells ringing. Mesdames, I iam float­
ing in Venus!”
“Est-ce que c’est convenable?” Maria Ivanovna asked.
Everyone laughed.
“Pay a fine,” Auntie said. “You’ve let your tongue run
away with you.”
“Countess, permit me to finish. Perhaps society’s sentence
will not be as cruel as yours.”

128
 The artist, like an improviser, continued with a theatri­
cal gesture:
“If there is such a difference of feeling in creating the
male and female torso, it can only mean that there exists
a well-founded law, and one cannot confuse or mix the two
in life. I hope the ladies will forgive me, but art is our
field, not theirs. A man created both Venus of Milo and
the Medici Venus. Naturally, they were not figments of his
imagination, but the result of his passionate love for some
Cleo or Aglaya. And there it is that we have woman’s
place: arouse our love, Mesdamesl Inspire us to create
beautiful works and a beautiful life!”
The men and women applauded him, but Auntie said:
“Bravo! But you’ll still pay a fine for floating in Venus.”
I was bored. Unwittingly, I compared their empty talk with
the deep thoughts expressed in the unpleasant company
of Vera’s circle, not in favour of high society. But
where was I to find my place? Was I now doomed to
eternal indecision, having been equally poisoned by two
opposing groups?
Shuvalov, who had been glancing in my direction now
and again as if he were watohing me, joined me.
“I see that you’re thinking of leaving,” he said. “I’m
of the same mind. Let’s disappear a I’anglaise, without
taking leave of anyone.”
As we were putting on our coats in the hall, I suddenly
thought: he’ll ask me to ride home with him. And sure
enough, when his carriage rolled up, he said:
“Won’t you join me? I’d like to talk to you.”
I was afraid to say the wrong thing and so said noth­
ing. The Count looked at me kindly:
“Why, you’re ill. However, it’s no wonder, you’ve had
such a blow. But I think I can be of great help, if only
you’ll let me.”
Still, I said nothing. I realized it was a foolish thing
to do, blit I was trying desperately to guess the correct
attitude for me to assume. What was he hinting at? Could
9—382 129
 it be that he wanted me to feel at ease and then give my­
self away by saying that 1 knew where Mikhail was? No,
that was too crude and simple a trap.
We drove up to one of the most fashionable mansions
in St. Petersburg. The Count told the doorman he had ur­
gent business and was not at home to any callers. We by­
passed the main stairway and walked down a corridor to
a corner room at the back with small, deep windows over­
looking the Neva. Directly opposite was Petropavlovsky
Fortress with its tall sipire, its Trubetskoi Bastion, and
the sharp triangle of the Ravelin.
There was no furniture in the room, save a deep uphol­
stered bench with a summery print calico slip-cover running
the length of the walls. There were several crates of dishes
packed in straw and broken oddments in a corner. It ap­
peared to be a storeroom.
“Pardon the disorder,” the Count said, “but at least
we can be sure that no one will disturb us here. And you
are quite aware that what we are about to discuss is of
the utmost importance.”
In order to appear natural, I should have long since
exclaimed that I did not know what he was talking about,
but that I was eager to find out. However, I had missed
my cue and now stood by the window like a fool. I felt
paralyzed, as a rabbit confronted by the beady eye of the
boa-constrictor.
My attention was suddenly drawn to a large glass bell
of the kind used for covering a plate of cheese; it stood
empty on the yellowed marble of the window-sill, and a
large blue fly was buzzing around inside, frantically hit­
ting against the sides.
“We’ll let it go,” Shuvalov said, lifting the bell. His
slender, graceful finger flicked the stunned fly to the floor.
Then he took my arm and said with a faint smile, “My
dear Lieutenant, I am ready to bet that a certain compari­
son has now occurred to you. Aha, I see I’m right!”
I started and attempted a laugh. “I shan’t deny what’s

130
true. But won’t you be as merciful to me as you were to
the poor fly and free my mind from that idiotic bell. I’m
at a loss as to the subject we are to discuss.”
“Mikhail Beideman,” Shuvalov answered simply. “As
you already know, I have him in the Third Department pris­
on.”
I made myself express sunprise, but spread my arms out
too far, like a very poor actor. Shuvalov did not let me say
a word. Instead, he added condescendingly:
“Oh, I understand that you must try to look surprised,
but dear Sergei, do let us stop acting!”
He took my hand and gazed deep into my eyes with a
look that was both serious and kind and reflected no cun­
ning at all. The Shuvalovs were my distant relatives, the
Count had known me all my life, but as he was always
busy, he had rarely paid any attention to me.
This sudden family closeness of his tone was so unex­
pected that it swept away the last shreds of any official
relationship between us, one that I had intended to use for
protection.
“Come, let’s sit down. Smoke?”
The Count offered me his cigarette-case. We both lit our
cigarettes.
I haven’f betrayed anyone yet, I thought. My mind was
a blank, all my strength was concentrated on a single de­
sire: not to be a traitor.
“Mikhail Beideman was caught at the Finnish border
while trying to cross into Russia under a false name. His
Majesty is greatly annoyed, and the worst possible fate
awaits the young man unless I am able to prove there are
extenuating circumstances.”
The Count’s tone was serious and frank, with the faint
trace of emotion permissible to his high position. The
slightest hint of falseness would have immediately set me
on my guard, but his tact made me believe his words reflect­
ed the usual and natural kindness of a decent person.
Though I knew he was a careerist, the idea that Mikhail's
9* 131
 case could add another laurel to his service record seemed
absurd. However, that is exactly what happened, though I
discovered it only some fifty-odd years later. Having gone
through a great deal in my lifetime and seeing things in 'his­
torical perspective, I have now come to realize how Mikha­
il’s case fitted into the general pattern.
Do not forget that those were the sixties, the first years
after the long-awaited peasant reform which turned out to
be such a fraud. Revolutionary ideas were spreading among
the youth, the universities became centres of unrest, procla­
mations appeared everywhere, and the Chief of the Gen­
darmes had received the Velikoross through the mails a few
days before Mikhail’s ill-fated arrest. Then, in August and
September, the famous appeal “To the Youth” was being
read in ever greater circles.
Count Shuvalov, an ambitious young general, was natu­
rally intent on proving himself a capable defender of the
throne, but in order to accomplish this, he first had to create
important enemies. Mikhail turned out to be just what he
was looking for.
The Count paused and added significantly:
“So you see, if you are unable to help me establish these
extenuating circumstances, Beideman faces the gravest
possible consequences, and not he alone.”
He waited for me to answer, but I dug my nails into my
palms and was silent. Then he continued in the same
warm, concerned tone of one speaking to a relative and
friend:
“I shall be forced to arrest and cross-examine Lagutin’s
daughter, Vera Erastovna.”
“No, you cannot do that!” I cried passionately, jumping
to my feet. “Vera Erastovna has nothing to do with it! She’s
been duped!”
“But you both attended Beideman’s circle!” Shuvalov did
not raise his eyes; it was as if he were afraid they would
reveal the hard glitter so out of keeping with his soft tone.

132
 “There is no circle,” I replied firmly. “There is only Mi­
khail Beideman, who has been led astray into free-thinking.”
“Listen to me very carefully: you alone can prevent Vera
Erastovna’s inevitable arrest if you help me throw some
light on a certain document.”
Shuvalov took a sheet of paper from his wallet, put it on
the table, and placed over it a large, marble-white hand that
was whiter even than his face. When he raised his bright,
keen eyes to mine he said:
“Everything we discuss here is to be kept in absolute
secrecy. If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone,
you, Vera Erastovna, and several others will be put in jail.
I keep a check on all of Beideman’s friends.”
“What do you want of me?” I asked.
“A sheet of paper torn to shreds was found on Beideman
on the bottom of a cigarette-box. It has been fitted to­
gether, and despite a few missing pieces, the text is clear
enough. Here it is.”
Shuvalov handed me a copy of the document.
“By God’s grace, We, Konstantin I, Emperor of all Rus­
sia,” the false manifesto began solemnly, in the name of the
non-existent son of Konstantin Pavlovich. The imagi­
nary pretender stated further that his uncle, Nicholas I, had
seized the throne from his father, Konstantin, and that he
himself had been imprisoned since childhood. The manifes­
to ended in a call to overthrow the illegal rulers who were
robbing the people and it promised the distribution of all
the land among the peasants, the abolishment of conscrip­
tion, and everything else all the anonymous leaflets called
for.
Shuvalov’s eyes never left my face, but I no longer cared.
I completely lost the feeling that we two were enemies and
was indignant at the crudeness of the counterfeit document
and the insolent assurance of the perjurer. Such were my
feelings at the moment, and they must have been reflected
on my face.

133
 “Dear Sergei, how happy I am that I was not mistaken in
you!” Shuvalov shook my hand and said in a business-like
manner, as if addressing an ally and no longer needing to
affect trustfulness:
“Help me keep Vera Erastovna out of this. I want you
to tell me all you know about Beideman.”
And now, judging myself on the threshold of death, I
look back on the events calmly anl cannot honestly con­
demn myself as I was then for my conversation with Shu­
valov, except on two points involving an unnecessary and
fatal disclosure.
Since my one desire was to shield Vera, I described Mi­
khail as a proud and obstinate person who wished to see
his revolutionary ideas realized without taking anyone in­
to his confidence but merely by using people as he saw fit.
Shuvalov made things much easier for me by saying that
Beideman had confessed he intended to do no more and no
less than assassinate the Tsar, and further explained that
he would have had no trouble doing this, since he was a
former cadet and thus knew all the Emperor’s habits and
ways. Shuvalov quoted Beideman’s words, brought to mind
once again by the archives report on the case. When cross-
examined, Mikhail had said after admitting that the pur­
pose of his trip to Russia was to assassinate the Tsar:
“Since I do not fear for my life, which I have dedicat­
ed to this cause, I had no intention of fleeing and hiding
from justice after the shooting.”
I was furious. How dared he, with the boundless egoism
of a rebellious demon, have no concern for his life if he had
already pledged it to Vera? If he had had a single drop of
knightly honour he should have fled from her love instead
of sweeping away her gentle youth in passing, as a heavy
hand sweeps away a butterfly that has flown up to a flame,
destroying for ever its delicate wings.
I was angered at these words of his, which could destroy
the one 1 loved in the prime of youth. Shuvalov did not
have to goad me on, for I was possessed by a truly animal

134
hate. I began thinking out loud, seeking the worst meaning
in Mikhail’s fiendishly arrogant statement.
“He wanted to arouse the people against the nobility!”
I cried. “If a nobleman assassinated the Tsar it could be
interpreted as the nobility’s revenge for granting the serfs
their freedom. Beideman hated his class. I remember his
saying it should be rooted out like nettles.”
“Sergei, my friend, calm down,” Shuvalov put his arm
around me paternally. “Perhaps Beideman is no more than
a wretched madman?”
“He’s no madman, he’s a cruel fanatic! And if his official
confession is so brief now, it is because he despises the
government and is waiting for his chance to publicly pro­
claim his murderous convictions at his trial, to satisfy his
insatiable pride and become a martyr in the eyes of all the
other revolutionaries.”
I looked at Shuvalov and stopped short. He was beam­
ing, like one who has received a token of royal gratitude.
Yes, his cunning game of an experienced cat with a foolish
mouse had brought him excellent results, for he was soon
promoted ahead of many others. As for me, he arranged
that I get a medal out of turn, to reward me for my foolish
hatred and betrayal.
Oh, how cheaply we sold Mikhail’s mighty spirit and
lofty mind!
But it is only now, in the eighty-third year of my life,
having died before my death, that I fully understand the
matter. But what about then? Then I simply became instinc­
tively frightened at the look of triumph in the Count’s eyes
and my anger at my recent friend suddenly cooled, leaving
me to wonder whether I had betrayed him or not.
No, I found I had not. At that I became generous, and,
imagining I could help Mikhail, I suddenly grasped at the
Count’s idea that he might be mentally unbalanced. I now
recalled the many instances that would prove this theory
correct, but Count Shuvalov was no longer interested. He
was once again a cold and excellently-made mechanism.
encased in a 'beautiful marble shell. Apparently, my first
remarks, made in a moment of blind hatred, were more to
his taste.
He rose and with a regal gesture, as if bringing an
audience to an end, said pleasantly:
“Excuse me, but I have urgent matters to attend to.
Fear no more for iVera Erastovna and yourself.”
“But what about Beideman?”
“He will get his due.”
This last phrase was said in the voice of one who will
stand for no interference in his affairs. The Count saw me
out to the hall, said, “The Lieutenant’s coat!” to the door­
man, and walked lightly up the stairs.
Once outside I wandered aimlessly up one street and
down another, with the strange feeling that everything that
was me had been extracted, and now the empty shell was
set free to wander about. Michelangelo’s Devil holding up
a sinner’s skin was ever before my eyes. I was like one pos­
sessed as I tramped about the islands until, finally, at dawn
I once again found myself outside the Count’s mansion. I
wanted to go in, but the windows were dark. I suddenly
felt terribly wretched and fell unconscious where I stood.
Had I then fully realized the outcome of our talk, I cer­
tainly would not have been able to live out my days in
peace. However, I had but a vague feeling that I had done
something irreparable to Mikhail, or, rather, that I was
instrumental in doing it, and this lay as a great weight
upon my heart. It was this feeling of guilt, which became
unbearable, that made me later risk my life in a fantastic
attempt to free Mikhail. An attempt which dulled my guilt-
feelings to the present day.
But now, reading through the truthful lines of the ar­
chives findings, I can no longer deny that I was the chief vil­
lain, the one responsible for Mikhail’s twenty years of sol­
itary torture. Count Shuvalov, in whose hands rested his life
and fate, had originally formed a very different opinion and
decision than the one resulting from our talk that evening.

136
 Shuvalov’s report to Grand Duke Mikhail Nikolayevich
suggested handing Mikhail over to the military authorities
for a court-martial. At worst, he would have been sentenced
to death. And was that not what he later pleaded for, as
for mercy, in a heart-rending note which was miraculously
delivered to us by a stranger one lovely evening at tea-
time? It was like a summons from another world. But I
shall write of this later.
My conversation with Shuvalov resulted in his chang­
ing his mind about the matter and taking a decision fatal
to the prisoner. My assertion that Beideman was not insane,
as they had thought, convinced them that it was easiest to
break one who is unbending.
The very night of our conversation Shuvalov reported to
the Tsar in Livadia Palace, repeating word for word what
I had told him. He said that Beideman’s silence and his
stubborn refusal to reveal any information was based upon
his determination to speak up loudly “at his trial in the
hopes of making public his intentions, and thus becoming a
political martyr.”
In order to prevent the dangerous prisoner from making
a public appeal he was thrown into Cell No. 2 in the Ale-
xeyev Ravelin without trial or jury.
CHAPTER X

Encased
in Stone
During
the Reign
of
Catherine II

7 m t was a lovely July day when I finally mus-

m itered my strength and set out for Petropavlov-
m sky Fortress in order to re-create in my mind’s
m eye the ,Alexeyev Ravelin, where Mikhail had
M spent twenty years in solitary confinement.
Many were the times that I had crossed the Stock
Exchange Bridge, passing by the fertile kitchen-gar­
dens the fortress garrison had planted (beside the broad
wooden estrade leading to the entrance gate. I once tried
to pass inside together with an excursion group, but every­
thing went black, my knees gave way, and I had no choice
but to sink down upon a large rock by the roadside and stare
vacantly at a huge revolutionary poster attached over the
entrance. The artist had portrayed two large black-muzzled
cannons against the background of the sky; above the can­
nons was a red star with a hammer and sickle in the centre,
and over that was an impossible combination of consonants:
Petrogrukrepraion HQ. I repeated the word absent-mindedly

138
all the way back to our attic, trying not to think of my mis­
erable weakness, which, I knew, come what may, I would
have to conquer.
Luck was with me.
I was crossing Mars Field one day, where they're plant­
ing beautiful flower beds this summer, and admiring the
adornment of the city, on my way to Chain Bridge to find
the former Third Department building where Mikhail had
first been arrested and had behaved so proudly and coura­
geously during the cross-examinations.
I was dressed better than usual; I still have a very old
dark-green suit of officer’s cloth which I keep for special
occasions. The last time I wore it was when I registered the
girls at school.
When I wear it everyone addresses me as "Grandpa,’' a
fact which pleases me no end. But most important of all
is that people speak to me as an equal, and that day I had
to have an answer to my question: where is the former
Third Department building?
I was unable to locate the house, however, but a chance
occurrence brought me much closer to my goal.
There’s a place at the Fontanka where they rent boats by
the hour. The street was deserted. The blond head of the
boy clerking in the office at this late hour protruded from
the window, and the boatman sat smoking his pipe, dan­
gling his bare feet in the water.
A blonde and merry-looking young girl in a short dress
that revealed her thick calves was whispering something to
her escort, a Red Army man. She walked up to me suddenly
and said:
“Would you like to come rowing with us. Citizen? You
probably know how to steer, my brother will row, and I’ll
ride along like a parasite. We'll circle the fortress and come
back. It shouldn’t take more than an hour."
I thanked her and entered the boat in a state of great
excitement. This trip was heaven-sent, if I were to resurrect
the past.

139
 We rowed along the Fontanka, past the former Law
School, and under the strange bridge where Vera and I
spent hours on end like maniacs, possessed by one idea
alone, and racking our brains for an answer: how to real­
ize our plan.
That was the spring of ’62, soon after Pyotr had found
out from his relative that Mikhail had been transferred to
the fortress, but was not on the list of those in the Trube­
tskoi Bastion. There remained but one clue: that he was in
the Alexeyev Ravelin.
Vera sold everything she had inherited from her father
and husband, and when she had amassed a considerable
sum of money she insistently demanded that we help her
plan Mikhail’s escape. All Linuchenko’s arguments that the
Ravelin, encircled by a high wall, was inaccessible, that the
fortress swarmed with guards, and that the prisoners were
kept in unheard-of isolation, were in vain. Vera was deaf
to all his pleas. She was prepared to sacrifice all her world­
ly possessions and was finally able to persuade Linuchenko
to try.
Pyotr was to bribe all the guards in Trubetskoi Bastion
and the Ravelin through bis devoted relative. A whole
month passed in futile hope, but if a drop of water with
time bores through a rock, then gold, too, in a never-ending
stream, will always wear away the resistance of hirelings.
Finally, Pyotr reported that he had found the right per­
son. His name was Tulmasov, and he was one of the assist­
ant wardens of the Ravelin. He demanded fifty thousand
rubles for bribing the guards and other personnel. Linu­
chenko insisted on seeing the man himself. The meeting
was arranged and Linuchenko then told us of Tulmasov’s
plan.
Two men were to row up to the Ravelin wall from Stock
Exchange Bridge on a dark and moonless night; they were
to strike a match for an instant as a signal. No one would
be able to see it except two guards, who would then throw
down a rope-ladder. Pyotr was to climb up with the neces-

140
 sary instruments for filing the bars on the window. In case
it would not be possible to escape through the gate, they
were then to leave by the same rope-ladder.
Linuchenko warned us that Tulmasov had made a very-
bad impression upon him, that the whole plan was some­
thing he might have read in a cheap novel, and that it prom­
ised nothing but unnecessary risk. But Vera, blinded by-
love, begged us to chance it. Pyotr and I volunteered. That
is why I know every stream and rivulet that flows into the
Neva. Vera and I sailed up and down for days on end, seek­
ing the safest approach to the menacing fortress and the
safest way back with Mikhail.
She found such consolation in these preparations! Yet,
with each passing day, this made it so much harder for me
to explain, as Linuchenko had already, that there could be
no hope whatsoever, but that the risk was immeasurable.
If we aroused the slightest suspicion, we would be killed
on the spot. However, as far as I was concerned, a heroic,
though senseless death was my only way out, the best I
could ever hope for. At that time I already had faint guilt
pangs about being responsible for Mikhail’s imprisonment.
Besides, my life was wrecked, and I was unable to find my
place in society. No matter how I tried to convince myself
that my conversation with Shuvalov could not have had
any undesirable after-effects, I felt instinctively that this
was not so.
Now, as we glided into the wide current of the Neva
through a little stream, every- detail of that unforgettable
night when we insanely attempted to free Mikhail rose be­
fore my eyes. The rays of the setting sun now seemed to
have spilled their molten gold on the deep blue satin of the
cold and heavy waves, but then.. . .
Then it had been pouring all day long. By nightfall the
rain had turned into a regular torrent, and the fortress can­
non kept firing ominously, warning of an impending Hood.
I was carried back fifty years. Yes, the night was black,
the storm was churning up the waters of the Neva, and

141
very few boats were on the river. The sunken barges loomed
up black and ugly.
“Watch out, Grandpa! Turn right, we’re heading into the
cutter!” the blonde girl shouted. I had become completely
absorbed in the past and had forgotten to steer.
We touched shore near the fortress. Petropavlovsky For­
tress and its six bastions are like a weird spider, the joints
of its legs jutting up and the ends in the water. I suddenly
felt that its legs did not end there, under the water, but
branched out into a thousand threads, entangling the city
in an invisible web. I was recently at the Museum of the
Revolution, where I saw a map of the Tsar’s secret police,
with coloured dots indicating the activities of his secret
agents, and I realized then the connection between the net
thrown over the city and the mysterious underwater activi­
ties of the monstrous spider of Petropavlovsky Fortress.
“Look, isn’t the fortress just like a spider?” the young
girl cried, to which her escort replied with some importance:
“Yes it is, because the spiders of the Tsar’s regime sucked
the blood of the revolutionary proletariat here.”
A spider! The little birthmark on Mikhail’s right arm had
been so prophetic! In this same manner the subjects of a
feudal lord had, in times gone by, worn his coat-of-arms.
The following large inscription was carved into the an­
cient, moss-covered walls of the Trubetskoi Bastion: “En­
cased in stone in the reign of Catherine II.”
Encased in stone.. . .
Mikhail, too, imprisoned for twenty years within four
walls, his tiny window covered by three sets of bars and
facing on another impenetrable wall, was encased in stone
from 1861.
And he was not the only one.
If you tilt your head, back you can see the cannons on the
bastion wall. There’s the main one, which has been fired
every day at noon since the times of Peter the Great—and
never off a minute—until the abdication of the last Tsar,
and since then to the present day, this sixth year of the Rev-

142
olution. There’s a tower above the cannons with a flag-pole
and flag. It’s a red flag nowadays.
Beyond the Trubetskoi Bastion, where the great trees
are, was an inner wall, at the back of which, separated by a
moat, was the Alexeyev Ravelin. It was on a small island,
and people were never let out of there: they were either car­
ried out ,to be buried under a false name, or were trans­
ferred to an insane asylum. There was another wall beyond
the Ravelin, and the Neva was beyond that wall.
It was on this last wall that, sixty-one years ago, accord­
ing to our agreement with Tulmasov, two guards he had
bribed were to appear with a rope-ladder. However, the mo­
ment we rowed up to it and flashed the signal light, two
shots rang out from the bushes on both sides. One bullet
had been intended for me, but I had just leaned back in the
boat, and they must have both hit Pyotr. He slid noiseless­
ly into the water, nearly overturning the boat, and disap­
peared beneath the waves. I was compelled to row back to
shore on the double, to where Vera and poor Martha await­
ed me in the bushes, petrified.
How peaceful these waves were, stirred up by a scurry­
ing steamboat! What bursts of merry laughter came from the
banks and the bushes where bribed villains once fired upon
us!
Red Army men were swimming there and bathing a little
tame bear. The funny cub scrambled on one man’s back and
sat there like a wet puppy while the man swam around. My
companions laughed heartily and then reluctantly headed
towards the pier.
“What a gay, lovely trip!” the girl kept saying happily,
but I could not refrain from remarking:
“May I remind you that the place we have just circled is
a far from happy one! Are you aware, Miss, that the best
and wisest men spent up to twenty years of their lives
there?”
“Citizen,” the Red Army man interrupted glumly, “you
have an old-fashioned habit of speaking about individual

143
cases and referring to them as the ‘best and most hon­
oured.’ The basis and the backbone of the Revolution are
not a few individuals, but the class-consciousness of the
masses.”
This soldier in a shiny new uniform with pink insignia
on his lapels was very young and confident. I pretended
I was deaf, mumbled something in reply, and fell silent.
Back on the pier, we parted friends. They both shook my
hand. Then the blonde girl bought a bun and two pieces
of sugar-candy from a peddler and blushed as she handed
them to me, saying:
“Merci for steering, Citizen.”
I did not sleep a wink that night. Everything that had
been buried sixty years ago kept coming back to me.
The morning after Pyotr’s terrible death I handed in a
report to my superior officer, stating that my orderly had
disappeared. They searched for him everywhere, but as
their efforts were unsuccessful, it was agreed that he had
got drunk and drowned. To remove all doubt, I testified
that he had been a heavy drinker. We were concerned lest
Martha, in her inconsolable grief, should give us away, for
any experienced sleuth would have found much to ponder
over from her incoherent talk of the vain attempt at escape.
Fearing that she might return to the place where Pyotr was
killed, we kept her locked up in her room and then decided
to get her out of the city temporarily—and as soon as pos­
sible.
Vera was turned to stone, all life seemed to have gone
out of her enormous eyes. She would stare vacantly into
space for hours on end, but came suddenly to life again
when Mikhail’s sister Victoria arrived from Bessarabia
to see whether her influential relatives could help him in
any way.
The day after I rowed by the fortress with the Red Army
man and the young girl, I could no longer keep from going
inside on foot. By three o’clock I had reached Troitskaya

144
 Square. I then crossed the bridge and found myself at the
fortress gates. A guide was calling the roll of his group.
They were young factory girls who had come straight
from work without stopping off at home to rest. They had
paid for the free-lance guide out of their own pockets in
the hope, as they said, that he would give them a “free-lance
tour.” I noticed that most of the girls were wearing the
fringed, striped scarfs that are so popular nowadays. Some­
one asked them, “How come you all have the same kind?”
and they answered, “We got them wholesale at the Pepo.”*
As the guide led them towards the entrance gate he said:
“Notice the main bas-relief, comrades. The figure seems
more like a person stuck in mid-air, dangling head-down,
than one flying. The boy’s hand pointing to him is so long,
that if he let his arm down, it would reach the ground. The
former Tsar Peter wanted to honour his patron saint, the
Apostle Peter, and ordered his priests to hunt up some
miracle he had performed. They discovered this man, the one
flying around so indecently—he’s the disgraced sorcerer,
Simon. Of course, it’s more than a legend, a fable to please
the weak-minded and illiterate.”
“Religion is opium for the people,” two of the girls in
scarfs said.
The guide pointed to two niches in the gates.
“The statues there are a pagan god named Mars and his
wife, Venus.” Then he added with a note of irony, “Mars
was quite in place here, since this was a military estab­
lishment, but Venus was added because, under the former
bourgeois system, a man’s wife was like a chain and ball,
even if they were both of stone.”
“According to mythology, Hephaestus was Venus’ hus­
band, and Mars was simply her abductor,” a student who
had joined the excursion somewhere said with a smile.
“And that means that Tsar Peter encouraged free love,
not legal matrimony.”

* Abbr —Petrograd Consumers’ Union.

10 382 145
 The girls all laughed, but the guide was annoyed.
“That’s a moot point,” he replied with dignity. “And
anyone who’s tagging along can leave right now!”
The student walked off whistling, but the girls gathered
close to conceal me and told me to be quiet.
We entered the cathedral. 1 never did like its foreign
splendour. The low altar was a mass of baroque curlicues,
the pulpit hung over a gold stairway, the Tsar’s Chair
stood beneath a heavy canopy, and the Metropolitan’s was
in the centre, upholstered in red. The columns were hung
from top to bottom with silver funeral wreaths of past tsars,
making them seem like something from a winter fairy-tale.
All the sarcophagi were of grey marble, but that of Alex­
ander II was symbolically red.*
Many tsars had played the same trick here. Town and
village Elders who had journeyed to Petersburg for the
coronation would be ushered in for High Mass. The great
crystal chandelier would be ablaze, reflected in every
silver leaf of the countless wreaths, the 'diamonds of Court
ladies, and the gold filigree of the iconostasis. Invisible
choirs sang from the heavens and clouds of incense en­
veloped the Elders as they fell to their knees.
Each successive Tsar and Tsarina would ask them how
they had liked the service and each time, from one corona­
tion to the next, the Elders would repeat, “It was like be­
ing in Heaven, Your Majesty!” so that the question-and-
answer became an almost indispensable part of the corona­
tion ceremony.
: The cathedral had changed greatly since then. All the
wreaths and the best icons had been removed and placed
in a Moscow museum. The monotonous marble sarcophagi
looked more forsaken than the graves of the poor in a
village cemetery. However, there was a strangely large
crowd at Emperor Pavel’s coffin. A blanket of live flowers

* Alexander II was assassinated by members of the “Narodnaya

Volya” ("People’s Will”) Organization on March 1, 1881.

146
covered the marble top; there were wreaths of daisies,
corn-flowers, and marigolds, and the icon-lamp burned
brightly, lighting the many pilgrims, young and old. Be­
fore the Revolution people believed that Pavel was a saint;
some said he could help in any trouble, others thought he
only cured toothaches.
I was lost in thought and suddenly saw I was alone.
The tour had rushed right through the chamber. I noticed
that the men were hatless, but I realized they had removed
their hats at the entrance gates in order not to appear bound
by their previous respect for the church. Yet, they were
apparently still unable to remain there with their heads
covered.
I rejoined my group beneath a huge tree. They were all
sitting on the grass, and the guide was saying that in
Peter’s time this very spot was called the “dancing place,”
as it was a place of torture and punishment. They would
set a man on an iron horse with a spiked back or make
him walk on sharpened stakes.
Finally, the guide passed to the subject that had brought
me there. He took us over the way prisoners had been
brought in the black carriages with drawn green curtains.
Two gendarmes and an officer had guarded every prisoner.
This was the same route young Mikhail Beideman had
followed in 1861, tq be buried alive for ever.
I no longer discerned the girls’ faces and heard only
as much of what the iguide was saying as I needed to
supplement my imagination in re-creating the days of Mi­
khail’s imprisonment.
I don’t know which road they took: the one along the
Catherine curtain, as Polivanov did in later years, or the
one on the other side, past the sunken Anna Ioannovna
barracks.
However, the procedure was the same in both instances.
The carriage would come to a halt at the low cottage of
the Chief Warden, where the officer in charge would jump
down and enter the house to report, while the gendarmes
10* 147
and the prisoner proceeded to the grey gate which has
since disappeared and been replaced by a street light, now
broken. To the right, then as1now, the many brown stacks
of the Government Mint rose high into the sky.
Here one can sense the nearness of the damp under­
ground cells, the complete blackness of the penalty cell, the
double walls, and slow, solitary, lawless death. And per­
haps because the sky and buildings are pushed so close
together, the sky does not seem at all like a boundless
expanse, reaching up out of sight, but rather like a low,
oppressing covering.
At this spot a good guide should have put an end to
the jokes and laughter of frivolous young people eager to
see the scabrous drawings left on the walls by former
guards and now in such vogue.
I said to the girls, “People were buried alive here for
life, in order that you should be able to come here and giggle
after an eight-hour working day.”
But they, like vain goslings, understood nothing and re­
plied:
“Don’t worry, Citizen! That will never happen again,
because we’ve overthrown the Tsar!”
I wanted to tell the guide that before he showed them
a solitary cell, a solitary bath and, as he said, “every other
solitary thing,” he should first find the right words to make
them understand with their hearts the full meaning of
“solitary, lifetime confinement.”
Yet, I said nothing. I could not speak. Holding on to the
wall for support and overcome with emotion, my strength
gave way. I could no longer keep up with the merry ex­
cursion.
I sat on the window-sill for about ten minutes and found
myself in new company. Four old ladies who had come
from the provinces had engaged the services of a veteran
guard, an old-timer who had been around practically from
the reign of Nicholas I. I asked their permission to join

148
them, and, with due respect for our age, we proceeded at
a snail’s pace.
I was pleased at this unhurriedness, for it gave me time
to accustom myself to a life that had passed here. No, as
the Good Book says of the martyrs: a Life.
Before a prisoner was brought in, he was detained out­
side the last iron gate. The officer purposely took his time
at the warden’s office to increase the prisoner’s anxiety.
Then, in the guards’ room, he was divested of his clothes
and issued a prison robe.
The old guard was very pious-looking, with a certain
unctuousness about his small features. His voice rang
with the pride of a professional as he said:
“I guarded the prisoners under two Alexanders, the last
Nicholas, and Kerensky, too. That should give you an
idea of my long years of service. And why was I able to
last here so long? Because I never did anyone harm and
always fulfilled my duty. If I was told, ‘Look in the peep­
hole!’ I looked. The prisoner would get angry and move
into a corner, but I wouldn’t annoy him, I’d walk away.
Then I’d take another look. To keep Figner* from tapping
to her neighbours, we transferred her to a cell between
two empty storerooms. Here, would you like to see it?
She’d stamp her foot, but there was no one above or below!”
He sounded like a kindly grandfather describing the
antics of his grandchildren. Thus, too, does the experienced
guide in the Roman Forum speak with quiet dignity and
pride, telling the visiting foreigners anecdotes of ancient
times. And just as the tourists there are impatient to dis­
cover all the gory details, these ladies, not in the least
embarrassed by the presence of such an old man as I,
perspired with curiosity as they demanded of the guide:

* Vera Figner (1852-1942), a Russian revolutionary. She was

sentenced to death in 1884, but her sentence was commuted to life­
time imprisonment. She was confined in the Petropavlovsky Fortress
for twenty years.

H9
 “Is it true that the prisoners were beaten? What did
you beat them with, and where did you hit them?”
The guard was displeased and denied the beatings; he
tried to call the ladies’ attention to the wardens’ concern
with the well-being of their prisoners.
“Now we’ll go down this stairway, into the garden, and
I’d like you to note that there’s a high, solid barrier at­
tached to the railing. I wonder if you can guess what it’s
there for?”
He was pleased at their bewilderment and added with
a wrinkled smile:
“It’s quite simple. It was put there to keep the political
prisoners from killing themselves. Oh, there were cases,
yes sir, they’re a clever bunch! Why, a chap who’s sup­
posed to spend years here tries to shorten his term by
plunging head-first down the shaft.”
There was a little bath-house and several trees in
the tiny garden. The overgrown paths were barely visi­
ble.
“They used to be sprinkled with sand in the old days,”
the guard said, with disapproval directed at the present
state of things. “During the Civil War we had the Tsar’s
generals strolling round here and the admirals, too. Of
course, they weren’t in cells—they had two rooms apiece
—a study and a bedroom—and full-course meals at their
own expense. They were allowed to have their wives visit
them. Look, there on Purishkevich’s wall is a long poem
he wrote and his signature: ‘Vladimir Mitrofanovich,
wretched Purishkevich, the pride and glory of the counter­
revolution.’ ”
I remembered the last two lines: “The seeds of madness
shall bring you crops of slavery.”
The ladies made a dash for the walls of the popular
guard’s room, covered with large pictures copied from
Niva magazine. There was a saucy young lady in a jersey
with a cupid’s bow mouth shown looking through the win-

150
dow, and a huge mural of Lucerne, as detailed as a street
map, with the windows of the distant houses drawn in
clearly. Beneath the view was a stanza:

If we but could return

To where we once were happy...

Vasilyevsky Gate is a few steps to the left of the Trubets­

koi Bastion. You pass through it and along a tunnel into
a place much lower down. Across a drawbridge over a
canal was the triangular Alexeyev Ravelin, a one-storey
building with fourteen small cells. These were reserved
for the most notorious prisoners. A warden was in charge
of the Ravelin, aided by security guards. He had the keys
to the cells, and no one could enter them without him. The
guards on duty kept a twenty-four-hour watch through the
narrow slit in the cell door. No one had ever escaped from
the inaccessible, invincible Ravelin.
It was so damp there, that on October 2, 1873, two pris­
oners, Mikhail and another, named Nechayev, were trans­
ferred separately by warden Bobkov and the Ravelin guards
to the Trubetskoi Bastion to escape flood danger. They re­
mained under guard in the Bastion until dawn of the fol­
lowing day.
The ladies held a whispered conference with the old
guard and put some bills in his hand. He nodded. Then one
of the ladies turned to me and said:
“Do come along with us, for we women will feel fright­
ened there all by ourselves.”
I did not ask where we were going, but followed silent­
ly. We returned to the lower floor of the Trubetskoi Bas­
tion and entered a cell. The guard slammed the door shut.
“Keep an eye on your watch and see that it’s not for
more than ten minutes!” cried one of the ladies.
“Certainly,” another said. “It’s unhealthy to stay here
longer, and we don’t need more than ten minutes to get
an idea of what they felt.”

151
 “Mesdames, close your eyes and then suddenly open
them .. . . Ah. how thrilling it is to experience what they
did!”
I measured the cell. It was ten paces long and five
paces across. The only colours were the dirty white ceiling
and the grey walls. Beyond the triple iron bars on the
window was a square of a dirty wall outside. The cot was
screwed to the floor, the table was screwed to the floor,
and the lamp was screwed to the wall in a barred niche
in order that the prisoner could not set fire to himself. The
prison clothes were made of sacking with a skimpy robe
worn over them. The blanket was threadbare, lacking any
warmth.
This is exactly what Mikhail had in Cell No. 2 and lat­
er in Cell No. 13, the only difference being that his cells
were much damper.
However, according to accounts of former prisoners,
the sounds heard in that part of the Ravelin were more
varied and louder, making the torture of solitude all the
more unbearable; at times the wind brought in snatches of
music from the Summer Garden.
What were Mikhail’s thoughts and feelings when the pass­
ing years kept mounting, turning the youth who had en­
tered there into a mature and then middle-aged man,
and all within these walls—twenty feet long and ten feet
wide?
And withal, the knowledge that just beyond these two
thick walls flowed a deep and beautiful river, that boats
travelled along it to the Baltic Sea and from there to all
four corners of the earth, that new buildings were constant­
ly going up along the banks, that people were ever gaining
knowledge through wars, education, and simply through
everyday living!
Not he, but I, his former friend and betrayer, was the
one to witness this rich and colourful life. Yes, his betrayer,
for a person is only what he himself knows himself to be.
And may a just Nemesis claim me!

152
 The reader versed in psychology can classify my fur­
ther revelations as he wishes. I shall not argue whether
it is the nervous instability of old age or a fundamental shake-
up of my whole system, for I am convinced of my own
knowledge.
At the whim of curiosity-seekers I spent ten minutes in
a solitary cell. But the anguish of a man imprisoned
therein and the centuries-oM creeping dampness went
through and through me, from the hair of my head to the
soles of my swollen feet. The torture of those walls encased
me in stone. And I cannot exist outside of them.
I know that no matter whether I spend the next twenty
years in this invisible prison, or only the two or three years
left to me on earth, I shall accept fully Mikhail’s entomb­
ment, I shall bear his inhuman sufferings, and they will
go down in full in my black book of Fate, as they did in his.
Dear reader, the prophecy of Madame de Tebbe, the
crystal-gazer, has come true.
Encased in stone as Mikhail was in 1861, I now take
his place in 1923.
CHAPTER I

Black
Vrubel

m | ergei Rusanin and Mikhail Beideman are one

m and the same person. It was only gradually that
i m I found out about the permeability of bodies and
m the possibility of taking possession of another
person’s personality. It came about after I had
become the son of Mikhail’s mother, the lover of his mis­
tress. And the third event—no, I shall not disclose it. It
sometimes happens that my desire to assume his personal­
ity and fate is so strong that I cannot recall my own name
and give his instead.
Thus, only last week, when I had gone out to the market
to buy five pounds of potatoes, I suddenly felt dizzy and
had to sit down on the steps of the large church, where
in 1917 they discovered a machine-gun in the bell-tower
and hung out a red flag instead. I have no recollection of
what followed, but those who took me to the psychiatric
infirmary told Ivan Potapich that I sat by the church mo­
tionlessly with my sack till evening, arousing the sympathy
of all the traders. It is a known fact that Russians are as kind
157
as they are hard. The women traders gave me some food
and wanted to take me home, but I insisted I had no home,
as I had just been released from the Alexeyev Ravelin of
Petropavlovsky Fortress that very morning. I said I had
been imprisoned in the Ravelin since the times of Crown
Prince Alexei Petrovich,* and had spent my time catching
the mice that were scampering over the feet of Princess
Tarakanova.** Despite the danger that threatened her life,
she had retained her gentle, naive femininity, and was more
frightened of the mice swarming over the red velvet of
her beautiful gown than of the water rising so rapidly in
her cell.
I remember the psychiatric ward quite well. When the head
doctor asked me who I was, I immediately recalled an im­
pressive moment in Mikhail’s life, and, shoulders erect, I
walked lightly to the far corner, as if inviting Vera Lagu­
tina to dance with me. I bowed with dignity and said from
my corner:
“Mikhail Beideman, Third Corps Cadet of the Konstan­
tinov Academy.” And added: “Vaut tnieux tard que jamais!"
This last was to signify that I desired to redeem all my
faults from the very start, beginning with my envy of his
good looks.
No doubt about it, the doctor and his assistants are use­
ful citizens, but they are merely the working ants, fulfilling
their duty. They wrote: “Insane” in my case history and
said I was ,to be given a bath. But the other so-called pa­
tients understood me perfectly and were on my side.
My favourite painter, Vrubel, who had taken on the ap-

* Crown Prince Alexei Petrovich (1690-1718).

** “Princess” Tarakanova, whose real name is unknown, was a
political adventurist who claimed to be the daughter of Tsarina Eli­
zabeth I. She died in Petropavlovsky Fortress in 1775. The legend
that she died during a flood in St. Petersburg (which was wholly
unfounded) served as the theme of a famous painting by K. Fla-
vitsky “Princess Tarakanova” (1864).

158
pearance of a tall, lanky person with a black beard, came
up to me and said:
“On the basis of my final liberation, which I discovered
from my latest work—a portrait of Valery Bryusov—I now
look like this. But I see that you have recognized me all
the same, and therefore are worthy of hearing my analysis
of a certain painting. We can talk alone this evening.’’
I am very pleased at having spent a week with the in­
sane. I had suspected before that here, as in everything
else in the world, the labels had all been confused, and
that these insane people were actually the freest men on
earth. They had discarded their masks. It is all a matter
of overcoming space. People in masks move forward along
straight lines, while we are like crabs. . . however, I dare
not disclose this, but can only hint at it.
The permeability of a body, the possession of another
person’s personality, is achieved in the following manner:
bend your elbow at an angle of 45°, like a dagger, and im­
mediately put your heels in his, your head in his. That is
how I always do it to become Mikhail. The result is a slight
feeling of nausea.
Vrubel and the black-bearded man had apparently done
the same thing. He told me about it that very same eve­
ning, disclosing the reason he had taken on a different ap­
pearance. But I shall speak of this later. Now I must conti­
nue forward along a straight line, and to make things clear
to the reader, I must proceed in the usual manner of main
clauses separated from auxiliary ones by modest commas.
However, apart from the lengthy conversations I had
with the artist, the topics of which were clear to both of
us, but which brought a smile to the lips of the head doc­
tor, they found nothing unusual in my behaviour. Besides,
on the third day I assumed my mask once again, expressed
concern at having inconvenienced the staff, and politely
asked to be let out, as I supposed Ivan Potapich and the
sweet girls were no little worried at my sudden disappear­
ance. I answered all their questions and gave them Ivan

159
 Potapich’s telephone. He’s a watchman at Tsentrosoyuz
now, and according to the general line of universal equal­
ity which we presently enjoy, he has the same opportu­
nity to speak with organizations over the phone as his chief.
Ivan Potapich came right over. He was delighted to see
me and gave me an apple, saying in his practical way that
apples were cheaper than cucumbers this year.
The head doctor released me in Potapich’s care, telling
him not to let me out of the house at all.
“He may have another brain haemorrhage, and then the
old fellow might easily get run over.”
I wanted to object and tell the doctor I could remove my
mask at will, and that there was no basis for calling this
means of broadening my outlook a brain haemorrhage. But
I said nothing. They stubbornly apply their meagre knowl­
edge and would probably have put me back in the tub
for another bath. And then, I was impatient to be home,
to have some tea with my apple and record Vrubel’s most
unusual discovery, so important for each and every one
of us.
However, let us proceed in a logical fashion in order
that the reader may comprehend how one ceases to be
“encased in stone.”
I first experienced the fact that there is a communion
of souls through the mind which knows no barriers of time
or space—something that will eventually be classified as part
of mathematics and will become more popular than rhyth­
mics—when I accompanied Beideman’s mother to the
Crimea in 1863.
After our unsuccessful, childish attempt to free Mikhail
which resulted in Pyotr’s death, Mother Beideman sud­
denly fell ill, though her spirit was unbroken. She felt that
her illness (a severe heart disorder) was steadily progress­
ing and told us she must make haste to use the last means
of appeal: that of personally begging the Tsar to pardon
Mikhail. I felt a true filial attachment for this woman and

160
could not let her make the journey alone. Thus, I request­
ed a short leave and accompanied her.
Mikhail’s mother took ill on the way. We were forced
to stop over at the inn of a horrible little town.
That is where it happened.. . .
We can learn so much from a dying person, if that per­
son has something to say. After all, everything that serves
to compare one person with another, that gives one an
advantage over another in education, savoir vivre, or the
other so-called “cultural treasures,” all this is as nothing
in the face of death, the greatest of all mysteries, no
matter which way you look at it.
When all is said and done, man carries to his very end
only his own soul; and there was a great and passionate
world in the soul of this dying woman.
After an especially severe attack she realized that she
would never reach the Crimea and was torn by inhuman
suffering. Yet, she was able to muster her remaining
strength in solitude and control her emotions. She did not
share the usual religious fervour of her sex, which looked
always towards the priest for aid, but her faith in the
power of reason and goodness towards which the world
was advancing in spite of the sorrows of life was so great
that it gave her strength and courage and inspired her
with maternal love and comfort for all who came to her.
Mother Beideman was not a talkative person. She was
reserved and extremely sensitive to the slightest troubles
of another. In the rare moments of release from pain her
simple questions, none of which was superfluous, caused
me to re-evaluate everything I had felt and experienced
until then. She had a rare gift of helping and giving of
herself without ever becoming insistent.
Does not the experienced sceptic Faust find these very
same qualities to be so charming in a being so innocent
and so wise as Gretchen?
No matter how short women bob their hair, puff on cig­
arettes with their fists on their hips, or write essays as

11—382 161
well as any man, it is their special gift, their motherly love
and protection, that makes the world go round. Thus it
always has been, and thus it always will be!
This grief-stricken, dying old woman was like an actor
who by day was forced to carry heavy stones, being free
to pursue his calling only towards evening.
Musicality and harmony, two qualities which form the
basis of an exalted nature, imparted deep tenderness to
the flame of life flickering within her.
“Styosha,” Mother Beideman said to the young serving
girl shortly before she passed away, indicating the blue
teapot the girl had brought into the room, “Styosha, put
a clean piece of cotton-wool in the spout. When Sergei
returns he’ll find the tea cold, and I might die before then
and won’t be able to remind you to heat it.’’
Fortunately, I returned before then.
Oh, how her sombre face lit up with a last earthly joy
when I entered! She hurriedly pulled a little key-chain
from her neck, worried lest she be too late, and told me
to give her a small walnut box. f unlocked it and she
handed me a hard grey envelope addressed to “Larisa
Polinova.”
“This woman loved Mikhail, she will do what I have
been unable to. She is well known in Yalta and close to
Court circles.”
Then Mother Beideman closed her eyes. With each pass­
ing minute her breathing was becoming more laboured,
and her heart fluttered so violently it made her snow-white
blouse tremble. She could not lie flat and raised her head
high, opening her unexpectedly young, bright blue eyes
towards the wide window.
The setting sun hung great and heavy, painting the sky
a deep red. The sharp pain of remembrance suddenly
gripped me as I recalled the unforgettable sunset on Com­
mencement Day, when f ran the length of the Academy
yard to catch up with Mikhail. The similarity was further

162
accentuated by the rows of dazzling window-panes of the
large houses across the street.
“What is Mikhail doing now? Can he sense that his moth­
er is dying?” I wondered.
At that moment Mother Beideman raised herself higher
on the pillows and straining after the setting sun, she
said softly but clearly:
“Sergei, come with me to Mikhail!”
She stretched her hands towards me and took mine
firmly.
Next day I came to and found myself in my hotel room.
The doctor who was taking my pulse warned me not to
get up or worry and said I had been found unconscious
after sundown, at about eight o’clock on the previous eve­
ning, sitting in a chair near old Mrs. Beideman. She was
dead, but had not let go of my hands. They had freed me
with great difficulty.
I did not ask for details. And I did not tell them the
whole truth about myself. But I shall now.
No sooner had Mother Beideman taken my hands, than
the sun went down, and the strange light seemed to have
no source, as in a dream.
I imagined the two of us were in a boat, and I began
to row frantically. In no time we had crossed the Neva
and approached Petropavlovsky Fortress from the Neva
Gate. I wondered why we had not gone through the Petro­
pavlovsky Gate, as usual. But then Mother Beideman
waved a frail hand in that direction and I saw great crowds
along the embankment. We would never have been able
to get through the crowds on shore. Novgorod, Olonets,
and Petersburg peasants were working there, waist-deep
in water. Lacking even the crudest tools and barrows, they
were digging the earth with their bare hands and dragging
it up on to the embankment in their up-turned shirts, as
they had no sacks. They were all deathly pale, with eyes
that were huge and white. Their long yellow teeth chat­
tered with the cold. I felt terribly sorry for them, but then

11 163
 I realized that though we could see everything clearly,
Mother Beideman and I were both invisible; how else could
1 explain the fact that we had gone unnoticed by the two
festive corteges: to the left, in the Catherine Pavilion, was
Catherine I with a retinue of ladies-in-waiting, to the
right was Peter the Great himself, ascending the bell-
tower with his aides to listen to the carillons,.
I was not surprised at seeing people long since dead:
had they not existed in time as I did—and what is time?
Time is an illusion.
Tsar Peter and his courtiers descended and joined
Catherine and her retinue at the “dancing place.” He flirt­
ed with one of the pretty ladies-in-waiting and then
headed with long strides toward the house of the firstling
of the Russian fleet. As we approached the iron grille of
Trubetskoi Bastion, Princess Tarakanova suddenly fell on
her knees before Mother Beideman, her hands clasped
above her pale face. Wisps of heirloom lace and shreds of
ancient, threadbare velvet barely concealed her enchanting
nakedness. Mother Beideman put her light hand on the
Princess’ head, as a Mother Superior might, absolving in
passing the sins of a novice, and we continued on our
way. Crown Prince Alexei did not approach us; he crept
along stealthily off to one side. His long, narrow-browed
head was drawn into his shoulders and his vicious eyes
followed us. We passed between the Mint and Trubetskoi
Bastion. There was an iron gate ahead. I don’t know how
we passed through it, as it was locked. To the left was
the black outline of the gate leading to the Alexeyev Rave­
lin. It opened by itself and resembled a great, yawning
mouth. We passed through the arch in the fortress wall
and crossed a moat filled with black water. There was a
light burning in the window of the triangular one-storey
building.
Suddenly, two figures loomed up before the last gate.
The taller one, dressed in the greatcoat of an army doctor,
was muttering in a hollow voice:

164
 “I’m an old man, I got grey in the service, but I never
remember anyone leaving here except for the cemetery or
the insane asylum!” He shouted the words again and
cackled ominously.
Poor Mother Beideman covered her face in despair, but
I tried to comfort her.
“Don’t let the words of a crude man, unworthy of his
humane profession, frighten you. He is Whilms, the prison
doctor, and those are the cruel words he once said to the
members of the ‘Narodnaya Volya’ movement.”
It seemed that as in Dante’s circles of Hell, each person­
age was frozen into immobility at the moment of his crime.
“Well, come in, since you’ve come!” another weird ghost
shouted angrily. He raised his heavy hand as if to strike
us, and then suddenly let it drop, moving his stub-like
fingers quickly. His bulging, dull-green eyes peered at us
unblinkingly, like the eyes of a reptile. Their expression
was one of cold, stupid cruelty.
I recognized the jailer. “Sokolov, take us to Beideman!”
“If you have a pass, I’ll let you in. If you haven’t, I’ll lock
you up, too,” he said, but suddenly the large, enamel-blue
moon descended from the heavens.
The moon concealed u s .. . .
The moment my feet touched the floor of Mikhail’s cell
I turned round involuntarily to see if there was a way out.
The window-panes were of frosted glass, criss-crossed by
the black shadows cast by the iron bars. The walls were
damp and dripping and seemed partially covered with
black velvet. I touched the velvet, and my finger squashed
the horrible green-black slime.
To the left was a huge tile stove with the fire-box out­
side in the corridor; a wooden bed stood at the opposite
wall. Someone was lying unconscious on the floor by the
bed.
It’s Mikhail, I thought and was about to rush to his side,
when Mother Beideman dragged me into the corner farthest
from the door, and just in time. Someone lifted the top of

165
 the peep-hole and looked in. The lock rattled, and the doc­
tor entered, followed by Sokolov and two guards who lifted
the body from the floor. The prisoner’s face was purple, a
towel was bound tightly round his neck and fastened to the
head of the bed. The doctor removed the towel and applied
artificial respiration. Blood gushed forth from the man’s
nose and mouth. His face changed colour and became as
white as chalk.
I recognized Mikhail. He had become so thin that his
cheek-bones protruded, and the skin stretched over his nar­
row, slightly hooked nose was yellow like that of a corpse.
His eyes, no longer sparkling with proud strength but, rath­
er, the eyes of a hunted, tortured man, now gazed up
with timid hope.
“Did I die?” he asked. “Then I succeeded?”
“You succeeded in going crazy!” the doctor answered
rudely. “Take his sheets and towel away, in case he decides
to give it another try.”
The guards yanked off the sheets. Mikhail rose, eyes
flashing with rage; it seemed that he would do something
drastic. At that moment Mother Beideman advanced to­
wards him with outstretched arms.
“Mother, you’ve finally come!” Mikhail could not control
his joy and despite the presence of the guards, he began
to sob like a child.
“See, he’s cooled off without a straight-jacket. Look at
him cry,” one of them said.
“He’s very weak now and won’t cause any trouble to­
night,” the doctor said and left, followed by the guards
carrying the sheets and towel.
The door clanged shut and was locked. The reeking oil-
lamp emitted clouds of soot as it cast a faint light on the
emaciated, feeble body stretched out on the filthy straw
pallet.
His eyes burned insanely, tears streamed down the pale
cheeks, and he repeated over and over, with the monotony
of a metronome:

m
 “Mother, get me out of here. Mother, I can’t stand it
any more___”

“Sergei Petrovich, what’s the matter? You look like

you’re writing in your sleep.” Ivan Potapich shook my
shoulder. “Here, let’s have some tea.”
I came to. It was very quiet. The girls were asleep. Po­
tapich and I had some tea. Then Potapich sprawled out
on the couch. I make my bed on the floor after everyone’s
asleep.
“Don’t forget the light,” Potapich warned. “You can see
it from the street. Someone might report us to the superin­
tendent, and then they’ll shut off the electricity.”
I tacked an old rug across the window, and then re-read
what I had written. Some may wonder what actually hap­
pened and what was only my imagination. Well, let the
curious reader first define the following: what is the truth?
That which happens to a person and leaves not the slightest
trace upon his soul, or that which he need but imagine for
a moment for it to become imprinted for ever on his mind
as the most vital and purest truth?
Or is truth merely that which we can touch and feel?
If such be the case, then the large grey envelope Mikhail's
mother had addressed to Larisa Polinova in the hope that
she would follow up her petition to the Tsar was surely the
truth.
The black-bearded lanky fellow who said he was Vrubel
was probably a figment of my imagination. Yet, it is a known
fact that imagination led to the discovery of America, and
not only America.
CHAPTER II

The
Goat God

haven’t written for a long time. I was doing

penance for Mikhail’s suffering and was en­
cased in stone, like the Trubetskoi Bastion. There
were cells within me and I myself was locked
up in a cell, while Ivan Potapich kept yelling
day and night:
“Don’t you dare hide in the wardrobe, or I’ll take you
to the nut house!”
He was beginning to get on my nerves, and so today I
again took my place in time, put on my mask, and sat
down ‘to write. People seem most frightened when time
ceases to exist.
Ivan Potapich summoned the doctor today. He spoke to
me, but I did not respond. The doctor told Ivan Potapich
that there had been many new cases of insanity due to
the change in time and the clocks having been moved for­
ward. People suddenly became frightened, as if the last
of the three whales of Antiquity supporting the world had
been pulled out. A woman named Agafya Matveyevna was
taken to the insane asylum. She refused to eat or drink,
168
 “How do I know what will happen to the food and the
drink? You can’t believe anything now, not when the clocks
are all wrong, too,” she had said.
I’ve noticed something of late: when time becomes con­
fused in my mind, when solid things apear transparent,
and I leave Mikhail’s cell, if only to stroll in the trian­
gular Ravelin garden, I no longer walk like other mortals,
but fly up a bit.
With each passing day I do it better and higher. I’m like
a sparrow heavy with chaff and can already fly up to the
stove.
I’m afraid of my flying.
Ivan Potapich is a class-conscious person now, he doesn’t
believe in anything the church has to say, but he won’t
stand for indecent behaviour. And there I am, perched on
the stove at my age. What will his friends say? Then again,
I can’t leave the house before my hour has struck. The
only solution is to accept the weight of the days and months
and get down to the flat-bottomness of earth once more.
Ivan Potapich was right when he said that pen and ink
are the nursemaids that steer me along the straight and
narrow. But it’s time I got back to my story.
It was not before early spring that I was able to carry
out Mother Beideman’s wish. Once more I applied for a
short leave and rushed off to Yalta in quest of Larisa
Polinova. The heavy grey envelope was secure in my
breast-pocket. I had no trouble locating her summer house,
for the whole city knew her. For some strange reason,
I had expected to find a scholarly maiden with bobbed hair
and no great personal charm, but I was greatly mistaken.
Patches of goldenrod and the deep rose blossoms of the
Judas-tree blanketed the mountain sides, making the sun­
sets seem bleak. Every mystery of colour was brought to
life by this turbulent blossoming of the earth. Dark, shiny
ivy vines crept over the great boulders like snakes and
delicate wistaria blossoms lay upon the stiff leaves. Every­
thing was aflame with roses: they were pinkish-orange, as

m
the insides of large Mediterranean sea-shells, crimson,
and white. They swayed proudly in the gardens, climbed
up to the rooftops, framed the open windows, and formed
the most delicate of tapestries against the white walls.
The whole city was a basket of roses. Along the main
walks of the public parks they grew upon high trellices
and at sunrise, with the dew drops sparkling brilliantly
upon them, they filled the air with the aroma of freshly
brewed tea. For two days and two nights I tramped about
the mountains like a madman, until I finally realized it
was foolish not to understand what had happened to me,
and I accepted my fate.
From the moment I first set eyes upon Larisa, I fell in
love with her. If she had had an affair with Mikhail, she
would have one with me, too. If there had been only long
talks and the moonlight between them, I would share the
same with her now.
What connection was there between these terms I set?
I cannot explain it, but I had guessed correctly.
One can fathom the deepest recesses of a person’s soul
only if one re-creates that person’s relationship with his
chosen one. This applies equally to men and to women.
Larisa would then reveal to me why Mikhail had fled
from personal happiness. At which of Fate’s anvils had
his revolutionary will been forged? After all, even virtues
and shortcomings that with time become the heritage of
all mankind are formed from deeply personal relationships.
However, I was in no mood for philosophy. My short
leave was all the time I had to come, see and conquer,
as the Romans did. Although Larisa Polinova was a young
widow with a reputation of being an accessible Yalta belle,
I felt very shy and had little faith in myself. Her cottage was
outside the city, near the Genoese fortress, at the very
foot of the mountains. Larisa was wealthy, paid no at­
tention to wagging tongues, and led an amazingly inde­
pendent life for those times.
At first I took her for q servant. When !• rode up to her

170
house (the first person on the street whom I asked had
directed me to it) and dismounted, I did not know where
to tie up my horse and addressed myself to a young girl
with a Ukrainian kerchief tied round her head and wear­
ing an embroidered white blouse and dark skirt. She was
watering the vegetable beds in the garden.
“Where can I leave my horse, dearie, and where can I
find your mistress, Madame Polinova?”
“You can tether your horse to the fence, for there are
no thieves here, and I’m the very mistress you’re seeking.”
She laughed, and the smile that lit up her face showed
it to be so unusual, that I could not quite understand wheth­
er it was beautiful or not.
“I’m Larisa Polinova. Won’t you come in?”
The house was unlike the usual bauble-type of summer
cottage. It was made of red brick to resemble an English
cottage, and was both simple and comfortable. The book­
shelves were heavy with books.
A chic maid brought me a cup of coffee. The mistress
of the house did not change her attire; she merely washed
her earth-stained hands, followed me in, and asked with
disarming frankness:
“Have you come to me with a message from someone?”
“You’ve guessed correctly. I have a letter for you.”
My pride was wounded, and I suddenly felt annoyed,
as a man is apt to when he sees a beautiful woman com­
pletely at ease in his presence, continuing her life without
the slightest ripple, which, he subconsciously feels, his
appearance on the scene should certainly have caused. Such
a woman passes through you as if you did not exist.
Larisa’s grey slanted eyes observed me calmly. Her
regular features were pleasant, her complexion was mar­
ble-white, and her chestnut hair, from which she had re­
moved the kerchief, seemed shot through with sunrays
reflecting the light. She wore her hair like a maiden, in a
heavy braid that reached her knees. Her figure was equally
amazing: she resembled Titian’s Magdalene, tall and

m
robust, her every movement the epitome of freedom and
grace.
I suddenly felt pleased at toeing able to shatter her seren­
ity and blurted out as I handed her the letter:
“Here’s a letter from Mikhail Beideman’s deceased moth­
er. She begs you to intervene on her unfortunate son’s
behalf. He’s been incarcerated for nearly four years.”
Not a muscle on her face moved. She remained as calm
as before and waited for whatever else I had to tell her.
I decided that she had not understood the meaning of
my words and cried:
“It’s a letter from Beideman’s mother! You must remember
her son—for didn’t you love him once?”
Her brows twitched and the colour spread slowly to her
temples. She took the letter from me, rose serenely, and
rang. The chic maid who had brought me the cup of coffee I
had not yet touched, entered.
“Masha, untie the horse at the fence and show the Lieu­
tenant the shortest way back to town.”
Before I had a chance to say anything, she bowed her
head slightly and .retired to her room, leaving me foolishly
to follow the maid out.

A SECOND CHAPTER 11

I tramped about the mountains, moody and restless.

Everything I had experienced until then—my hopeless love
for Vera, my friendship and then hatred for Mikhail—
seemed an interesting, tout once-read book. For the first time
I realized that I was young, that a life of unknown personal
happiness and emotions had opened up before me. Why
was I to live someone else’s life and not my own, as if I
were a withered old man?
I had fulfilled my promise to Mikhail’s mother. I had
delivered her letter. But she, who until then had been of
interest to me only insofar as she could provide the answer

172
to my friend’s way of thinking, so alien to my own, now sud­
denly fascinated me as a woman. My tactless mention of a
former love-affair had spoiled my chances and had caused
me to he banished from her house. And yet, perhaps this
annoying action on her part had been the tinder, igniting
all the intricate explosives that go into making a thing
called passion.
All my walks, no matter which direction I took in the
morning, would, by evening, bring me to the same spot—to
the ruins of the Genoese fortress. For two days the windows
were shuttered, as she was not at home.
Then they were thrown open; someone was playing a
piece by Chopin. It was terrible, halting, and noisily pas­
sionate. I remember my joy at the thought: “If it is she
playing so badly, I shall stop loving her this instant and
shall be free once more.” But it was not she. Once again
I did not recognize her, though when she laughed and said,
“Hello!” I noticed her standing close by on the rocks. She
wore Tatar pants and a jacket and carried an alpenstock
and a leather travelling case. She looked at me kindly, as
if nothing unpleasant had ever passed between us.
“Where are you going?” I ventured to ask.
“I’m off to take these medicinal herbs to a friend of mine.
He’s an old shepherd. We have a long-standing agreement
that I come to him every summer.”
Before I realized it I said:
“May I go along with you?”
She thought it over, sized me up slowly, and answered:
“All right. But on one condition—that you’ll be silent
all the way. I can’t stand climbing and chattering.”
“I’ll be deaf and dumb,” I promised.
“It’s sufficient that you be dumb until we reach the goat
hut. You can talk there.”
I took the suitcase from her and we set out.
At first the path was slightly inclined. To the right was
the blue sea, to the left, the crooked branches of cornel
scratched our legs, and primroses and traveller’s joy were

173
 in bloom. The grey crags were piled upon each other as if
some giants had tossed them there from behind the main
ridge of an enormous steep mountain that resembled a
camel with its legs tucked under it. There were plants with
sweet-smelling leaves, and the silvery flowers of the edel­
weiss family. The camel-like mountain was covered with
crooked pines.
I still recall the strange way in which they wound around
themselves, the bark all peeled off and the trunks purple-
grey in hue. Some looked like inch-worms with their middles
bent in an arch; their crowns were on the boulders, and the
dark boughs and pine-cones were scattered over the crags.
These sinewy, contorted pines filled me with poetic thoughts
and brought to mind some stanzas by Dante, which
Auntie Kushina had insisted I study thoroughly. I loved
them, as they gave me food for thought. Forgetting my
promise of silence, I suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the
pines:
“These are the unrepentant cripples of the circle of Hell,
and these are the souls of suicides, entombed in trees!”
“There you go,” Larisa said with annoyance, as if awaken­
ing from a sweet dream. “Cleanse your mind of books, and
of thoughts, too. You won’t understand anything here if
you keep on thinking. Or at least, don’t bother me.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I said. “I love na­
ture, too.”
I knew that I sounded foolish, but I didn’t care. I sud­
denly ceased responding to Larisa so acutely. Her per­
sonality seemed less in focus, and I now felt that I had
known her all my life, that we were kin, and that we were
returning to our homeland together as children.
We kept on and on. The peaks of the highest ridge cut
into the blueness of the sky like fortress turrets. Between
the turrets were wondrous dragons and huge lizards turned
to stone for ever. Swift bubbling streams rushed down the
stones from the very mountain-top, as if they were little
boys playing at riding. It was hot, yet refreshing. It seemed,

174
as we entered the deep emerald darkness of a canyon, that
we were entering the earth’s depths. We sat down On a crag.
I was drunk with the smells of the grasses and said:
“Oh, that I could return to the dark recesses of Mother-
Earth and no longer think, or know, or feel.”
“That’s the Goat God casting his spell on you,” Larisa
said. “Everything here is his. But be still, be still.”
Larisa was motionless. Her face was fixed in a vacant
smile and seemed like one of the ancient statues I always
marvelled at in museums. The Goddess of the Earth herself
sat there before me, and her strength, as calm and sure as
the noonday heat, flowed into me.
“Let’s go on,” she said, rising, and set off in silence.
I followed her.
I felt that no human foot had ever trod the earth here.
The magnificence of the flowering grasses, the wild irises,
and the carnations was not even disturbed by the slightest
breeze. The sun was setting, and the mysterious exchange
of colour between sky and pines was hastened. The trees
absorbed the blue covering greedily and wrapped them­
selves in it as in a wedding veil.
“Here’s the goat hut,” said Larisa. “I permit you to speak
again.”

SECOND CHAPTER, CONTINUED

A Dozen and One

Now, a half-century later, when Black iVrubel has ex­
plained the essence of all Being, I have finally understood
the absurdity of the events in the goat hut. There are al­
ways two possible decisions to take, and only two—all the
rest are of secondary importance.
Here’s an example: there is an ancient, small-cupolaed
church near the insane asylum Black Vrubel was in, and
it was in that church that he announced he was the master
of the church, as he had decorated it. It was during High

175
Mass, and he pushed the Metropolitan off the pulpit, tak­
ing his place there. But it is God’s truth that he did the
fresco high above the choir transepts, and it is still there,
plain for all to see. He taught me how to look at it cor­
rectly.
At sunset you must run up the winding stairs, looking
down the shaft through the narrow window to make sure
that you return in time. Then close your eyes tight and open
them suddenly to look upon the beardless young Prophet,
the one with the eyes of a demon. He is ready to fly, as the
one who fell to earth dead, scattering his peacock feathers
on the rocks.
The Twelve are above the Prophet. They sit close to­
gether, their bare feet firm upon the squares of the carpet.
They sit on the wooden bench that circles the inner cupola.
Their wrists are wondrously alive, be they pressed to the
breast, slightly raised, or lying on the knees, as those of the
old man to the right.
The arms and legs pin the bodies down. If not for their
great strength, the bodies would be writhing on the check­
ered floor.
Black Vrubel showed me a large phototype of the paint­
ing and explained its hidden meaning to me while all around
us the uninitiated howled with laughter. He acted out in
turn the position of each of the twelve men’s hands.
“People think they are not classified. But they are. There
are twelve types. And each type is like the various
branches of the army, and can also be classified:
the Peters take up the sword, the Johns are silent, but
knowing, and the Thomases never tire putting in the prod­
ding finger. All that has been scattered by grains among
us is crystallized in the Twelve. Find your patron and as­
sume his position. Fold your arms lightly so as not to
sense them, close your eyes, and concentrate all your
energy in your command: stop, Sun!
“Its last ray will strike upon the painting, producing a
blazing stream of light . . . like two hundred thousand

176
candles. Ha, ha! Electrification of the centres. What did
you think it was? An innocent fresco for the faithful? And
that the work of an artist as great as Vrubel? To make
you weep oceans and repent? The devil it is! ft’s camou­
flaged against the idiots.
“Did you see what it said in the paper? It was an
excellent editorial, and I copied a piece out word for
word:
“ ‘We are now at the threshold of solving the problem of
transmitting energy without wires.’
“You see, a wireless form of energy can envelop anyone,
as it did there on the wall, with a yellow ray widened at
one end to resemble a silk-worm’s cocoon. The naive wreaths
around their heads are no more than fig leaves. For one can
see, hear, and come to know things that few people know!
Yet each must choose his own way: to scatter himself like
the Twelve, or become compressed, as One.’’
We stood looking at the phototype until the sun began
to set. It was time to begin. Suddenly, Black Vrubel looked
out the window and whispered:
“Absorb the last ray and use it as a hook to latch on to
the sun. Don’t let the sun go down! We’ll stop it for world
e-lec-tri-fi-ca-tion! For everyone! Everyone! Everyone!”
The artist jumped on his cot and began to bark. I recall
that I followed suit, taking this as a sign of invoca­
tion. But everyone around us howled with laughter. Alas!
Once again the .experiment had been premature. The sun
set.
“The sun experiment is off!” the artist shouted as we
were both dragged through the halls to the padded cell.
At that moment he decided upon something and turned
to me:
“What is needed first is a singular example. We are both
the chosen ones. Both of us!”
He raised two bony index fingers and shouted at the
top of his voice:
“Two units!”

12 382 177
 But there, in the goat hut, under the spell of the Goat
God, I (had become confused in my counting. I was One,
but I wanted to live cheaply and be of the Twelve, to join
the Twelve.
The Goat God is a great muddler.

HIS HEATHEN TEMPLE

Larisa said, “You like feelings out of a book, as when
you spoke of the mangled trees. Come, I’ll show- you some­
thing better.”
She took my hand and led me to some Cyclopes’ dwell­
ing. Great white boulders were piled upon each other. A
high belt of rocks surrounded a blackened clearing. There
were three casks in the centre; three shepherds sat upon
the casks. Their wide sharovary hung down in close, leather­
like folds. The calmness of their surroundings was reflect­
ed in the bronze faces of the men who lived in the moun­
tains all summer. Then they began to chant, rocking gently
from side to side. Their faces, as Larisa’s, bore the same
blank smile as had their carefree ancestors.
“It’s a song to the Goat God, asking for a plentiful milk­
ing,” she whispered.
A large flock of goats pushed and crowded before a
narrow gate, impatient to be milked. Their large, maiden­
like eyes were full of tears, their beards trembled from
bleating, their great udders were strained and protruded
sharply. The Tatar who was stringing sheepskins on a
stout thread to dry suddenly whooped like a bandit and
lifted the latch on the gate. The goats squeezed through,
the shepherds jumped from their casks, each grabbed a goat
by the tail, and spread its thin, pinkish legs. The men’s
black, tenacious fingers pulled at the teats, as if trying
out an instrument, and then suddenly squeezed the udder,
as is customary in the mountains, forcing all the milk out
at once. The Tatar would slap a milked goat on its dusty
rump, shoo it off, and get hold of another. The milk was

178
plentiful, all the goats were healthy, and the shepherds sang
songs of praise to the Goat God.
The goats called to each other in almost human voices
and had the timid eyes of young girls, while the men with
smiles of ancient predecessors and blank eyes sang songs
to the Goat God.
I rested my head on a rock. It felt like my mother’s knee.
The sky above me was a tender, starlit coverlet. The moun­
tains were all around me, each with its own thoughts and
stone castles, turrets and animals that watched over and
guarded the meadows of the Goat God and the large flocks
of sheep.
Then Larisa took my hand and led me behind the rocks
to the very edge of a precipice.
“Toss down a stone!”
I did. It was a long moment until a dull sound told me
it had reached bottom.
“Once a human sacrifice was nearly offered up to the
Goat God at this very spot,” she said. “But the Goat God
does not like blood. The wise old shepherd came just in
time: only he and the goats can walk along the ridge. It
was my good fortune that he came just in time.”
“Why was it your good fortune? Were you the sacrifice?”
“Yes. A person who was afraid to love me hurled me
down here in a fit of insane pride.”
“Mikhail Beideman!” I shouted wrathfully. I was sud­
denly filled with vengeance for Vera’s lost love and now
for his shadow that had passed between me and my new
love. In a rage I cried:
“I want you to know what he’s really like! On a starry
evening like this he told another woman, one he was not
afraid to love, all about it.”
Larisa was silent. It had become very dark. I could not
see her face, but I sensed her nearness, large and solid,
her face a terrible stone mask.
When she spoke again her voice was as cool and even
as over.

12* 179
 “How on earth do you know what your friend says when
he’s alone with a lady? Were you eavesdropping?”
She could not see my face, and I don’t know whether I
answered her or spoke to myself. I felt drunk, as if I were
dropping down a steep gorge. And my words were like an
echo of that fall.
“Yes, I eavesdropped. I hopelessly loved the woman
who loves him.”
“Why do you use the past tense? Don’t you love her any
more?”
“Now I love only you. Only you.”
“Ah,” she said. “And you are ready to forget that you’re
his friend? And also your reason for coming here?”
“I gave you the message,” I replied, “and what do I
care.. . . I have my own life to live!”
“The Goat God rules here in this land of goats,” Larisa
laughed softly. “Mikhail once called our love ‘goat-love.’
And he said I was the High Priestess of the Goat God.
Well, be that as it may. And you say he told her about
me?”
“He did not name you. He only said it had happened in
the Crimea.”
“But if she had asked him, would he have told her my
name?”
“They were to be joined for ever. Yes, he would have
told her your name.”
“Ah,” Larisa said again. Silently she took my arm and
led me off.
A strange old man stood before the goat hut which was
made of rocks and covered with canvas. He was short, his
face was hairless, and his only clothing were some rags
around his middle. A striped hat was pushed down over
his long, grey hair right to his eyebrows, and a pumpkin,
the sign of a pilgrim, was slung over his shoulder. In all, he
resembled a pagan priest. He smiled at Larisa. They did
not speak, but slapped hands. She gave him the suitcase.
Then a Tatar boy ran up, shouted something, and was

180
followed by two shepherds who laid a sick ram at the old
man’s feet.
He crouched down and chanted a plaintive song as he
produced a curved knife and 'held it up to the moon. The
smoky crescent was just emerging from the clouds, and
the dull, rolling eyes of the sick ram were like white cata­
racts. The old man squinted, gritted his teeth, and slashed
the ram’s side. Foul, black blood gushed forth. He grabbed
the sides of the open wound in a hook-like grip, held them
together a few moments, then yanked at the animal’s horns
and set him aright. The ram tottered over to the flock, but
it scattered, as if frightened by something.
The shepherds whooped and yelled as they cracked their
whips. The old man walked up to us, looked at me sharply,
and touched me with his black hand. He spoke gently to
Larisa, pointing to the hut.
Larisa seemed pale in the moonlight. Her face was
strange and somehow younger as she said to me:
“The old man is taking the flock over to the other side,
and he says we can have his hut.”
The many-eyed heavens above, the horror-stricken flock,
the dark power of the old man, and the silent, fertile land
were all about us.
“Come, let us go to the goat hut, to the Goat God!”
And I replied:
“I shall go wherever you lead me.”
It was stuffy and pitch-dark inside the large canvas-
topped hut laid with turf. The ground was covered with
fragrant mountain hay and goat-skins were spread on the
hay and hung all over the walls. The air was pungent with
the smell of sweat, goat milk, hides, cheese, and soured wine.
We sat down on the silky skins and seemed lost among
a flock of goats.
And we kissed without seeing each other.
I must have fallen asleep at dawn. When I opened my
eyes, I felt a sunray on my face, my mind cleared, and I
shuddered at the thought of seeing Larisa.

181
 But then I felt physically free, a feeling I always lost in
her presence, and I realized she was no longer in the hut.
This thought unexpectedly made me anxious. I jumped
to my feet, but she was not there. I ran out. The sun was
just rising, and the mountains seemed freshly washed as
they stood in the soft blue shadows.
The world was silent. The shepherd and his flock had
left before dawn. I shouted, “Larisa!”
From somewhere far below, perhaps from the very gorge
down which Mikhail had thrown her, a harsh, unpleasant
parrot echo returned to me.
I sat down on a rock and wept. It seemed to me that I
had lost myself for ever.
The old shepherd materialized from behind the bushes.
He used sign language to explain that Larisa had left,
and pointed out the way with his crooked staff.
I rushed along the path we had climbed the day before.
I stumbled and crushed the huge pine cones full of clear,
fragrant sap, and once again the silvery pines with their
bare, mangled trunks flashed by at the edge of the precipice.
Once again the flocks of sheep showed white in the velvety
folds of green valleys lost among the mountains. I no long­
er saw their beauty—they were just landmarks along the
way. I had but one thought in mind: to see her and force
an answer from her.
A moment before I had trembled in her imagined pres­
ence, yet now I was enraged at the thought that she had
dared run away from me. Her insidiousness was like
mockery.
At the waterfall I heard voices and saw a young lady and
a stocky gentleman with a gold chain who looked like an
engineer. Waving his cane over the waterfall that had
broken into many little streams he said gallantly:
“Don’t you agree that this waterfall is passion itself:
when free it rushes along with the bit in its mouth, but
shattered, it pours itself out in rivers of tears.”
I entered Larisa’s house without hesitation, just as 1

182
was—dusty, my clothes full of brambles and the white fluff
of flowers, and unshaven.
“Madame is busy,” the chic maid said and I thought there
was an insolent smile on her lips.
“Ask her to make an exception this time. I am leaving
this evening, and I must take her answer back to Peters­
burg.”
The maid shrugged, but returned a moment later.
“Please wait in the study until Madame finishes her
work.”
I went into the study and sat down on the sofa. The door
to the next room, apparently Larisa’s bedroom, was ajar.
I heard the sound of hammering and an impossible screech­
ing.
“Madame is carving her mantelpiece,” the maid said and
vanished.
Sitting there, I saw Larisa’s white peignoir. Her face
was hidden from view. She certainly knew that I was there,
but continued her unpleasant work. She was following the
design on a strip of metal and used various-sized chisels
to carve it.
The awful, screeching sound was nerve-racking.
I could stand it no longer, stalked through the open door,
and grabbed the hand in which she held the mallet.
“You can finish this, later. I have something important
to discuss.”
“Important?” She smiled ironically. “If you have any
reproaches, keep them to yourself.”
“I want to inquire about someone else.”
I stopped short. My eyes had come to rest upon a large
portrait on the wall. It was an enlargement of a familiar
photograph of Mikhail in his cadet’s uniform. His burning
eyes questioned and reproached me.
I asked Larisa drily:
“What is the answer I am to take to Petersburg? When
will you intervene on his behalf?”
“1 do not intend to do so.”

183
 She was not hammering, but pretended to be choosing
a design from among the pile heaped on the table.
“Didn’t you say Beideman had a fiancee? Well, let her
do what she can.”
I felt nothing but loathing.
“That’s the lowest form of female spite. But you alone
can best succeed in this matter, if there’s any truth 'to
rumour.”
She raised her eyes.
“You might as well quote the local rumour, since it’s
true anyway.”
“Is it true then that you were the Grand Duke’s mis­
tress?”
“To the same extent as I am yours, if you can consider
that being someone’s mistress.”
I loathed this woman, whose sightless, heavy, earthy
power had bewitched me. There was but one face before me,
that of my friend, and—alas!—it was with belated fervour
that I pleaded with her to take up his cause. I do not recall
my words, but I remember that I was able to paint the black
picture of his hapless fate in contrast to her years of free-
doom and idle fancies.
“Just think: he is in solitary confinement for lifel”
There was no sign of shame or embarrassment on her
face as she interrupted my feeble eloquence and said with
a puzzling note of bitterness:
“Can anyone really judge time? Perhaps I’ll die tomor­
row and will never enjoy anything again. But I will not in­
tervene on behalf of a person who despised the earthly exist­
ence I love.”
I trembled with rage and hatred as I said, “I suppose
you consider the goat hut the pinnacle of life’s pleasures.”
“Where I turn such as you into billy-goats?” she added
scornfully.
I bowed and turned to leave.
“Wait!” she cried and straightened out. “Remember my
words for the rest of your life, fpr we shall never meet

184
again. Remember that it was you who awoke my wounded
feelings and the most evil powers within me. And I have
no shining cause to make me fight them. The High Priestess
obeys the Goat God. And remember, too, that it was in your
■power to unite our efforts for the cause of our friend. If
you had been true to him, I, too, would have acted different­
ly. But you betrayed Beideman. Well then, be as cursed
as I am!”
I left Yalta and spent the last week of my leave in Se­
vastopol. At a seaside cafe I heard a captain of a newly-
arrived steamer say that all of Yalta was talking of the
tragic incident in the mountains.
“I always knew that Larisa Polinova would come to no
good end!”
“Eccentric women are always killed if they don’t com­
mit suicide first,” said a lady near by.
“I’m sure there’s a love-affair with a Tatar mixed in
somewhere,” another added.
“Oh, no!” the captain objected. “True, the Tatars brought
her down from the hills, but they are a simple, kindly folk.
Everyone knows the shepherds; their old chief, who was a
friend of Larisa’s, cried like a baby. He said that when she
brought him his usual bundle of medicinal herbs, she also
gave him a watch. He produced the note she had left him. It
stated that she was of sound mind and was presenting the
watch to him as a token of their many years of friendship.
The clever woman had planned everything: she sent her
will to Father Gerasim by registered mail and asked that
no one be blamed for her death. The Tatars said that she
ran to the edge of a cliff and then shot herself. They risked
their lives to climb down and get her and then carried her
home. The Tatars have been arrested, but they’ll certainly
be freed after the inquest.”
“Well, surely someone’s to blame,” said the woman sit­
ting close-by and happened to look in my direction.
“Yes, I am to blame,” I thought, but all I said was:
“Waiter, give me the bill!”

m
 I walked along the rocky shore to where it cut into the
sea like a narrow hook. I remember that the huge disc of
the moon seemed a paper cut-out and its reflection was
abominable. Everything around me resembled a cheap
banal moonlit landscape of a type one usually finds hang­
ing over a red plush parlour set in the provinces. The great
iurmoil of my soul robbed Nature itself of its life and beau­
ty. Suddenly and with renewed force I felt Cain’s mark on
me, separating me from all living things. Once again the
shameful stamp of a traitor was on me.
Yes, the traitor in me—undiscovered, like a despicable,
cunning reptile whose protective colouring conceals it
among the grasses—was firmly lodged in the subconscious
recesses of my soul.
I betrayed people without ever meaning to do so.
CHAPTER III

The Clay
Cockerel

I S efore leaving for the Crimea I told Vera

j \ about Mother Beideman’s letter to Larisa Poli-
# 1 nova. She frowned and said:
§ J “Such women can never help disinterestedly.”
She no longer believed that Mikhail could be
freed and had put all her energies and hopes into her revo­
lutionary work, convinced that it alone would free the pris­
oners from their shackles.
Vera now lived at Linuchenko’s house. His wife had died
in the village and he had gone to bury her. Vera’s flat was
besieged by a crowd of young people who had come from
God knows where. They would have meetings of Mutual
Aid to Needy Students, or make up libraries of illegal
books, or would drag in a hand printing press to
hide. As always, she had no secrets from me, and I was be­
side myself with worry lest someone betray her and she,
too, be doomed. Finally, when I pleaded with her to be more
careful, she looked at me out of empty, reckless eyes (La­
risa’s had been the same when she had cursed me) and
replied:
187
 “Why should I worry about myself? Only my death can
bring a small amount of good to the cause, and, therefore,
to Mikhail, too. I am no more than a rank-and-file soldier
without him, and it is only a matter of chance whether I
perish at the beginning or at the end. The important thing
at this stage is that the Government know of our will to die
fighting.”
I had used all my powers of persuasion to instil in her
the hope that Larisa Polinova would help obtain his par­
don, since, according to my information, the woman was
truly a favourite of one of the Grand Dukes. I promised her
I’d find words of entreaty capable of melting a heart of
stone.
I succeeded in getting Vera to promise that she would
not take part in any dangerous work until my return. In
fact, she even decided to attend the courses in midwifery
and devote all her time to her studies-.
And now I was returning to Petersburg from Sevastopol
as a villain who had been entrusted with a last treasure
capable of saving a life and who had squandered it on a fan­
cy of his own.
A new trial awaited me in Petersburg.
Just as in the novels of Dumas events are purposely
crowded into the more important chapters, so did a series
of unusual adventures take place in the epilogue to my life.
However, it is just such impossibilities that often prove
truth to be stranger than fiction, as surely as a cloud-made
monster seen against a weird-coloured sky will often com­
pel one to exclaim, “If an artist drew such a picture, no one
would ever believe him!”
From the station I went straight to Vera’s small room on
Vasilyevsky Island. As I was about to ring, a tall man with
a hood draped around his neck reached out to ring also. He
pulled back his hand in order that I might ring first. The
room was blue with smoke, the floor was littered with butts,
and a lot of strange people were sitting on the couch and the
trunk. Linuchenko, who had recently returned from the

188
country, was chairing the meeting. The faces were all new
and young.
The only person I recognized was a blond youth wedged
morosely in a corner. He had an unusual face, and I had
noticed him the first time I met him. For some reason or
other, Vera refused to introduce him to me.
As I entered the room, she rushed up to me, grabbed my
hand, and whispered:
“Did she give her consent?”
My mind was a blank as I replied, “She 'died suddenly. I
arrived when it was all over.”
Vera was still staring at me with uncomprehending eyes
when the man who had come in with me walked over to
Linuchenko and introduced himself. Linuchenko embraced
him happily and announced:
“Comrades, congratulate the lucky fellow. He’s just out
of prison. Well, friend, what news do you bring? You can
speak freely here.”
“First of all, I have a message. One of our men was re­
leased from a worse place than I—from the Alexeyev
Ravelin, and he gave me a note to Beideman’s relatives and
friends. He was in the adjoining cell for six months. Beide-
man tapped the message and made him swear he’d deliver
it. I was told I would find someone here.. . . ”
“Yes!” Vera cried. She stretched forth her hand and
froze, as would a mother whose child was drowning before
her very eyes.
Linuchenko read the note aloud.
“I implore you to plead for my release. Insanity is im­
minent. Let them conscript me for life, or send me to Sibe­
ria, or execute me. Anything, anything but this.”
“During his first fit of insanity he tried to hang himself,
but was unsuccessful. They took his towel and sheets
away,” the man said. “That was in the summer of sixty-
three.”
“Yes, on August 12, 1863!” I cried. “Yes, that was the
day his mother died!”

189
 It was as if a great force had overwhelmed me, and I fell
senseless to the floor. Those present took this to be a natu­
ral sign of my grief at my friend’s fate, but actually it was
a relapse from the shock I had had the day I went along
with Mother Beideman on my first aerial journey. The black
artist had not yet taught me the substance of what he calls
“electrification of the centre,” and I as yet was unable to
make use of the moment that demolished the limit of move­
ment along a straight line without losing consciousness.
However, no later than this morning I set the time ma­
chine fifty years back, and when Ivan Potapich and the
girls went visiting, I entered Mikhail’s cell.
He had just finished eating his supper of horrible cab­
bage soup, from which he had extracted two live cockroaches.
He was amusing himself by making a house for them
out of a piece of black bread and was hunting around for a
place to hide them from the sharp eye of that devil Sokolov,
in order to tame them later on. Though his face was pale
and wan, as after a grave illness, it was lighted up by a
sly smile. He became frightened when he saw me, but as
soon as he recognized me, he put his arm round me fondly.
As I sat beside him on the hard pallet of his beggarly
abode, I did not tell him of what had happened in the
mountains, but, instead, of the events that should have
taken place.
I said that Larisa and Vera became as close as sisters,
that they both loved him, and that on the morrow they were
both to set out to plead for his release. Then I suggested
that we both take a walk in the mountains.
Mikhail began to stroll about the cell, raising his feet
high as he walked. He chased after a butterfly like a child,
picked flowers, admired the sunrise to the left and the moon
to the right. Time ceased to exist: everything the mind con­
jured up became reality. And after the old shepherd had
offered him some warm milk, Larisa appeared. She em­
braced him and led him off to the goat hut. I felt no jealousy.

190
I was happy that our unfortunate friend had found a
short moment of oblivion.
When Sokolov entered the cell that evening, accompa­
nied by another guard, Mikhail was asleep with such a
blissful smile on his lips that even that crude animal was
touched and expressed uncommon concern—naturally, in a
form that came most easily to him.
“Don’t wake him. He was tramping about all day, so let
him sleep it off!”

Today .Ivan Potapich said, “I’m very glad that you’ve

stopped hopping around like a sparrow, flapping your el­
bows. Now really, get hold of yourself, and please stop your
mumbling—you’re scaring the girls. Here, you ,can scribble
on this paper, that’s a nice quiet occupation.”
And the good man presented me with a pack of the whit­
est paper, saying as he handed it to me:
“I’ve cleaned out the office upstairs for your sake. It’s
government property anyway, so it’s no sin.”
I’ll take advantage of it and use the white paper for my
rough copy, too. Besides, let this office paper, stolen by Ivan
Potapich—an act which fits so completely into our three
dimensions—keep my recently-freed mind within the bounds
acceptable to society. For I must now relate an extremely
important event. The actual facts are common knowledge,
but some of their aspects can be disclosed only by someone
like me, to whom time has become meaningless.
However, I would first like to relate the events that fol­
lowed after the note from the Alexeyev Ravelin had been
miraculously delivered to Vera.
A courier was sent for Mikhail’s sister Victoria, a tall,
silent, strong-willed woman who resembled him greatly.
We drew up the following document, now included in its
entirety in the book on Mikhail, in her name:
“Mikhail Beideman, Lieutenant of the Military Order
Dragoon Regiment, reported missing three years ago, was

191
found to be imprisoned in the St. Petersburg Fortress. His
mother died in 1863, during her journey from Bessarabia
to the Crimea to beg His Royal Majesty to pardon her son.
Victoria, sister to the imprisoned Beideman, hereby appeals
to the charity of Your Excellency’s nature and begs that you
grant her the sole favour of being permitted to visit Beide­
man in prison.”
This note was given to an influential relative together
with a letter from another famous general to a third, and
thus reached Prince Dolgorukov, Chief of Gendarmes. The
Prince wrote that the Emperor’s reply at present and in
case of any future attempt to establish contact with the
prisoner was unchanged: the Government knew nothing of
the whereabouts of one Mikhail Beideman.
Before this last shadow of a revived hope vanished, Vera
forgot all her circles and even her sole consolation in life
—her work in the wards—and again, as before, during our
insane attempt to free Mikhail, was like a maniac with burn­
ing eyes, silent and tense to the breaking point. Her days
were taken up with seeing that Victoria’s note was deliv­
ered to the proper authorities. After the Imperial resolution
became known, like an automaton that had been switched to
another track, she again began working as silently and re­
lentlessly for the revolutionary cause. She attended secret
meetings, delivered information, hid people. She was not
daunted by rain or darkness, or the danger of the deserted
outskirts. It was not that she was merely getting thin, no,
she was actually burning up before our very eyes. I told
Linuchenko:
“If you don’t stop her, she’ll have galloping consumption
by spring.”
“Stop her if you can,” he replied bitterly.
I was full of compassion and my love burned anew as
I sought an opportunity to find Vera alone. Once I entered
and found the apartment empty. The door to her room was
slightly ajar. She was sitting in an armchair, lost in thought.
Her bony hands lay pathetically on her knees, her fists

192
clenched in a childlike manner. The stillness in the room,
as in the rest of the house, led me to believe that she was
alone. I entered swiftly, and to my own surprise, I fell to
my knees and covered her dear hands with kisses as I said:
“Vera, wake up! Vera, if you’re not sorry for yourself,
then at least take pity on me. I’m lost without you. Let’s go
to the Caucasus and try to start life anew. You will always
have your freedom with me.”
Someone coughed behind my back. I jumped to my feet
in anger. We were not alone: the morose blond young man
had been sitting in the room. He came up to me and looked
at me in some confusion out of lovely 'blue eyes filled with
ineffable kindness and murmured:
“I’m sorry, but please don’t take me into account.”
True, I felt no embarrassment from his presence there.
Vera rose, took his hand, and with an exalted look which
reminded me of that day in the country on the terrace,
when the lindens were in bloom and when for a moment she,
Prince Gleb Fyodorovich, and I were so happy together, said:
“Serge, dear, this is my new fiance, the only person to
whom I can be betrothed without being unfaithful to Mi­
khail. But only betrothed.”
“Well, you should be going,” she said to him. “Remem­
ber that my every thought and breath and all the power of
my will are with you! There are no more doubts. It is ir­
revocable.”
He repeated in a voice that was both pleasant and hol­
low, as of one who is ailing: “Irrevocable.”
Vera kissed him. He then bowed to me and left.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“You need not know his name,” she answered evasively.
“Soon all of Russia will know it. It will be written down
in history. Serge, I belong to a revolutionary society called
‘Hell,’ the members of which are called ‘mortis.’ This may
sound childish, and I don’t know whether we shall be suc­
cessful or not, but we will renew the Decembrists’ attempt
to bring freedom to our country. Fate has brought you here

13-382 193
at an unusual, decisive moment. Will it be in vain again?
Will it but serve to split your soul again without making
you take a final decision? Serge, you have not found your
place in life anyway, so why not join us? We know where
we’re going, and why. There is no freedom now, one can­
not live for himself alone any longer. Now is the time to die
for the future. Come with us!”
“I’m not afraid of death, but I prefer to die alone, not for
the sake of the crowd.”
I left Vera in anger for the first time in my life and re­
turned to my regiment. The new “fiance” aroused my sus­
picion and the thought occurred to me that she, like so many
other women, had created an air of mystery around the
most ordinary attachment, and all from a sense of self-cen­
tred pride. For the first time, too, I compared her unfavour­
ably with the proud, untamed Larisa.
The terrible events which followed were not long in re­
vealing the faultiness of my reasoning. I had a miserable
winter. Larisa’s image seemed to be challenging my fond­
ness for Vera. Suddenly, it loomed up with such irresistible
force that it pushed me into a senseless affair, of the kind
every man should fear like the plague. A chance likeness
in the turn of a head, bringing back memories of the night
at the goat hut, made me fall head over heels in love with
one of the regimental ladies, without ever stopping to see
if there were any similarity in mind and character as well.
Actually, though, I was seeking the oblivion that cards and
wine could not produce.
A regimental lady in a small town usually spends the
days of her life flitting from one affair to another, and so
my passion, far from encountering any resistance, soon
became a weary obligation. The lady in question turned out
to be shallow-minded, extremely wilful, and petty in her
ways. She had fits of jealousy and carried on, and ever as­
serted her “rights.” It is probably harmless for two people
to form a purely physical attachment, with mind and rea­
son completely absent, if they belong to the world of busi-

194
 ness and their imaginations and sense of perception are
dim and dull. However, if one is unusually emotional, due
to an artistic nature or keen mind, he will be sorely pun­
ished by having to accept as a foreign body the crudest as­
pect of an alien soul. He shall either have to digest these
character traits or be poisoned by them.
No matter how I tried to escape the influence of that wom­
an, she nevertheless pulled me down into a mire of such
petty thinking that if I had not finally found the strength
to flee, I would have perished in the slime, as do so many
young men. I submitted a request for permission to go to
Petersburg in order to prepare for the entrance examina­
tions to the General Headquarters Academy.
I found Vera as I had never before known her. Her hair
was bobbed, she smoked vile cigarettes, and her whole
manner had changed to suit that of the midwives, female
assistant-doctors, and students of her circle. The greatest
change was that she had lost the imperceptible characteris­
tics peculiar to her former self. I was only able to recognize
the other, special Vera I had loved, when in answer to my
question as to why she had mutilated herself so, she replied
with great conviction:
“I find it easier to live this way. The old Vera is gone for
ever, and there remains but a screw in an intricate machine
which works better when it is greased with the same oil as
the surrounding screws.”
Vera was now the brains and the soul of the circle. Linu-
chenko had for some reason become silent and introverted
and was occupied somewhere with affairs about which I
knew nothing. Once again there were new people in the
house. From snatches of conversation, now more cautious
and serious than in previous years, I gathered that the main
centre was in Moscow, and that Vera’s place was just the
first link in the chain.
The revolutionary movement developed rapidly after the
“Student Affair,” but in the salons of Countess Kushina
and her like they still thought there was no revolutionary

13* 195
movement, but, as Auntie was wont to say, “Nothing but
romances between those horrible blue-stockings and the sem­
inary students.” High society was mostly interested in
foreign affairs. The old cosmopolitans were beside them­
selves with admiration at the mere mention of Bismarck’s
name, repeating over and over to all who cared to listen
that the Chancellor had turned the Staatenbund into the
Bundesstaat.*
There was a photograph of Baron Brunov, our ambassa­
dor, in an excellent walnut frame on Auntie’s table. He had
been elevated to this high position for his sensible support
of his country’s honour, as Auntie put it.
When the Prussian emissary at the London Conference
once again brought forth the old French proposal that the
border between Denmark and Germany in Schleswig be
decided by popular referendum, Baron Brunov had said po­
litely but firmly:
“It would be against the principles of Russian politics to
have the subjects asked whether or not they wished to re­
main loyal to their sovereign.”
And Auntie would add ironically:
“It’s absurd to make the decisions of European govern­
ments subservient to the opinion of the Schleswig rabble!”
At the end of the fifth week of Lent, several days after
I arrived in Petersburg, I again met the blond youth with
the unusual face at Vera’s place.
What unknown psychic forces stand guard over our be­
ings that cause you to guess the fatal intersection of some
person’s destiny with your own and thus fill your heart
with unexplainable terror? However, after meeting Black
Vrubel and hearing his explanation of the chart of the Evo­
lution of the World, I can see it all clearly.
A person whose fate is connected with the number Twelve
will be terrified at meeting One.
I was one of many, while the man with the kind and

* A union of states into a united state.

196
gentle eyes was One. At this meeting his emaciated ap­
pearance shocked me. His cheeks were hollow, there was a
consumptive flush on them, and locks of blond, lack-lustre
hair were pressed to his temples.
“Are you ill?” I asked.
“I’m just out of the hospital,” he replied in a weak, hol­
low voice, “and I must say it didn’t do me much good.”
“Then shall we put it off?” Vera had overheard our con­
versation and looked up sharply.
“No, we can’t put it off any longer,” he said firmly. “My
consumption won’t wait. I’ll just get progressively weaker.”
He spoke of himself as a mechanic would of his machine.
“The main problem is to have the leaflets printed within
a month, Vera Erastovna. Can you do it on time?”
“I’ll roll them off and bring them in. But promise you’ll
wait for me and that we’ll see each other again.”
He turned aside and mused. “All right. I promise. But it
would be better for the cause if you stayed out in the
country.”
“I’ll still be able to give the cause the rest of my days!”
Vera said this so sharply, that I became convinced the feel­
ings I thought she had pledged to Mikhail for ever had now
been revived.
Life never changes. Each person can love only for him­
self, and the torture of losing his freedom causes him to
make demands which know no bounds. I, who had always
been jealous of Mikhail, now despised Vera for being un­
faithful to him and conceiving an imagined new attachment.
Blind and ensnared in the slime of provincial life, I was
more unprepared than ever to fathom the strange flame that
burned within these two people of a hostile world.
Vera left for the village to print the leaflets. I no longer
feared that she would be arrested and sent to prison.
Vera, Larisa, and my mistress in the provinces were now
all rolled into the humiliating embodiment of female lasciv­
iousness which falsely took on this or that appearance.
I was caught up in a social whirl and by April there were

197
several salons to which I was constantly being invited to
plays and dances. One of the more interesting events of the
social season was to take place on the 4th of April at the
home of the cosmopolitan gentleman of Auntie’s acquaint­
ance.
I .decided to choose my clothes for the evening the day
before. My head was light and empty, as a gambler’s who
has lost all his stakes and has decided to commit suicide
after the last play.
It was twilight. It was as if a milky liquid had been
splashed across the sky and the whitish mist made the' fa­
miliar buildings seem far away.
Two lamps were lit. I stood before a large mirror and
viewed my new uniform with the aid of a small hand mir­
ror.
My orderly announced that someone wished to see me.
“He didn’t give his name. By the looks of him, I’d say
he’s a petitioner,” he added.
“Ask him in,” I said absent-mindedly, craning my neck
to see one of the seams. Thus absorbed in my task, I did
not turn when the caller entered and finally caught sight
of him in the mirror.
The blood rushed to my face. I became as confused as
a boy caught doing some mischief, and quickly hiding the
mirror, said to the servant:
“Lock the door and don’t let anyone in until my guest
leaves.”
My caller was Vera’s strange “fiance,”
“I came,” he said, without offering his hand and in a
tone in which one does not begin, but rather continues a
conversation one has begun long ago, “to ask you to tell
Vera Erastovna.. . . ”
He swayed, and I rushed to his side and helped him into
an armchair.
“You’re terribly ill. What happened?”
I thought he was out of his mind. His astonished eyes
were a bright blue as they looked straight into the lamp,

m
and a faint smile played on his childish lips. His mind was
vacant.
“You’re ill, you’re ill!” I repeated senselessly, not know­
ing what to do. I poured him a glass of wine, which he
accepted gladly, and seemed the better after it.
“Yes, I’m very ill,” he said, “but that’s all for the best
right now. I want you to tell Vera Erastovna that, due to my
illness, I could not wait any longer. It’s better for the cause
and me personally that we have not seen each other again.
And please tell her that I’m very thankful to h er.. . . ”
He rose and walked towards the door.
“What do you intend to do? You’re not in your right
mind.”
He looked at me firmly and said:
“I am in complete control of my senses and will prove it
tomorrow. At five o’clock near the Summer Garden. Be
there, in order to be able to tell her about it. I have one
request: that you do not mention my name to anyone after
what happens tomorrow.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“There’s no need to know it. The people’s servant—that’s
who I am!”
“I know you won’t tell me what you intend to do—kill
yourself or someone else, and I really don’t care!” I shout­
ed, angry that Fate was again shoving me on to an alien
track. “But I wish you would answer something that is of
importance to every person—in the name of what are you
acting? What is your goal?”
“Freedom.”
“I’ve heard about it, but I can’t believe in it. A freedom
which you yourself will never live to see, because you’ll be
pushing up daisies—and you don’t believe in the hereafter.
I don’t want to hear the usual cliches.. . . I want to know
your own feelings. What you personally get out of fighting
for others?”
I knew beforehand that he would answer as he did:
“Complete personal freedom is voluntary death.”

199
 “But why? Why?”
“For the cause each person embraces. You must find one.
I have.”
Then he became terribly embarrassed and blushed as he
awkwardly stuck his thin hand into his pocket.
“Please give this to Vera Erastovna.”
He had pulled out a little clay cockerel, of the kind they
sell at fairs for five kopeks.
“It’s a childhood souvenir my mother once gave me.”
He turned round and left.
I don’t know why I didn’t try to detain him. Why were
these people barging in on my life? I didn’t ask them to.
Conceding that I was a most average person, of average
intellect, a failure as an artist and an officer like all the
rest, still, I wanted to live my own life and not theirs.
I recall muttering over and over:
“Yes, my own life, even though it’s a roach’s life.”
I got dead drunk and rolled over on the couch in my new
uniform, still clutching the clay cockerel in my hand; The
thought that kept bothering my foggy brain was to hold
on to it and not let it fly away.
I awoke late the next morning. My head was splitting,
and the first thing I did was to look at my watch: was I
late or not? I could not remember where I was going: to
dinner at Auntie Kushina’s, or to five o’clock tea at one of
two other houses. All I could remember was that I was to be
there at five.
My man had been told once and for all never to waken
me, no matter where I had fallen asleep or in what condi­
tion. He entered with my tea, set the tray down, and sud­
denly bent over to pick something up from the floor.
“I bet it’ll whistle if you blow through the tail,” he said.
“How dare you touch it! Get out!” I yelled and grabbed
the cockerel. My orderly was not used to shouting and
decided I was still drunk.
“Would you like a drink for your hangover, Your Grace?”
he mumbled.

200
 I told him to run my bath. The clay cockerel had set my
mind clear. Moreover, I now realized how abominably I
had acted. My caller yesterday had been gravely ill, he had
taken a fatal decision during an attack, and though I was
aware of his condition, I had not lifted a finger to dissuade
him.
I should have put him to bed and not let him out of the
house! At five o’clock he was going to do something des­
perate near the Summer Garden. To hell with him! He
could do as he pleased. Was I a wet-nurse for the lot of
them? Was I always supposed to save them at the last mo­
ment? They could end their lives as they wished. Larisa’s
statement that I had led her to her death embittered me.
And now here was Vera’s insane “fiance” telling me the
time and the place! No, I would not be there!
I dined and went to play billiards. I was lucky at the
game and forgot all about time,. But not subconsciously, it
seemed. The clock solemnly struck the half-hour.
If it’s only four-thirty, I’ll still make it, I thought and
glanced at my watch. Yes, it was. I said I had a business
appointment and left for the Summer Garden.
I cannot write any more today. All the events of that day
have come back to me, and I feel a heavy stone on my heart,
as if a giant squeezed it and then let go, or as if a cat was
playing with it likei with a mouse. If only I could over­
come this feeling. Perhaps I should fly about the room a
bit? I’m afraid of Ivan Potapich, though. He’s been grum­
bling of late, “Don’t let me hear you talking to yourself, or
I’ll take you back to the asylum!”
I can’t have him take me before my hour has struck, for
I must finish writing first. Ivan Potapich is really a dear:
since I’ve been to the asylum he considers that I’m a lost
soul, that I’ve disgraced myself—as if I were an embezzler
or something—and he talks to me in a familiar tone and
grumbles a bit, as he would with a naughty boy.
CHAPTER IV

Five
O'clock
Sharp

T T
I £ / hen I turned the corner leading to the Summer
a n / Garden, an unusual sight met my eyes. A great
1 /1 / crowd was screaming and shouting hurrah! as
W W it pressed against the iron fence. The Tsar, his
' “ nephew and niece were in an open carriage.
The coachman could not drive through the throng. Count
Totleben and a nondescript man were in the second carriage.
The ladies in the crowd were showering the strange man
with money and waving their hankies, while merchants
climbed into the carriage to embrace him. There was a ter­
rible free-for-all a bit further off, where the police were
either clubbing someone, or defending him from the mob
that was beating him. I hailed a cab, and standing in the
open carriage, I found myself well above the mob and able
to see what was going on.
“Villain! He shot at the Tsar!”
The cabby pointed out a dark figure. The police were ty­
ing his hands behind his back. Other policemen had linked
arms and were holding back the raving crowd, ready to
pounce and tear its victim limb from limb.

202
 I could not see the man’s face, but his hat had been
knocked off and I recognized the soft, flaxen, lack-lustre
hair and the weak, rounded shoulders. Suddenly he turned
in my direction. His lovely blue eyes shone as he said with
great emotion:
“You fools, you fools! I did it for your sake!”
A few moments had passed since the attempted assassi­
nation, yet there was not a trace of cruelty in his expres­
sion.
“Assassin! Antichrist! Kill him!”
The policemen put him in a carriage and though he was
bound and unresisting, they still held on to him from both
sides. The carriage and the mounted escort headed towards
Chain Bridge.
I wandered on aimlessly and don’t remember where I
went. It seemed to me then that I was in a boundless field
with a grey sky overhead and dark, melting snow under­
foot.
Perhaps I actually walked along streets flanked, as is
customary, by two rows of houses, where there were lights
in the windows and respectable families sitting around their
samovars drinking tea. I was indifferent to everything. I
kept on walking, clutching the cheap clay cockerel in my
coat pocket. Then I remembered my orderly’s words: “I bet
it’ll whistle if you blow through the tail.” I took it out and
blew. The cockerel didn’t whistle; some dirt must have got
in the pipe. I stuck it back in my pocket and gripped it
tightly again, as if I were holding on to the only solid thing
that existed. My thoughts were incoherent. Leering faces
floated up and Petya Karsky was singing a dirty song in my
ear:
Captain, I’m so glad I’ve found you.
Your officer has wronged my daughter.
My one thought was to walk in step to the words.
If I am said to be insane, as the head doctor assured Ivan
Potapich, then my insanity began that memorable day.
203
 Outwardly, until very recently, I was able to wear an im­
penetrable mask that fitted my surroundings of the moment.
Late in the evening of that day, the 4th of April, I found
myself at Auntie Kushina’s. I recall that I transferred the
clay cockerel from my coat pocket to my trousers pocket and
entered as usual.
Auntie had a full house, and 1 was thus able to find out
all the details of the attempted assassination without taking
part in the conversation. At five o’clock, as usual, the Tsar
drove out of the Summer Garden with his nephew and
niece. An unknown man had fired at him. They said that a
peasant named Osip Komissarov struck the assassin’s arm,
causing the bullet to go astray.
Everyone in the salon was indignant. The gentlemen
forgot their manners and cursed the villain soundly. The
lovely ladies were vying with each other in thinking up tor­
tures to make the criminal confess; they suggested that a
list of these tortures be drawn up and sent to the Chief of
Police. They were all extremely annoyed that the captive
had not disclosed his name or rank and had said he was
a peasant named Pyotr Alexeyev. Then, they added mali­
ciously, since his rank was not known, he could be put in
chains.
They said that Prince Suvorov, the Governor-General,
was to blame for being so gentle with the revolutionaries.
They even said that on the day of the attempted assassina­
tion he had received a letter of warning, but had filed it
away in a drawer.
“They should call in Muravyov, he’s the one to set things
right.”
I left. And got drunk. And slept like a log till late the
next day. When I got up I went visiting again. I could be
silent everywhere I went without arousing suspicion, as
there were too many people eager to talk. For some reason
or other I felt I had to hear everything that was being said
about the person whose name I didn’t even know. I could
not focus my mind on anything, save him.

204
 Vera had not returned from the village. In former days
I would have gone flying to her, but now I was indifferent to
everything except th6 event in which, I felt, I too had taken
a part. Everything else had fallen out of me, as everything
does which is not included in one’s range of vision. At times
I thought dully that if I had not let the man with the blue
eyes leave my house, but had put him to bed instead, noth­
ing would have happened. However, I did not feel con­
science-stricken about it.

In the White Hall Alexander II told his nobles:

“All the estates have expressed their sympathy, and this
devotion sustains me in my trying service. I hope that my
lords will gladly accept into their ranks yesterday’s peasant
who saved my life.”
I myself saw the drunken cap-maker-turned-nobleman,
struck dumb from all the handshaking and embraces, at
Prince Gagarin’s dinner table. He looked the perfect idiot
as he guzzled the liquor in silence, and could think of noth­
ing better to say in answer to all the long toasts proclaimed
by the noble patriots than mumble, “Thank you kindly.”
They say his wife called herself “the saviour’s wife.”
Princesses and Countesses fought with each other for the
honour of torturing the “saviour” with dinners and routs
where he usually sat with all( ten fingers spread out on his
knees until he’d roll under the table in a drunken stupor.
Komissarov began to drink day and night, and rumour
had it that during a fit of delirium tremens he hanged himself.
Karakozov was hanged.
When Black Vrubel explained his chart of the “electri­
fication of the centre” he said that until the time was ripe,
a blow struck would not disrupt the laws of physics, and the
angle of incidence would remain equal to the angle of re­
fraction.
The premature shot had gone astray, and the two who
had been involved had been shattered by a reverse blow.

205
 Karakozov was hanged. Komissarov hanged himself. But
the hour struck—and the Tsar was no more.
The day the unknown man was put in chains, Alexan­
der II accepted the congratulations of the Senate, which
appeared at Court in its entirety, headed by the Minister of
Justice. The diplomatic corps offered their congratulations
on the following day. Metropolitan Filaret sent him an icon
in commemoration of his deliverance.
Auntie’s senator friend remarked:
“I do say, the Tsar had full reason to proclaim, ‘The
sympathy expressed by all the estates from every corner of
this vast empire is a moving sign of the indivisible bond be­
tween me and my devoted subjects everywhere.’ ”
There was news from everywhere:
“Have you heard: Prince Suvorov left his post as Gover­
nor-General!”
“They say the post will be abolished.”
“General Trepov will be put in charge of the capital
police force.”
“A rescript has been sent to Prince Gagarin with orders
to ‘protect the Empire.’ ”
“Thank God, they’re finally calling on all the reliable
forces!”
“Count Muravyov has been summoned. He’ll make short
shrift of iValuyev.”
“And he’ll get even with that liberal, Prince Suvorov,
for his witticism at the hunt.”
“What, don’t you know about it? Well, His Majesty killed
a bear with one shot, and Suvorov quipped that it would
not be bad if the same thing happened to the two-legged
Mishka.* The Tsar cut him short, though.”
Another important piece of information was that Count
Shuvalov had been recalled from the Baltic Territory and
had been appointed Chief of Police.
Prince Dolgorukov confidentially informed Auntie’s old
* This is a play of words, as the Russian for Teddy is Mishka,
also the diminutive of Mikhail, Count Muravyov’s first name.—Tr.

206
acquaintance that the criminal was being questioned night
and day and not being permitted to sleep a wink, but that
although he was completely exhausted, he would have to be
“prodded” a bit more. In the city there was talk of other
tortures besides not letting him have any sleep. As yet the
criminal had not disclosed his name. It became known, how­
ever, from a note found in the Znamensky Hotel at which
he had been staying, that his name was Karakozov and that
he was a nobleman. His cousin, Ishutin, who was brought
from Moscow, corroborated the fact. When I heard that the
writer Khudyakov, the organizer of the “Hell” society, had
also been arrested, I expected to hear Vera and Linuchen-
ko’s names, too.
Karakozov was transferred to the Alexeyev Ravelin, while
the Supreme Criminal Court held its sessions in Comman­
dant Sorokin’s house. In order to bring greater pressure to
bear upon Karakozov and make him confess and repent,
he was put under the spiritual guidance of the well-known
archpriest Palisadov. Once back in his cell, the captive,
though utterly exhausted by continuous questioning, was
unable to lie down, for he was obliged to remain standing
while Father Palisadov said Mass and sermonized.
I could not stand that archpriest. He was a fashionable
society clergyman and usually said Mass at Auntie’s house
twice a year. Palisadov was a lecturer at the University, and
a jovial student I knew always kept up running commentary
of jokes about the priest during a game of billiards. He
loved to mimic the archpriest, his gestures, and his Nov­
gorod “French” accent.
As proof that faith was nothing without deeds, the priest
would say:
“Suppose we have a certain flacon containing two liquids:
a blue and a yellow—two completely uninteresting colours;
but then, shake them up, and you get a beautiful vert de
gris.”
Father Palisadov had come to a no less coy conclusion
as to God’s benevolence. He appealed to his audience to

207
wonder at the fact that God, the great lover of Beauty, had
not created a purely utilitarian human being, but had given
him the means to enjoy the finer things in life.
“For what are our senses of taste and smell, if not the
tools of enjoyment?” Father Palisadov would exclaim
rapturously. “It would suffice to have a slit in the stomach,
like a pocket, wherein the food from our plates could be
dumped, in order to sustain our mortal bodies.”
Palisadov was tall, his black locks were streaked with
grey, and his manner was not at all priestly. He would of­
ten speak of a small volume of his sermons issued in French
in Berlin, and had become so Frenchified in Paris that upon
his return to Russia he sent a request to the Metropolitan,
asking to be permitted to wear his hair short and dress in
civilian clothes. This request nearly caused him to be ban­
ished to a monastery.
What solace could this playful, conceited man bring
Karakozov? However, it is a known fact that the stylish
pastor had asked to be put in charge of prisoners sentenced
to death with the sole intention of promoting his career.

Last night, by means of mental telepathy, I put myself

back in the day, month, and year of which I wrote yesterday.
I had been thinking intently of Mikhail. What had been his
feelings when Karakozov was tortured close by and then
taken out to be executed at dawn? I knew their cells did not
communicate, and even though they might have been ad­
joining ones, it would have been impossible for them to tap
out messages to each other. And yet, at the peak of all
great suffering there is a way of perceiving more than is
usually possible.
Thus, I visited Mikhail last night and discovered what
had actually happened, and this through mental telepathy.
I shall continue my story today as an eyewitness. We were
able to slip into Karakozov’s cell together. By then Mikhail
had already learned through his own sufferings that which

208
I have but recently learned from Black Vrubel: the fact that
matter becomes penetrable under the influence of a suffi­
ciently strong will.
Last night, in April of 1866 to be exact, we entered Kara­
kozov’s cell. I believe it was about the middle of April.
The sleepless nights and endless questioning had caused
him to lose control of his speech, and Muravyov himself
was about to inform the Tsar that the doctors believed the
prisoner should be given a rest.
We entered as Palisadov had just finished saying
Vespers in the dark cell. He had taken off his robes and
was folding them away carefully in the large kerchief he
had laid out on a board screwed to the wall to serve as
a table. Mikhail and I hid behind the stove. I did not recog­
nize the man I had seen but a month before. He was more
lifeless than we.
If he had been able to move on our plane, he would have
found himself again. But he was still tied to his heavy
skeleton, muscles, and blood, and the little strength he
had left protected his shape until his time would be up.
On the other hand, the part of his being that thought and
felt was already beyond this shape, and it was therefore
with the greatest of difficulty that he was able to respond
in simple language.
Palisadov was displeased at having to do without the
services of a deacon and a sexton, though he later submit­
ted a note stating that this entitled him to a special fee.
With his little bundle in one hand, he walked up to Kara­
kozov, raised his other hand for the benediction, his ex­
pressive, lively face the embodiment of religious exaltation,
and said in the smooth, sugary voice of a popular preacher:
“May there revive in you the true faith in the Unseen
Judge of your life, and may He raise up and cleanse your
soul to the state of an Angel’s!”
He had to press his own plump white hand to Karakozov’s
blue lips, as the man just stood there, deathly-pale, his
once beautiful eyes dull and vacant.
14- 382 209
 Palisadov was so impressed by his own eloquence, that
he stopped at the cell door and raised his hand again:
“Yes, yes. May God grant you the state of an Angel!”
Karakozov slumped down on his bed in a state of stupor.
Mikhail and I rushed to bis side. Mikhail sat at the foot
of the bed, while I kneeled and kissed his emaciated, waxen
hand.
“Forgive me for not having stopped you when you were
ill and called on me the day before the shooting. I know
that if you had been in your right mind, you never would
have risked such a thing.”
Karakozov sat up like a bolt. The blood rushed to his
sunken cheeks, his impossibly bright eyes were flaming,
and he said in his former hollow voice:
“If I had a hundred lives to live I would sacrifice them
all tor the happiness of my people!”
These words are well known. Karakozov wrote them to
the Tsar, as a manifestation of the principles by which he
lived.
“Oh, how fortunate you are!” Mikhail ,cried. “Your death
will raise up new heroes. Oh, why could not my unlucky
fate have been like yours!”
Mikhail began to wail and dashed his head against the
wall. The guards entered and put him in a straight-jacket,
with the sleeves tied behind his back. I threw myself upon
them in a rage and beat them viciously . . . and everything
vanished. I moaned and opened my eyes to see Ivan Po-
tapich standing over me with a glass of water.
“Here, take a drink, you’ve been dreaming. And stop
shouting, you’ll scare the girls.”
I said I was sorry and pretended to doze off. I realized
I bad disregarded Black Vrubel’s teaching. One can only
master the centre of animal electricity by being completely
indifferent. My great pity lor Mikhail had instantly thrown
me, as a foreign body, out of the most delicate plane that
retains an impression of all events.
Some time later I was able to pull my grief-shattered

210
will together and become like a surgeon: the more steeled
his nerves, the better the outcome of the operation.
Once again I found myself in Mikhail’s cell, where the
walls were covered with black velvety slime and the thin
straw pallet was devoid of sheets, removed to prevent him
from trying to hang himself again. He was lying on his back
like a white mummy with his arms bound tightly. Mikhail
was in a deep, blissful slumber. His face, distorted with
insane rage a moment before, was now calm, and a faint
smile played on his pale lips. I remember him thus only in
flitting, carefree moments, when we wrestled and tussled
on the huge dormitory table, rolling over on the floor in
a heap. I did not waken him, for I could not disturb my
unfortunate friend’s brief moment of respite. Then, too, I
was worried lest my emotion cause me to lose the neces­
sary self-control. Instead, I slipped into Karakozov’s cell.
The warden was there. On his orders the guards were
dressing the captive to take him to the first session of the
Supreme Criminal Court at the warden’s house.
I don’t recall how we were taken from the Alexeyev
Ravelin to the fortress. It probably happened last night, for
no one left the Ravelin during the day or evening.
The Supreme Criminal Court was in session in the long
parlour, and its function was to present the main defend­
ants with copies of the indictment and give them an op­
portunity to arrange for counsel.
One of the senators at Auntie’s told us later that before
Karakozov was brought in, Prince Gagarin, the Chief Jus­
tice, had had a tiff with the Secretary. The Prince insisted
on using the familiar form of address to Karakozov, since
he considered it scandalous to use the polite form to such
a villain. The Secretary was finally able to convince the
old man that it would be improper for a Justice to express
his indignation in such a manner. Now, as I looked at
Prince Gagarin, a greying man with a large nose and a
shaggy beard who resembled a kind wolf, I recalled Auntie
14 2ll
Kushina’s statement: if the villain is a nobleman, he
should be hung politely, too!
Karakozov was the first defendant to be brought in. I
immediately took my place beside him. We were flanked
in front and in back by two soldiers with drawn sabres.
Karakozov pulled at his moustache with a thin, bony hand.
He seemed to be embarrassed and did not know where to
sit or stand.
“Karakozov, come here!” said Prince Gagarin in a trem­
bling voice. Actually, he was a kind person, and he found
it very difficult to pronounce a death sentence.
Osip Komissarov, the supposed saviour (half the city
was saying that Count Totleben had invented the entire
incident and that Komissarov had merely been standing
closest to the gates), was brought in as a witness. The
drunken cap-maker was needed as a symbol of the people’s
desire to protect the Throne. The symbol had become an
idol. No one really believed the fable about the rescue, but
after Komissarov had given his testimony, the Chief Jus­
tice rose. The other members of the court rose, too, and
then Prince Gagarin said:
“Osip Komissarov, all of Russia pays homage to you!”
Karakozov shuddered and looked round at each face with
an expression of 'deep sorrow; for a second his eyes met
Komissarov’s frightened ones. The man stood there at
attention, his chest expanded in the manner assumed by
orderlies when posing for a photographer, and his low,
blunt forehead was deeply furrowed as he tried to reason
out why he was being honoured again.
I don’t know whether I actually saw all this myself, or
heard someone speak of it, or just recently read of it in
one of the books Ivan Potapich brought me. I am not yet
used to my new method of thinking and sensing and
sometimes get confused. Everything that arouses my emo­
tions has been equalized: it matters not whether I read
about it, heard about it, or experienced it myself.
On the table of material evidence lay Karakozov’s pistol

212
and a little box of poison he 'had intended to take immedi­
ately after the shooting. He had faltered, and then it had
been too late.
Karakozov could not tear his eyes from the table. He
could easily grab the poison and swallow it, thus ridding
himself of the drawn-out horror of an execution. His eyes
became pale. An inhuman battle was going on behind the
heavy gaze, then it subsided. His eyes again became a dull
blue, bloodshot from lack of sleep, and framed by blink­
ing, reddened lids. Karakozov had decided not to commit
suicide, but to accept his death sentence.
A moment later Count Panin whispered something to
his neighbour and removed the poison and pistol.
I cannot write any more today. The inhuman battle that
raged within Karakozov has shattered me, as if a great
bolt of electricity was sent through my heart. It broke, but
I kept on living.
Wherein lay this man’s strength? What faith had he in
his Cause, if he twice faced untold mental anguish and a
death prolonged for months, and did not once attempt to
bring it all to a painless end himself?
CHAPTER V

The Drums

have been confined to my bed these past days;

/
it is impossible to transgress time by will alone
and not pay a penalty. Dear Ivan Potapich
grumbled as he gave me the best food there was
in the 'house, “You’re an old man, so you might
as well stay in bed. You’re safer in bed. And if you learn
how to knit socks, you’ll really be a help. It’s not hard to
learn if you’re an educated person. I’ll bring you some cot­
ton yarn and needles, and the girls will teach you how.”
So I’m in bed now, just lying and resting. My thoughts
are back in line again, and my memory has been refreshed.
But I won’t visit Mikhail tonight; instead, I’ll recall what
I myself saw on that terrible day, in the manner all mortals
see things.
It was the end of August, 1866. Everyone in Auntie’s
salon was touched by what the Tsar had said to Shuvalov:
that if Karakozov was not executed by the 26th of August,
which was the anniversary of his coronation, he did not
wish it to be done between the 26th and the 30th, the day

214
of the Tsar’s patron saint and of the commemoration of
Prince Alexander Nevsky.
This order, 'brought about by a desire not to 'darken the
great holidays, was proof, in their opinion, that the Em­
peror was exceptionally kind-hearted and was not indifferent
to the execution of the worst criminal. I recall Count
Panin’s mot:
“In my opinion it would have been better to execute two,
rather than one, and three, rather than two. But, faute de
mieux, at least we’ll have the main culprit.”
There were other salons of a liberal bent that ‘found noth­
ing humane in the Tsar’s order; here everyone was
enthralled by Prince Gagarin, who was so overcome at the
trial that he could barely read the death sentence through
his tears. He then said the prisoner had the right to appeal
for Royal clemency. Ostryakov, counsel for the defence,
drew up a short but moving appeal, and Karakozov, who
had practically lost all concept of reality by then, signed it.
The Tsar refused to pardon him.
“Ab, but how he did it! How exquisitely he refused!” the
ladies exclaimed rapturously.
Auntie’s old European gentleman sacrificed his punctual
daily routine and like a youth came rushing to her early
in the morning in order to quote the Minister of Justice
Zamyatin, who reported Karakozov’s appeal to the Tsar in
the railway carriage, while accompanying His Majesty from
Petersburg to Tsarskoye Selo.
“There was an angelic expression on His Majesty’s face,”
Zamyatin had told the old man, “when he said, ‘As a Chris­
tian, I have long since forgiven the criminal, but I do not
consider that I have the right to do so as an Emperor.”
Kindly Prince Gagarin transmitted this verdict to Kara­
kozov several days before the execution, in order that he
have a chance to think about his soul.
When I heard this, I withdrew my application to the
Acad.emy and made .inquiries as to the possibility of my
being transferred to active service against the warring

215
mountain tribes. As there were not many volunteers, I soon
received my commission. I became strangely calm, as if
I had at last found my place in life. That very 'day I read
in the papers that Karakozov was to be executed publicly
at Smolensky Field at 7 a.m. on September 3rd.
That was the next morning.
On September 2nd there were posters on every street
corner, announcing Karakozov’s execution. I knew I would
be there. I could not stay away. But I could not spend the
remaining hours till dawn alone, and so set off to play bil­
liards. My student friend was already there. The talk, as
it had been the past few days, was solely about the cor­
rectness of the trial.
A thin-lipped man from the Ministry of Justice with a
halting manner of speech that made one think he was car­
rying a load uphill was trying to prove that Khudyakov,
the ideologist of the organization, and Ishutin, one of the
instigators, deserved the same fate as Karakozov. He said
that high government circles were dissatisfied with the
sentimentality of the first public trial and that the Tsar
had told Gagarin irritably:
“You have left nothing for my benevolence!”
However, he commuted Ishutin’s death sentence, after it
had been read to him on the scaffold with the shroud tied
round him, to life imprisonment.
My student friend said that during his theology lecture
that day Father Palisadov had been lost in thought for a
long time and then had shaken his locks and said with
fatherly anger:
“There, you see! First we have to teach you the principles
of Christianity and then cart you off to be hanged.”
However, all this talk of the trial was in the evening,
when many hours stiil separated us from the event that was
to take place at Smolensky Field at dawn. In the cosy at­
mosphere of the familiar hall, amid such jovial exclamations
as: “Double in the middle hole!” the words “death sentence,”
though said quite naturally, as any other words might be,
were horrible and alien to the senses.
The clock struck four, then five, and someone said:
“Gentlemen, we should be starting out if we want to get
good places.”
I started and suddenly realized that we were to set out for
Smolensky Field to witness an event that was announced in
heavy black letters on the white squares of paper posted all
over the city:
The execution of Dimitry Karakozov, enemy of the State,
will take place at 7 a.m. on Saturday, September 3, at
Smolensky Field, St. Petersburg.
“They’re meeting at the Minister of Justice’s place,” said
the thin-lipped official.
“Who?” the student asked.
“The heads of departments, generals, members of the
Indictment Commission, and Senate officials. And they will
all be in their gold-braided dress uniforms,” he added,
apparently gaining pleasure from the mere mention of such
a grand assembly.
I left the billiards room and set out alone for Smolensky
Field. The day had not yet begun, but the janitors were al­
ready out sweeping the streets. Perhaps it was so easy to
move along because the sidewalks were so clean, or because
the cabs were not clattering along the cobblestones. It
seemed as if all of yesterday’s stale air had been let out of
the blue cupola of the sky during the night and that new air
had been pumped in. There was a feeling of tenseness in the
bright, clear autumn sky. The sun was about to appear.
I suddenly thought of the clay cockerel. Yes, it was still
there in my pocket. Then it was all true. I recall that I
thought: If the sun rises in a cloudless sky and the day is
bright, everything may still turn out well.
Cooks with market-baskets on their arms were emerging
from the yards, the shawls tied round their heads and shoul­
ders making them all seem plump. The sun rose in a bright,

217
cloudless sky. As 1 looked at a policeman’s gleaming badge,
rubbed to a high polish with soft bread for the occasion, I
suddenly realized that nothing would turn out well, that
nothing would help, neither the fact that the streets had been
swept so early, nor that the cooks were off with their market-
baskets, nor the clay cockerel.
The execution would take place anyway.
The streets filled rapidly. At Vasilyevsky Island the
crowds were moving along the streets and pavements, and
the police were having a hard time trying to keep a lane open
down the middle. The black lacquered carriages gleamed and
sparkled. Officers and civilians of rank passed by in a long
succession of three-cornered plumed hats. At the sight of
the first carriage the mob decided it was late and began to
run. The faces were distorted with fright and greed. I took
a short cut and made my way along the deserted side-streets,
coming out at Smolensky Field at the same time as the car­
riages. They stopped before reaching the Field. A small
house had been prepared for the Execution Commission.
They entered, there to await the arrival of the condemned
man. There was some conversation as they alighted, but
no one smiled, and they were all pale. A couple of tarts were
hurrying past me to the Field. They were speaking of
their own affairs, and the older of the two was scolding the
younger.
“You’ve been out with Vaska and with Sidor, but I can’t
see what’s so special about Klim. Aren’t the stars as bright
without him? He’s the same kind of merchandise as them.”
“No, he’s mot,” the other replied. Wisps of her silky hair
had escaped from her kerchief, and her eyes had the same
vacant expression as Vera’s had of late. “Sure I’ve been out
with them other two, but Klim’s my fate. He’s the only one
who needs me. And he’s the one I’ll be brought to answer
for.” " .
, “He’s the one I’ll be brought to answer for,” I repeated
and thought angrily of the day I’d have to give Vera theelay
.cockerel.

218
 Police Commissioner Trepov rode by. The military land
civilian men of rank left the house, entered their carriages,
and drove off after him.
They reached the place on the Field where the troops were
drawn up in square formation, alighted from their carriages
again, and slowly ascended a high black wooden platform.
I looked across and saw what I had expected to see, some­
thing I knew so well from pictures, and yet I did not really
understand that this was it—the gallows. Naturally, if I
were asked where the gallows was I would have pointed
to those two black posts and the crossbar. However, it did
not register on my subconscious mind, and perhaps that was
because I did not feel the greatest terror from the gallows it­
self, as I had expected to, but rather from the high platform,
freshly covered, as everything else, with a coat of black
paint. This large platform, like seme reservoir of black, non­
human blood, gleamed menacingly in response to the first
rays of the rising sun. The most horrible event took place on
the platform.
“That’s called a scaffold,” one schoolboy said to another,
pointing with his finger.
Perhaps the cart of ignominy rolled up silently; I really
couldn’t say, 'for there was a crashing noise in my ears. I
thought the ugly cart with the high box and the two horses
pulling it was making all the noise. Someone was chained
to the box, sitting with his back to the horses.
I did not recognize Karakozov. And truly, it was not he.
Not the one who had proudly written to the Tsar: “If I had
a hundred lives to live I would sacrifice them all for the
happiness of my people!” and not the one with the lovely
young blue eyes so full of warm charm who had asked to
give his last regards and a childhood toy to a person he
perhaps had loved.
The man in the ugly cart had a blue face with whitish,
seemingly dead eyes. They rested upon the gallows, and his
head jerked back convulsively. Then he turned to stone. Just
as in Rembrandt’s Crucifixion, his numb body seemed limp for
219
a moment when the executioners unchained him from the
cart, led him up the steps to the high black scaffold, and put
him in the pillory towards the back.
“That’s what they call a pillory,” said a man in a Swiss
cape, land another answered:
“Isn’t it a disgrace.. . . What a disgrace! And they insist
upon executing a person in the foulest possible manner.”
The Chief of Police on horseback was at one side of the
scaffold. At the opposite side were a group of North Ameri­
cans from the squadron that was visiting Kronstadt. I made
my way closer to the Chief’s side and heard him say to the
Court Secretary:
“You must mount the scaffold, or no one will hear the
sentence. The people must be made to understand that every­
thing is being done according to the law.”
The Secretary mounted the steps. He wore a uniform and
carried a general’s plumed hat under his arm and a paper in
his hand. He stood close to the railing. The paper shook in
his hand, and his face was the same deathly blue as that of
the condemned man.
“By decree of His Imperial M ajesty.. . . ”
What an icy blast from the roll of the drums! I began to
shake visibly, while the troops presented arms. Everyone
removed his hat. The drums were silenced, but I continued
to shiver and understood not a single word of what the Sec­
retary was saying. He then returned to the platform where
the ministers and the Commission were.
Archpriest Pialisadov, in full regalia, now appeared before
Karakozov. He held a gleaming gold cross in his firm, out­
stretched hands, as if he were either defending himself or
attacking.
No one heard what he said to the prisoner. He then
pressed the cross to the dead lips of the man in the pillory,
turned round, and descended.
The executioners mounted the scaffold. Together they
raised the white shroud above the dead, frozen blue face
that lacked all signs of life. They were terribly clumsy

220
and for some reason first threw the hood over the head and
face.
At that moment the sun went out for the prisoner, and
perhaps he himself died then. I think the most terrible mo­
ment is when a living brain experiences its death.
But there then followed something which in its cruelty
was worse than any crime or any punishment. The mind
that had accepted death was for an instant made to live, only
to bring it a 'new terror of death the very next moment.
The executioners, who had wrongly begun with the hood,
obeyed the police chief’s signal and did what is only done
when a prisoner is to be pardoned. They removed the hood.
For a second the sun touched his face. For a second his
eyes came to life and became crystal-clear. His childish
lips turned red and twitched. Whoever he was, he was only
twenty-four years old, and he wanted to live. And at that
moment he believed he would live.
But the two executioners hastily forced his arms into tre­
mendously long sleeves, like those of a masquerade Pierrot,
and tied them behind his back in a tight knot. Then they
threw the hood over his head a second time.
They gripped the large snow-white faceless and armless
doll and slowly took it down a few steps and to the left,
right under the gallows. Then the two executioners put the
snow doll on a bench as carefully as if it were a precious
vase.
The one who had just looked upon the world with clear
eyes and whose mouth had twitched so childishly now stood
shifting from one foot to another.
They put a rope round the snow-white doll’s neck and the
executioner kicked the bench from under it.
The drums rolled.
And they keep up the roll, they keep it up! Ivan Potapich,
stop the drums!
CHAPTER VI

Pancakes
Everywhere

Tm ’ve not written for a very long time. Ivan Po-

m tapieh made me lie flat on my back for a week and
m then spend the following week in bed knitting a
m sock. If I tried to disobey, he threatened to whisk
. M me right off to the insane asylum. But I cannot
see Black Vrubel before my time has come. The time will
come, and we shall meet.
I decided not to re-read what I had written, for fear of
crossing out all the wrong places. I have forgotten what it
is that I alone understand and what is clear to everyone
else. Let Comrade Petya do the editing for the clean copy.
He’s an excellent boy and comes from my Gubernia, and he’s
Goretsky’s friend.
This is what happened two weeks :ago. The last time I
wrote the drums began to roll. I could stand the awful roll­
ing no longer and began to scream. Then the mounted
Chief of Police ordered me to swallow one of the drums. He
signalled, the soldiers aimed at me, I became frightened, and
swallowed it. I could not defend myself with my hands, as

222
they were in long white sleeves and tied securely behind my
back. But the drum I had swallowed continued rolling in­
side me. I stuffed my ears with cotton from Ivan Potapich’s
winter coat, climbed under the bed, and hid behind the sacks
of flour. Ivan Potapich is stocking up, like in 1918—just in
case. I thought that by barricading myself I would be able
to hide from the mounted Chief of Police and he would stop
torturing me. I fell asleep behind the sacks. Ivan Potapich
became very worried when he came home and was out looking
for me far into the night, since he thought I had left without
my coat, which he keeps locked up. When the girls were
sweeping up next morning and found my feet sticking out
from under the bed, they shrieked, but I didn’t want to crawl
out, as I foolishly thought it was the Chief of Police again.
Ivan Potapich fetched Goretsky Junior, and his lively
chatter dispelled my nightmare and brought me back to
reality. I crawled out, told them about the drum, and politely
begged their pardon. But Ivan Potapich was firm. He wanted
to send me back to Black Vrubel immediately, because, for
some strange reason, he suddenly decided that I'might
begin to bite.
Thanks to Comrade Petya, Goretsky’s young friend, Ivan
Potapich gave me a last chance. He agreed to keep me till
the November holidays, but on condition that I stay in bed,
and to that end locked up my clothes and boots. He doesn’t
even suspect that he did not name the date of his own
accord, but on my mental suggestion. That is the day Vrubel
and I are to meet and conduct our first experiment.

THE GREAT EXPERIMENT

Ivan Potapich wants me out of the way, for he and the

girls have so much to do these days; they are going to take
part in a performance.
I obediently went to bed and let him lock my boots up in
a large trunk. However, he gave me some paper, a pen and

223
ink, and said as he usually does, “I always feel more at ease
when you’re writing.”
Goretsky Junior sat down on the trunk. When the light’s
on him, you can see how ancient he is. But now he’s neatly
dressed, his shoulders are thrown back again, and he shaves
his chin as he did during the reign of Alexander II. I saw
Comrade Petya Tulupov at his place before—he was taking
French and German lessons. He became fond of the old man,
and calls him Grandpa. Goretsky calls him “Petya Rostov*
from the Commune, or Petya Tulupov-Rostov.” He resembles
a cavalry cadet and is an excellent horseman. He was just
nineteen when he became a Communist and he was poured
into the mould like the purest alloy, without :a crack or dent.
I am very fond of him and understand him well, for we were
exactly the same in our youth, though perhaps in another
way. -
“Comrade Petya,’’ I said to him, “you are the one person
I must see two weeks from now, on the eve of the No­
vember celebration. I want you to come here, and I shall give
you my manuscript of bygone and present days; I want you
to 'Censor it and publish whatever you can.”
“Is it a book of memoirs?” Petya asked. “All right. But
if the outlook is anti-Marxian, I won’t do it.”
“The outlook is most certainly a military one,” Goretsky
interceded on my behalf. “He’s like me: adaptable. If it’s a
matter of discipline, there’s no two ways about it. Yesterday
Petya showed me around the stables, and let me tell you,
it’s spick-and-span there. The stalls of his Faltsfein Farms
half-breeds are just like parlours.”
Goretsky kissed his finger-tips, as he usually did at the
mention of a lovely ballerina.
“Corsair has good blood. He may even be a thoroughbred,”
Petya said.
Goretsky raised his arms in horror.
“It means nothing if he doesn’t have Faltsfein’s pedigree!

* A youth in L. N. Tolstoi’s novel War and Peace.

224
If he were from the Arapov stables, that wouild be something
else entirely, but good points don’t count without a pedigree
from the Faltsfein Farms.”
He began to shout so loudly that I had to cover my ears
for fear that I’d hear the drums again. However, he turned
round to look at me and said apologetically:
“You need a rest. Get well soon and come have tea with
us. This is the last time I’ve come here, because my legs
keep swelling. You’ll soon be burying me!”
“You’ll last till a hundred, Grandpa,” Petya said.
“Imagine, mon cher, Petya is peeved at my social status,
no matter how I try to make him understand that it’s autoc­
racy without bureaucracy. But you see, he writes a bit him­
self, and he’s thought up a most piquant obituary for me
when I die. And, ma foi, I now have but one desire: to end
my days in my present position and then be laid to rest. And
my last wish is . . . my friend, don’t let me down!”
“Better let him sleep,” Ivan Potapich said, but then he
took one look at the excited Goretsky and shrugged: “They’re
both like children!”
Goretsky sat down on my bed and suddenly burst into
tears.
“Mon cher. I’ve asked Petya to do me this favour, but
he’s refused.”
“Come on, now, Grandpa,” Petya said.
“Mon bon ami, wait a second and I’ll explain it all. This
is my last wish: let them put a crimson border round me
instead of a halo, c’est tout a fait simple a coller, we used to
make them when we were children. Gum arabic does it beau­
tifully. And the quality of the paper is of no importance, it
can even be cigarette paper. The main thing is the colour:
the crimson of the Revolution! And I want a priest to con­
duct the funeral services, and not just any of those new and
accommodating priests, but Father Yevgeny, that most hon­
ourable old gentleman.”
Goretsky leaped on to the trunk. He was either delirious
or else insane.
15—382 225
 “Mon bon vieux” he continued, “I don’t know whether my
belief in God was deep enough, but I always observed the
Twelve Feasts. As was the custom at home, I never even took
a bite of apple before the approved time. I fasted at Lent and
never touched a drop of liquor. And first, last, and always,
I’m a military man. But they’ve done something to me and
made it as difficult for me to attend church as to keep up a
friendship with a fond, but defeated friend.”
“Then where does the crimson border come in?” Comrade
Petya asked.
“Where indeed!” Goretsky growled. “Why, didn’t I cram
Filaret’s Catechism for nine whole years? Didn’t I spend
half a century adapting myself to the accepted way of life?
Perhaps I suppressed the calling of my brain in order to
become body and soul a part of our regimental chapel. I
never went into battle without being blessed with Holy
Water. Even though you’re drunk, it’s a hard thing to run
a fellow through. Kerensky had nothing to say to the sol­
diers, to explain why they should go to their death, since
they’d never see hide or hair of ‘land and freedom.’ All he
could do was stamp his feet. Ah, but we were sent in in the
name of God, there would be a ‘halo’ for each of us, and the
priest blessed us for the bloodshed. We knew ‘the gates of
Hell would never overcome’ the Church. Well, and whither
shall I turn now? The stronghold has been blown up, the
priest has been shorn. Everything I have believed in and
loved for half a century has gone to the dogs! So let some
higher authority judge the events. My brain is too small! I
become confused and don’t know who captured Gilkho Vil­
lage, Voinoransky or me? And that’s why I want to meet my
Maker in a crimson border. You can like it or lump it!”
Like some third-rate King Lear, Goretsky Junior swept
haughtily out of the room.
Suddenly his red face appeared in the doorway again. He
was really in a fit and shouted:
“I’ve walked right-footed all my life, and now I suddenly
switched to my left foot. But the powder’s all used up! Your

226
time is up, old man! But I won’t die at atterition, my left
foot will be up!”
Goretsky jerked his foot and crowed like a rooster to the
delight of the girls. Then he left.
“Wait, Grandpa!” Comrade Petya shouted and came over
to me to say, “You can rely on me, I’ll certainly come for
your manuscript.”
After the time I swallowed the drum, I’ve lost confi­
dence in myself. What if the thing Black Vrubel and I have
planned for the 7th of November happens to me before then?
I only have two weeks left. I must hurry land write down
the most important aspects of Mikhail’s story.
Well, as I have already said, on the September day that
began so rosily, the day when a one-horsed wagon carted
away the coffin with Karakozov’s body, which had been left
hanging until nightfall, the terrible roll of the drums began
in my ears. I could think of no other way to drown it out
than by drinking round the clock for a week. When I sobered
up, I went unhesitatingly to a very attractive mansion. 1
felt exceedingly strong and was afraid neither of life nor
of death, knowing that anyone I chose would be in my
power.
Even he, the Chief of Gendarmes, would obey my will.
I did not choose him because I was concerned with the
fate of my friend, but because the Chief of Gendarmes was
made of stone. And I had to smash a stone. As far as my
feeling of friendship, etc., was concerned, I had forgotten
all about it. I myself was turning to stone.
I had just come up to inquire whether the master, Count
Shuvalov, was at home, when he himself came out of the
entrance.
It’s fate, I thought, and this gave me added insolence.
“I must talk to you in private, Count,” I said, and the
words sounded like an order.
The Count’s mask of a face became still more impenetrable
and he said unhurriedly with a sweep of his hand towards
the door:
15* 227
 “I had intended to see to a private matter, but it can wait.
I am at your disposal.”
We entered the foyer. At times history repeats itself
horribly: he led me to the very same room in which we once
had bad our fateful conversation. The room was unchanged;
I saw the crates, the dishes, and the same glass bell on the
window-sill, and suddenly I wondered whether the blue fly
might still be under it. It wasn’t. Then 1 thought that the
room was purposely there. I looked at Shuvalov and was
amazed at the way he had aged. He was no longer a marble
god, but an aging stone idol. What we term the soul, what
can be read in his features, seemed to have left him com­
pletely. He was merely a mechanism now.
“What do you wish to tell me?” the Count asked. He re­
mained standing, but offered me a chair.
Neither his forbidding appearance, nor the cold reception
tendered by one of great power could intimidate me. The
awful rolling of the drums filled my ears once again, and I
shouted wriathfully to drown it out:
“I request that you give Mikhail Beideman an opportunity
to be personally interrogated by the Tsar.”
“You’re ill,” Shuvalov said, taken aback by my insolent
tone. “The resolution sent down to all the department heads
states once and for all that nothing is known of this
prisoner.”
“But you, personally, must be aware that this prisoner is
close to insanity, and now, after the trial and the conviction
of everyone connected with the attempted assassination, it
becomes more apparent than ever that Beideman did not
belong to any organization. Your Excellency, he has slan­
dered himself. You were once inclined to think he was in­
sane. Six long years have passed since then. Is it not pos­
sible to review the case?”
It was not a hint of human emotion that flitted across
the Count’s face; no, it was a calculating look. His eyes, as
sharp and piercing as a pilot’s must be before some difficult
stunt, looked at me keenly, as he said:

228
 “I’ll do wtiat I can.”
But then he suddenly recollected and added, like the true
bureaucrat he was:
“That is, if there is such a political prisoner in the books.
Be at Countess Kushina’s a week from today, and I’ll give
you my answer.”
I bowed and we both left the house together.

I could not return to my old way of life and continued

drinking heavily all week. On Sunday I went to my aunt’s
house.
As I entered the salon, the European old man was just
announcing that Count Shuvalov was expected at any mo­
ment with a most interesting letter from Father Palisadov,
concerning Karakozov’s last minutes on earth.
“This letter is the direct result of a misunderstanding.
Have you heard what happened at the execution?” a senator
asked Auntie. “The Count asked Palisadov whether the
criminal had really repented, and the priest cut him short
with an aura of dignity most uncommon to him, saying,
‘That is the priest’s secret!’ But, alas, the popular pastor
retained his dignity only until he discovered his mistake. He
had taken Count Shuvalov for an ordinary mortal, but he
soon became frightened and produced the flowery epistle
you will now have the pleasure of hearing.”
“My, aren’t you bilious this evening,” Auntie said.
“Though I myself am displeased with Palisadov—it’s not
proper for a Russian priest to be so Frenchified. But be that
as it may, he’s a nightingale when it comes to sermons. You
had better explain what’s come over the Count, he’s just like
a statue.”
The old Slavophile, who keenly disliked the European old
man, quickly interjected:
“Countess, I’ve observed that all Russians who embrace
Europe as their ideal and acquire a disdain for their native
disorderliness go to the other extreme and squeeze each

229
year, month, and every day, divided up into half-hours, into
their memo-books. True, the disorderliness vanishes, but it
departs with the person 'himself, as well.”
“Then my gardener Tishka is right,” said Auntie, “when
he says, ‘If a berry ripens before its time, it’ll be stunted.’ ”
“Count Shuvalov is stunted, too,” they all chuckled.
However, their laughter immediately turned into the most
genial smiles, as soon ias the footman announced the Count.
He entered, as always, the magnificent and impressive
courtier.
Neither in his handshake, nor in the brief, arrogant look
which grazed me for a moment, was there any hint of what
he would tell me. I even imagined, from the familiar and
elegant movement of his hand as he took a snow-white
handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his moustache, filling
the room with an aroma of strong, yet fashionable perfume,
that he had forgotten our conversation and considered me
part of Auntie’s furniture.
At the request of the gathering, the Count began to read
Palisadov’s letter. It was full of vile banalities and false
hypocrisy, but the ladies and gentlemen hung upon its every
word with necks outstretched; their faces expressed such
consuming curiosity as they absorbed this heartless exercise
in eloquence on the last moments of a tortured soul, that I
suddenly became filled with loathing. And I ceased to see
their faces. I saw nothing but pancakes where the faces
should have been. A pancake with a moustache, and one
without. Neither faces nor personalities.
Now the one with the light-blue eyes appears before me
and I hear his strong hollow voice, there, iat the Summer
Garden:
“Fools! I did it for your sake!”
And then the greedy curiosity of the street rabble, run­
ning to see an execution, and the greedy curiosity of society
rabble, eager to hear something thrilling about the last
moments of a condemned man. I am so frightened, so
frightened!

m
 I can’t stand it! I’ll hide under the cot.
Neither Ivan Potapi-ch nor the girls iare home yet, and I
got safely back into bed again. I lay behind the flour sacks
for a couple of hours, and I feel better now. In the semi-
darkness behind the flour sacks I feel as light-hearted as if
I had jumped on to another planet. If I could only tell of
what I see there when my eyes are closed, or of what I hear!
But no, I shan’t disclose a thing, it would only hinder the
smooth running of the government machinery, for then each
citizen would want to learn how to jump off instead of doing
his work and fulfilling other suitable duties.
But then, at Auntie’s, I was still concerned with my self­
esteem; I thrust out my chest, assumed a fairly respectful
attitude, and moved closer to the door in order to question
the Count when he left. He was to read his letter in two
other houses that evening and so was in a hurry. He kissed
the ladies’ hands and in passing, without even looking at
me, he said:
“The request cannot be fulfilled, for he is not on any of the
lists.’’
I recall that I looked at his vicious back, writhing grace­
fully in a series of bows, and thought: “The Chief of Gen­
darmes has lied!”
I left without taking leave of anyone. Whose hand was I
to shake: a pancake’s with a moustache, or a pancake’s with
curls? I started out for home with the-intention of shooting
myself. It was such an easy thing for me to do that evening,
and so inevitable. The only thing that bothered me was the
question of to whom I was to give the clay cockerel for Vera.
Who had a face instead of a pancake? Who was a person?
Then Vera’s face appeared before me, as it was that day
on the verandah of Lagutin’s home. Her light eyes flashed
fire and once again she blushed and said:
“You won’t do it, Father!”
Mikhail had a face, land the man with the light-blue eyes
had one, too. Even when seen from the height of the black
scaffold, in the pillory, and deathly blue, it was a face.

W
 Then I recalled Dostoyevsky’s face, so unique and unusual.
If I had only known where he lived, I would have gone to him.
Before I was to leave this earth for good, I had to look into
a real person’s face. What I saw at home, in my mirror,
was only another pancake. But I did not know where Dos­
toyevsky lived.
Suddenly a certain address floated up from my subcon­
scious. It was written in large black letters on a white
square as were the posters announcing the execution, and
it read: “17th Line, House N o ....” and a voice belonging
to a silver-haired, rosy-cheeked young old man named Yakov
Stepanich said:
“When your time comes, come to this address!”
Without further ado I set out.
 Address

TZ.
mX
,,
But with each passing day it becomes more
W and more difficult for me to write. The November
a holidays are nearing and my body is becoming
lighter and lighter. I am now certain that even
though I am not doing the exercises Ivan Potapich has for­
bidden me to do, I shall fly when Black Vrubel gives the
sign. In two weeks from now we will join forces for the
“great experiment.”
Comrade Petya-Rostov-Tulupov came up alone to fetch
my notes. I told him to get the ladder in the closet and lean
it against the iron stove, for I had hid my manuscript on
top of it to preserve it from the mice. I gave Petya every­
thing I wrote and made him promise to come in two weeks
from now, on the eve of the Seventh. He’ll come and get
the last chapter, describing the last events.
I cannot write logically any more. My thoughts are all
jumbled, :as the flock of sheep there in the mountains: the
moment the shepherd leaves them, they scatter. My thoughts.
too, have been left without a shepherd, and they all cram
my head at once. And there’s very little paper left. Ivan Po-
tapich won’t give me any more. He said, “Write on top of
what you’ve already written, it can’t matter much to you
now.” Well, I’ll just write down the most important facts
about myself and Mikhail.
The Chief of Gendarmes had lied, for the Tsar had seen him.
How was I able to find this out? Though it’s not a fairy­
tale, it seems like one. Yakov Stepanich told me all about it.

He opened the door for me himself. The room was narrow,

and there was a braided rug of coloured rags on the floor.
Yakov Stepanich recognized me at once. He was not sur­
prised, and actually seemed to have been expecting me.
“Sit here on the couch while I finish speaking to my call­
ers. You’ll have to excuse me, but they do keep coming.”
He bowed to me land went into an adjoining room. How­
ever, he left the door ajar, and I thus heard the entire conver­
sation. An icon-lamp flickered in the corner and the holy
face above it was dark. For some reason or other I decided
that Yakov Stepanich was an old-believer.
“He’s started drinking again,” an old man was saying
in a tearful voice, apparently referring to his son. “I
could kill him, I hate him. so much. It would be easier for
me to kill him than choke with rage like this.”
“I want you to let the old woman take over the shop im­
mediately, and you get out of the house. Out! Go back to
work like you did a year ago. Carry those sacks for a while
and get rid of your anger. You begot him. But if you kill
him, you’ll never be able to undo it. Your son will drink his
fill—I’m concentrating on him—he’ll be done with drinking,
and he’ll come to me himself as he did then. He’ll remember
the address. He didn’t drink for a whole year; this time he
won’t drink for two. If he goes 'astray again, we’ll cheer
him on again. No one can break a bunch of twigs, but they
snap in a wink one at a time.”

234
 “I believe you, Father, I believe you,” the old man said
ecstatically and bowed down to the ground. “I’ll go and
work for his soul and give all my earnings to the poor.”
The old man left. He was tall, dressed in an overcoat,
had a grey beard, and was apparently a small merchant. He
bowed to me with these words:
“Don’t worry, sir. Yakov Stepanich, our good Father,
will put your mind at ease, too.”
Yakov Stepanich saw his guest to the door, locked it, and
returned. Once more he said, “Excuse me” in a pleasant
voice.
He was now busy with an old woman.
“I weep day and night, and kneel at her feet, but she
won’t heed me!” the old woman lamented. “She’s been sit­
ting on the trunk for three days now without a bite to eat
or a moment’s sleep. Her eyes iare like empty cups, and she
keeps staring at the corner and won’t talk. She must be
thinking of hanging herself again. Her godparents are stay­
ing with her now, while I came straight to you. Do some­
thing for her, Father.”
The old woman fell to her knees. Yakov Stepanich shouted
at her angrily as he pulled her to her feet:
“You’re lazy, Mother! You console yourself with your
tears, but your tears are like steam in the bath to her, they’ll
be her undoing. W'hat she needs is courage. Some don’t have
courage enough to live. They should be helped on by stern
treatment, and not by your silly anger, but with true anger
for a human soul. Ah, but you’re stupid, Mother, and what’s
the use of scolding you! Even if you have to drag her here
by force with her godparents to help you, bring your
daughter to me. And if she just won’t .budge, tell me, and
old man that I am, I’ll come to her myself.”
Yakov Stepanich saw the grateful old woman out, locked
the door once more, and said like a kindly doctor:
“Please come in!”
I suddenly lost all desire to speak to him. “He’s just a
Vasilyevsky Island hypnotizer,” I thought, “and he’s prob’
ably even included me as one of his patients. I wonder
how you pay him, by leaving t'he money on a table, or by
putting it imi his hand?”
The room was immaculate. The walls were whitewashed
and unpapered. The bed, the table, and the two chairs we
occupied were all white, yet it did not resemble a hospital
room. There was a book-shelf over the table, and I was
amazed to see a copy of Renan’s Life of Jesus in French.
Yakov Stepanich noticed this immediately.
“Are you surprised to see Renan? Linuchenko gave it to
me. He translated the book for me from cover to cover and
left it here as a remembrance. When you go to the vil­
lage tomorrow, do give him my very best regards. He’s a
very strong person.”
The old man took my hand and looked at me out of clear
and seemingly guileless eyes.
“I don’t intend to go to the village at all. Why do you
think I do?” I said, protecting myself from the unpleasant
feeling of having someone’s will forced upon me.
“You’re sure to go. Most certainly,” Yakov Stepanich an­
swered gravely. “You’ll see that you must. I’ve been think­
ing about you all week. I don’t know your address, and then
people have said that since the day of the execution you
haven’t slept at home.”
“What are you, a detective?” I cried angrily.
“In a way, I probably am,” he replied with a smile. “If
you can’t detect, you can’t offer any help. But let’s get down
to business. I’ve an important matter to discuss, and that
is why I’ve been concentrating on you day and night. It’s
luck, for the address did come back to you, you did remem­
ber it.”
“Are you a witch-doctor or something?” I wanted to get
furious at the old man’s quackery, but inwardly I had trust­
ed him from the very beginning.
“There’s no such thing as witchcraft. You know it, and
so do I,” Yakov Stepanich said calmly. “Perhaps there is
only man’s immense will. In some it is turned to good, in

236
others to evil. In both cases, if one really learns to concen­
trate, one can achieve results that seem amazing, but actu­
ally, it is like the telegraph. In India any naked fakir can do
it as a trick. And we have peasants who can do it, too. My
grandfather taught me how. But the power is not within me.
I must disclose a secret matter to you for Linuchenko. One
cannot write about such things. In a word, I have recently
seen the officer imprisoned in the Ravelin, the one of whom
your orderly Pyotr spoke in my presence.”
Yakov Stepanich, the icon-lamp, and the dark face of the
Saviour were suddenly obscured by a blue haze. The haze
began to drift, and then everything went black. I was ex­
hausted by sleepless nights and horrid drinking and was
unable to withstand the shock of his words. I came to my
senses on Yakov Stepanicn’s white bed. There was a com­
press on my head and the room smelled of savory and mint.
Yakov Stepanich was fussing over me in a kindly, womanly
fashion, just like a grandmother, talking all the while:
“Forgive me, my dear, forgive me, my dove, I really smote
you like the bear did the pilgrim! I miscalculated, old fool
that I am. Ah, but you’ve worn yourself out, you have.”
My mind cleared completely, and I sat up. He took both
my hands in his. I no longer resisted and felt drawn to him
with a childlike trust. It was just that suddenly I knew that
whatever he would say would be the honest truth.
“Feeling better? Here, take these drops and lie back quiet­
ly while I tell you everything that happened. You must
remember it all word for word. You’ll understand what I
mean when you hear it. You can’t put such things in writ­
ing.”
This is what I was to remember word for word.
Count Shuvalov had sent for Yakov Stepanich a week ago,
had seen him in secret, and had ordered him to await him
at one o’clock at night to the right of the Palace gate on the
Neva side. This was not the first time the Count had called
upon him. Yakov Stepanich had been the stoker at the
Palace, recommended to the job by a relative who already

237
 worked there. The Count took notice of him, went to see him
at home and was convinced that he wasn’t given to gossip
or companions, but lived quietly by himself. According to Li-
nuchenko, the Count’s confidence in Yakov Stepanich was
often of great service to them.
Thus, Yakov Stepanich was at the Palace gate at the ap­
pointed hour. Suddenly, he saw Shuvalov’s carriage. The
driver recognized him, and at a signal took him up on the
box. The gates opened silently and they rode up to the
Palace and stopped. The night was as black as pitch, there
were guards in front of the Palace and two gendarmes
came up to the carriage.
The Count alighted. Then the gendarmes carried someone
out, but it was too dark to make out his features. He was
tall and was shackled hand and foot. Once out of the car­
riage, he refused to move. The two gendarmes grabbed him
up under the arms, a third appeared to lift him by the feet.
His chains rattled as they swiftly carried him into the small
hallway in the basement. Yakov Stepanich and the Count
followed them in. Both doors slammed shut and were
locked and chained. Then a large lantern was lit and they
mounted the winding stairway leading to the Emperor’s
private residence on the floor above. The Count ordered
the gendarmes with drawn revolvers to guard the door from
the outside. He told Yakov Stepanich to remain on guard
in the first room, near a bronze bust of Grand Duke Mikhail,
and to be ready to rush in to the rescue in case the prisoner
began to rave,. Yakov Stepanich said that was the word the
Count had used: “rave.” The Count then took his revolver
in his. left hand, opened the next door, leading to the bed­
room, and reported to the person sitting at the window:
“We are here, Your Majesty!”
The Count took the strangely obedient captive’s arm and
moved him up, and he shuffled along 'the carpet clanking
his chains. Candles burned in the bronze candelabra on
the table. The Tsar was sitting with his back to 'the win­
dow, the one that overlooks the Neva and the Admiralty.

238
There were heavy double curtains on the windows. Shuvalov
steered the captive diagonally to the right of the Tsar;
the light fell on both their faces.
Though a huge desk separated the prisoner from the Tsar
and Shuvalov stood in the passage between the desk and
the wall with his cocked revolver, though two armed gen­
darmes stood outside the door beside Yakov Stepanich, who
was holding the rope he had been given in case the prisoner
began to “rave,” Alexander II was very pale and seemed
frightened. However, the tall man standing before him
would hardly have hiad the strength to do anything, had
he so desired. He was shackled. His arms hung limply and
his long, thin fingers were pressed flat to the sides of the
soldier’s greatcoat that had been put on over his prison
clothes for the occasion.
He was unbelievably thin. His coal-black moustache and
beard seemed pasted to the sallow, unhealthy skin that was
drawn over his cheeks. His face was the epitome of all
suffering, its large, bright eyes seemed crying for help,
begging for consciousness. His high forehead was painfully
furrowed, his long neck was stretched forward, and his
whole body had frozen in an attitude of acute strain.
He was trying to remember something, but could not.
Perhaps the Count had not warned him that he was being
taken to the Palace to see the Emperor; or he may have
been told, but the strain may have been too much and had
only served to unbalance him.
“I don’t believe he realizes where he is,” the Tsar said
to Shuvalov. “I should like you to make this clear to him.”
Shuvalov came up close to the chained man and spoke,
as one would to one hard of hearing or a foreigner, enun­
ciating each word:
“His Majesty, in all his kindness, has granted you an
unprecedented favour by having you brought here to the
Palace from prison. I hope that your six-year imprisonment
has made you truly repent the villainous plans of your
youth. By making a clean breast of it and naming all those

239
who involved you in this fatal delusion, you will lighten
your own sentence. Is that clear? The Emperor himself is
before you.”
Suddenly, the captive straightened out and threw his
head back. His eyes burned with a wondrous flame.
I recall that at this point in his story Yakov Stepanich
pointed to an engraving of John the Baptist by Ivanov
hanging on the wall. When inspired, Mikhail actually re­
sembled him.
In a rasping, barking voice that had become unaccus­
tomed to pronouncing human sounds, the prisoner cried:
“Impostor!”
He waved his arm, the chain clattered, and he shouted
louder as he took a step in the Emperor’s direction:
“Impostor! There has been no Tsar for a long time, be­
cause I bought the people’s happiness with his death! I
gave them a constitution! I order Chernishevsky returned!*
Herzen and Ogaryov are to be made Ministers! Why are
you standing there like a fool?” he shouted at Shuvalov.
“Be off! Obey my order! As for this impostor,” he turned to
the ashen-faced Tsar; then he seemed suddenly to have rec­
ognized him. In a rage that shook his body he raised both
fists above his head and cried:
“Murderer! Long live Poland! Long live a free Russia!”
Shuvalov clamped his hand over the prisoner’s mouth
and called to Yakov Stepanich:
“Here, hold his hands!”
Yakov Stepanich rushed in, but all there was for him to
hold was a limp and senseless body, devoid of its last
strength.
“Your Majesty,” Shuvalov said, “you can see that he is
utterly mad. Might you not order that he be transferred to
the insane asylum at Kazan? It is a remote place, and he
can be kept in solitary confinement there, too.”

N. G. Chernishevsky (1828-1889), materialist philosopher, writ­

er, leader of the revolutionary democratic movement of the sixties.
In 1864 he was publicly denounced and then exiled to Siberia.

240
 The Tsar rose, walked silently over to the limp form of
the poor wretch on the floor, and looked at him intently.
His ashen face shook with pent-up rage. He glanced at
Shuvalov coldly and with displeasure and said:
“Let the prisoner be taken back to ihis cell.” He paused
and then added, “As an example to others.”
Shuvalov let the gendarmes in. They lifted the uncon­
scious body and carried it out. Yakov Stepanich noted that
his shackled hands both hung down on the same side, as
a corpse’s do. His sharp, hawk-like nose protruded from his
sunken cheeks and matted beard.

That is what I remembered for the rest of my life—word

for word.

16—382
Back Home
Again

i I part from the occupied cells, the human brain

X—1 consists of a mass of unoccupied ones, reserved
X I for new sensations and impressions which have
m I yet to enter the individual’s mind. In a word,
this is a storehouse of cells, unused and un­
occupied, kept in readiness to accept future knowledge.
‘To continue: according to Meinert*: there are from 600
to 1,200 million cells in the grey matter of our brain, but
the amount of our knowledge is incomparably less. Besides,
every day a human being uses his strength to send the im­
pulses of the will along the conductor-rails, and one spends
five times as much time on this as on forming new mental
associations.
“Well, and what if one were to stop these impulses and
concentrate all one’s strength on a single point? Who can
tell what new impressions and then what new discoveries
will fill the unoccupied cells? Perhaps, man will once again
discover. ..

* Thomas Meinert (1833-1892), German psychiatrist.

 I found this excerpt on a sheet of blue paper written in a
wispy, though not feminine hand, in an old illustrated copy
of Niva which Ivan Potapich let me read. Yesterday he
traded some crude tobacco left over from rationing days
for it.
I’m astounded by the note. After the words “again dis­
cover” there is a drawing of the Wheel of Fortune: it has
two wings and is airborne.
Why, that is exactly what Black Vrubel and I know all
about! A wheel!
Our arrangements have all been made. The head doctor
never noticed a thing. He should have put us in different
wards instead of letting us whisper together. Ha, ha, we
certainly whispered a lot!
I shall ask Ivan Potapich for the scissors. I have to cut
something from newspaper, but he won’t give me the scis­
sors. He was shaving and turned to face me, one cheek cov­
ered with lather, cocked his eye .beneath a shaggy brow
and—it didn’t sound like Ivan Potapich’s voice at all, but
rather like h im ... the black artist—said:
“Go on, slash your throat!”
That’s it! I was so worried, for I had forgotten.
I must swallow the wheel the night before, in order that
it have time to settle in my throat like a propeller. The
next day, as soon as the crowds fill the Prospekt and the
music blares forth under the windows, I must let the air in,
to start the wheel turning. But I had forgotten what' I had
to do to let it in.
Tired by the whirring of the Wheel of Life, I have found
the Keys, I have read the Book, I have understood the Sym­
bols. And I have been permitted to pass on my knowledge.
In order to transmit it, I need a universally understandable
action.
The nerves are the intermediaries between the centres of
movement and the senses. I have yet to create the ‘trans­
mission between the deeply concealed centre of flight and
the first successful flap of my hand-wings!
16* 243
 But we have found the answer, and our good news will
soon reach the others.
It is! clear ndw that Ivan Potapich won’t let me out on
the street. I have no strength to run away, for my legs are
like logs. I’ll have to fly alone. I have already sent a spar­
row with the news to Black Vrubel. We opened the window
and a sparrow flew in. As soon as I told it the address, it
flew out, and all Ivan Potapich’s attempts to catch it with
a butterfly net were in vain, for Vrubel means “sparrow”
in Polish. Ha, ha.
The girls gave in to my pleading and tears and cut out
two wheels. If one won’t be enough, I’ll swallow the second
one, too. But until Ivan Potapich said, “Slash your throat!”
I didn’t know how to let the outside air in. However, I have
already said that Ivan Potapich served to convey a message
from another teacher.
There remains but one thing now: to steal the scissors by
November 7th!
I became very upset. I was afraid to scream, but each
time Ivan Potapich passed me, I would stretch out my neck
and hiss like a snake. It was as delicate and clear a way as
I could think of to tell him that by holding up a world-shat­
tering discovery he was behaving like a reptile. But Ivan
Potapich was too thick to understand any of it, and the
girls were too young and innocent, and so they only gig­
gled.
“Write your book!” Ivan Potapich yelled and put the pen
into my hand, as he usually does nowadays.
As soon as I took up my pen, I saw Yakov Stepanich
sitting on the stove. At first he was so very little he resem­
bled an elf. He had to do it that way in order to be able to
slide down the string attached to the stove. When he walked
up to me he was his usual size, silvery and rosy, dressed in
a shiny lustrine coat. He put his hands on my head.
“Calm down and don’t scare people! Take the clay
cockerel and tell Vera Erastovna everything you saw.”

244
 I picked up the clay cockerel and he transported me to
Vera’s room in Linuchenko’s cottage.
No, no. It took me a long time to get there, first by rail
and then in a troika past the charred ruins of Lagutin’s
manor house. However, how I got there is of no importance,
the main thing is that I did.
The room was light from the first snow of the season, and
the windows had just been washed. They looked out on
some bushy young trees that did not want to surrender their
stout leaves to the ground and remained insolently green
through the film of snow upon them.
Vera was propped up on the pillows and was covered with
a silk Spanish patchwork quilt. I remember the quilt from
our childhood days. Whenever she was sick I would sit be­
side her and we’d play. We would stroll along, as through a
park, or the bottom of the sea, or a crater on the moon,
following the delicate shadings of the silk.
Vera was looking out of the window and did not see us
enter. She had become so thin that I hardly recognized her.
She seemed transparent, and her once golden braids now lay
dull and flat on her shoulders.
“Vera,” Linuchenko called. “Serge is here!”
She turned her head quickly. Her great, empty eyes looked
at me with a glimmer of hope, as she tried to stretch her
arms to me. I fell to my knees, took the pale, weak fingers
in my hands, and pressed them to my lips. How could I have
forgotten her? I loved Vera, simply because I could never
stop loving her. I had only to see her to love her.
“Did you see him?” she asked without mentioning any
name.
“He came the day before and asked me to tell you he could
not wait any longer, for he felt very ill. He sent you some­
thing he treasured above all else, a souvenir of his childhood.”
I gave Vera the clay cockerel. She took it, and great tears
welled up in her eyes. I was in anguish. Spurred on by some
involved and hardly kindly feeling, and not sparing her
weakness at all, I said:

245
 “You know, Yakov Stepanich saw Mikhail. He witnessed
his audience with the Tsar. Mikhail was taken to the Palace
in chains.”
“What are you doing?” cried Linuchenko.
“Serge, go on. I’ll die if you don’t tell me.”
She sat up and clutched the cockerel, as if finding support
in it, as I had when I had wandered through the streets like
one possessed after the attempted assassination at the Sum­
mer Garden.
I told her all I knew. She sat there without moving or
breathing, until I suddenly thought she had died. I stopped
speaking and wanted to put my arms round her, but she
drew back and said firmly:
“I’m listening. I understand everything. Don’t leave out
a word.”
When I had finished she turned to look long and silently
at Linuchenko, and then pleaded:
“My friend, don’t send anyone down the Volga except me!
I’ll remain in Kazan. After all, they’re bound to take him
there some day.”
She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. I fol­
lowed Linuchenko out of the room.
“Why did you tell her that?” he began and interrupted
himself by saying, “Well, she’s better off having been told.
She is, not you.”
He looked at me both searchingly and harshly. “However,
I have no time to speak with you now. Come to see me late
this evening. But be sure to come!”
I set off to wander through the familiar places of my
childhood and take my leave of them for ever. I knew I
would never return. This chapter of my life was over.
Each person lives several lives. He uses up one life and
temporarily becomes a corpse; no, he becomes like the earth,
whose dead grasses and dormant new seeds lie deep beneath
the snow shroud. And as the earth awakens from the frost, so
does the dead person awaken from the greatest sorrow. He
gets back on his feet again and like everyone else he again

246
fills his every day. But the nights are no longer the same.
At night, Death itself comes to him who has known deathly
suffering, it holds his heart in its clutches and gives him no
rest and no sleep.
But this is only at night.
I was to leave for the Caucasus in the morning, and I now
headed towards the cottages to say good-bye to my milk-
brothers, my god-children, and my god-parents. Everywhere
they eagerly filled up my glass with home-made brandies
“for the road,” and so, before going to Linuchenko, I walked
towards the round lake, towards the “Witch’s Eye,” to sober
up.
There was the big rock we three had sat on seven years
ago, each so full of his own worries and aspirations. Now
one of us had become a madman, dead to the world, while,
Vera and I were broken creatures.
But the lake was just the same. All day long it was as
still and as smooth as a mirror, but at night a wonderful
change came over it. The thousand-eyed sky was reflected in
the water, the stars above winked at the stars below and
created unusual movement in the water, unseen in the day­
time.
A slight ripple, like a shiver on excited flesh, passed from
one star to another. A vague outline, large and dark, con­
vulsed deep on the bottom, beneath the little ripples. It
looked as if it were trying to escape, to come to the surface,
but did not know how.
The moon emerged in the blue sky and the clouds floated
by like white swans. The stars moved farther back in defer­
ence to the moon, who, like a ripe, indifferent beauty,
brushed the clouds from the clear heavens and admired
herself alone in her clear mirror—the lake.
Springs bubbled up from the bottom; that which lay cap­
tive among the binding slime, the weeds, and water plants
shuddered as it made its way upwards. It emerged. It struck
the mirrored surface and for an instant, only an instant, it
shattered the confident, perfect circle of the moon into a

247
million glistening sparks. The lake seemed afire. For an
instant, only for an instant.
The moon drifted on, the fires died down. And in triumph
over the quelled insurrection, the stars above smiled down
to the stars below, like some ancient augurs, their secret
buried deep within them.
“As soon as you blow up all the boundary rocks, the earth
will become light and you will fly!” Whose words were
these? It doesn’t really matter. He said it and I shall do it.
I’ll fly. F-l-y.

Half a century has passed since that conversation, yet I

still hate Linuchenko. That man robbed me of all that was
mine and left me to live. There are things that should never
be said, but once said, the person to whom they are addressed
must then be killed. However, very few people realize the
power of words and very few know how to use words as
weapons. People argue, love, betray, and even kill, but all
this is somehow apart from their real selves. Each has
placed a substitute in life instead of himself, while he
remains completely concealed.
Linuchenko found out the real me, the one I alone knew
existed. I alone in a rare moment had the courage to tell my­
self what this stocky, unpleasant man said to me without
even raising his voice.
“I hear that you’re leaving for the Caucasus?” Linuchenko
said, locking the door to prevent anyone from interrupting
us. “I hope you’ll be gone long?”
“That is so. But why are you pleased to "hope’?”
“Because I would otherwise be forced to ask you to stay
away from us. We are now changing over to a type of work
which cannot tolerate indifferent witnesses. This state of
not being with or against us cannot continue. And I also
wanted to tell you, for you obviously don’t realize it your­
self, and I feel I have the right to from a certain fondness
I have for you, as I have known you since you were a child.”

248
 “Why, I thought you despised me," I blurted ouf.
“As yet, and as far as I know, there is nothing to despise
you for,” he said without a smile. That irked me. “But 1
would like to warn you about something. Will you permit
me to?”
“By all means,” I replied, hating the sight of the strong
face with the high cheek-bones.
“You are not a boy any longer, yet you are still irre­
sponsible. It is time you realized that thought, feeling, and
will should all be in agreement. Speaking in military terms,
it is high time you stood inspection for yourself, that you
mobilized all your energies and set yourself some definite
goal in life. Undisciplined people are the worst of all pos­
sible traitors.”
Then he added, his narrow green eyes boring through me:
“Confess: did you attempt to change Mikhail’s sentence?
I’m certain that you spoke to Shuvalov.”
“Is an attempt to improve a friend’s lot, even though it
failed, to be called treachery?”
I thought this person was insulting, but I felt no anger.
He spoke dispassionately, like a mechanic concerned that
all the parts of the machine be screwed together quickly and
accurately.
“If, while intervening on Beideman’s behalf, due to your
weak-willed nature, you allowed the interference, as you did
today while talking to Vera, of the least shadow of some
other feeling capable of destroying your desire to help him,
you have betrayed him, whether you wished to or not. Do you
not know that a drop of dog’s blood injected into a cat will
kill it? If there is no unified will, it is better not to act at all.
You do not possess such a will, yet I am certain that you
have acted. I do not ask for the details, and, theoretically,
you may be right. You have left your class, but you have not
joined ours. We are all part of the same alloy. And so, good­
bye!”
1 thought that perhaps 1 should challenge him to a duel,
but instead I bowed coldly and said:
17-382 249
 “Good-bye then, if you so wish it. I am leaving tomorrow
for good. But I want to see Vera alone.”
“All right,” Linuchenko agreed. “You certainly cannot
make her more ill than you have already.”
“To hell with your lecturing!” I shouted, losing my tem­
per. “I’m at your disposal. We can do without seconds by
drawing lots and having an American duel.”
His gaze was level and swift, as one looks at another
when calling him an idiot, but he did not say it. Instead, he
shrugged, unlocked the door, and went out.
I did not sleep that night. I lay awake counting the times
1 had betrayed Mikhail. I counted four. Yes, thanks, to my
intervention, the fate of this person had been changed four
times. But my will was not of a pure, solid alloy. There­
fore. . . .
The first time was when I gave Moseich the Kolokol,
thereby preventing Vera and Mikhail from joining their lives.
The second time was when I convinced Shuvalov that the
matter was not as the inquiry had led him to believe it was
—which resulted in the Alexeyev Ravelin instead of an in­
sane asylum, from which my friend could have escaped. The
third time I was infatuated with Larisa and my awakening
jealousy of my helpless friend deprived him of a powerful
ally. The fourth and last time, not thinking of his release at
all, but simply desirous of relieving my own aching heart,
I had exposed him, though he was completely mad, to the
everlasting wrath of Alexander II.
Perhaps a jury would acquit me. In my old age I simply
state what I know.
Not merely your actions, but your evil thoughts, or your
ill-will may be the one deciding factor that pulls down the
bitter scale of another person’s destiny.
CHAPTER IX

The Spider
and
the Hoopoe

M
T m keeping an eye on the window. A terrible
m thing nearly happened today. Ivan Potapich
a wanted the girls to fill the cracks in the window
m with putty for the winter, but they protested :and
— promi sed they’d do it on the 8th. Everything is
shaping up for my last stand on the 7th. There remain but
a few days.
I have had a Sign that my decision is correct. On the
window-sill, between the double frames I saw... .
I saw a Spider.
No sooner had I noticed it, than Ivan Potapich said of
someone:
“He’s a deserving friend.”
What a word, what a word! This word, among all others,
expresses the strong tie of friendship. Yes, yes, a friend is
dear when lie is deserving.
I have a deser-ted friend and:
The Spider.

17* 251
 How strange. Vera was not about to be hanged, as was
the other, with light-blue eyes. Then why had her face become
as deathly-pale as his when I told her 1 was leaving for
ever?
We were silent. I held her thin fingers and finally said,
pointing to the Spanish quilt:
“See, Vera, here the girl and boy of long ago have once
again journeyed across the coloured silks. Let others rent
flats, buy parlour furniture, and raise children. We began
and shall end here, among the coloured silks of a Spanish
quilt. I don’t know what your feelings were towards me, but
no matter how many women I knew—you were my only love.
It was as ineradicable as poor Werther’s. Farewell, my love,
for ever. I’m leaving for the Caucasus.”
“For ever, Serge?”
She was so shocked at the words “for ever,” that I sudden­
ly realized she had come to consider me her private prop­
erty. Besides, my departure meant the end of her personal
ties with the past, as she had nothing to look forward to but
her difficult service to the Revolution under the iron-willed
guidance of Linuchenko.
Then, for an instant, only for an instant, a look that was
not Vera’s, but simply feminine, flashed across her face. And
I understood it: she was frightened.
“For ever,” I repeated firmly, and recalling to mind Li-
nuchenko’s sermon I added angrily, “How long do you ex­
pect me to be a hanger-on around here?”
“Serge!”
The unusual and first real tenderness she had ever dis­
played towards me had come too late. I was exhausted and
my soul was empty. The expression in her eyes that I had
longed for in vain so many years at that moment made me
think morosely: she’s wondering whether, after all, she and
I could not rent a flat, buy a set of furniture, and have
children. And, mainly, have the children. Desperate women
always rush into having children just as desperate rabbits
fly into the bushes.

252
 “For ever, Serge?”
At that moment of insight, or rather, of self-induced anger,
the last misfortune crashed down upon me.
I let her hands go and rose. I had stopped loving her.
Does it sound unlikely?
Well, that is exactly how things do happen.
However, it is only now that I realize that that was the
moment I stopped loving her. But then I didn’t know it. I
simply felt terribly bored all of a sudden, and at the same
time, I felt strangely light, as if I had become empty inside.
If I could only leave the room and go far away.
And it was not I, but she who pleaded:
“If I write and tell you I must see you, will you come, no
matter where you may be at the time? Promise. For the
sake of our childhood memories, for the sake of the memories
of our youth.”
I stood silently at the window.
She had guessed the change that had come over me, but,
as I, could not name it. She rose slightly and said:
“For Mikhail’s sake, then?”
She had found the key. I walked over to her bed, gave her
mv hand, and said:
“And for the sake of the other one, who gave us the clay
cockerel. My officer’s word of honour that I’ll come, no
matter where I may be. I know that you won’t summon me
needlessly.”
We did not kiss. I kissed her hand, as if she were a corpse,
and left.
I remember I was a thorough scoundrel during the journey
to the Caucasus. I drank heavily all the way, played cards
incessantly, and kept telling everyone that the highly e s­
teemed lady of my heart had demanded that I buy her a red
plush parlour set. But I’d never get married, not me! Black
Vrubel told me that every person must find expression for
the artist within him. He must mature and find expression
for himself. But in between being a person and an unex­
pressed artist, one is simply a scoundrel.
253
 I was in between. Like the spider in between the window-
frames. How quickly he spins his web. Work on, honest
weaver! He’s on someone’s arm. Whose arm is lifted so
high? And his sleeve is pushed back to his elbow. Ah, it is
Auntie Kushina bandaging Mikhail’s arm again. When
Mikhail’s mother was expecting him, she had been fright­
ened.
The spider marked Mikhail for life.
“A man in the trolley was just sitting there like a pig,
and I had to stand there in front of him with a heavy basket.
He was a big, strong man,” an old lady of Ivan Potapich’s
acquaintance was saying to him.
The sun shone in through the window. The fine thread of
the web was like a golden spire. There’s a spire on the for­
tress, too. He’s there. A big, strong man has been sitting
there for twenty-one years. There’s a spider on the man’s
arm. And he is Mikhail, my deser-ted friend!
I purposely gave Vera my officer’s word of honour, in order
to stress the gulf between us. And, truly, I’m an officer. I’m
a Cavalier of the Orders of St. George, Anna, Vladimir, the
Persian Lion and Sun, and many others.. . . I have my serv­
ice record here with me. It’s typed on the inside of my head,
to conceal it from the Government, as I have concealed my
true name. There, too, is recorded my service against the
rebellious mountain tribes.
Apart from the wars, there was a fine friendship with a
red-headed Imam who proved a true friend, even after he
was judged a criminal. He was tried for burning coals on
his wife’s breast until he had burned her heart through. But
the wife had robbed him and run off with another man. He
caught her and tortured her.
Vera robbed me and was never punished. When she re­
alized that she was losing me for ever she thought up the
parlour set. But I had replied: to hell with you!
However, when all is said and done, the man who fought
the fierce tribes and had criminals for friends, the one who
was wounded and decorated so many times, the one who

254
had love affairs with Tatar women and officers’ wives was
not I, but God knows who.
I always was and remained an unexpressed artist. That
is why my mind stored up impressions of sunrises and sun­
sets, the smell of mountain air, the glitter of daggers in
drunken orgies, and many other things of no use to anyone
else. Of all human faces I hoarded three: Mikhail’s
face, the face of the one who was hanged, and Vera’s, from
whom my heart had turned away. Everyone else was merely
a pancake to me. I was a pancake. I lived with pancakes,
and when we ate pancakes, we washed them down with
champagne.
But I liked to wear my medals and kept my officer’s hon­
our unsoiled. And when I received a letter from Vera, ask­
ing me to come to Kazan immediately, I went to her.

The girls keep giggling and don’t let me concentrate. I’ll

finish tonight, for it’s the 5th already.
The girls are sewing big pockets for sweets, since the
Komsomols are going to treat them. Let them stuff them
full, it’s one of childhood’s pleasures.
 CHAPTER X

M irgil

m
T
a ’m writing this at night. I swallowed the wheel.
It’s settling in my throat and feels slightly
a ticklish, but not too bad. I cannot speak and
m only mumble. But then, I’ve no need to speak.
JL My actions tomorrow will be more conclusive
than any speech. There’s something buzzing around in my
brain, working up steam. I’ll finish writing, lay down my
pen, press my palms to the top of my head, and go flap!
flap! with my elbows till dawn.
Mikhail taught me how to do it. I’ve already said that
Mikhail Beideman land Sergei Rusanin are one and the same
person. It came about gradually: my heels in his heels, my
forehead in his, and instead of the names Mikhail and Ser­
gei, a new name—Mirgil. The name of the artist who ex­
ploded the boundary rocks! Mirgil will fly!
I said that Mikhail had been standing thus when Vera and
I entered his solitary cell. Yes, I swear it was so. And not
now, when all time has ceased to exist, but then, in the very
real human days when clocks struck off the hours.
256
 The clock in the corridor of the insane asylum had just
struck six when a bribed assistant doctor named Gorlenko
took Vera and me to the mysterious insane inmate, whose
numbers were 14, 46, 36, 40, 66, 35, etc.
It has now become known that these were coded numbers
that spelled out: Mikhail Beideman.
I shall try my best—for my poor brain is fast becoming
part of the glorious mechanism for “Mirgil’s” flight—to
relate what took place in Kazan.
When I received Vera’s letter I decided that she was on
her death-bed and wished to see me before she died. I occa­
sionally received mail from my aunt and knew therefore that
Vera had long since moved to Kazan with her former serf,
Martha, and I had read in the papers that Linuchenko had
been exiled many years before to Siberia for taking part in
the March 1st assassination.* Vera, too, had spent many
years in prison, compromised by her unfortunate choice of
friends, as Auntie wrote naively, and once released from
prison, had come down with tuberculosis. I had received my
last letter from Auntie in 1886. Now, towards the end of
November, 1887, I was hurrying on my way to Kazan.
I had not seen Vera for twenty years. We were both forty-
six. I did not feel any excitement and only wondered dis­
passionately at the reason for her summons. But when in
Kazan the cabby pointed out her house from afar, I suddenly
told him to stop. I got out and walked up and down a side
street several times to calm the sudden pain in my heart.
No matter how I tried to tell myself it was simply palpitat­
ing from the strain of the long journey, my mind would not
be fooled and knew the palpitation had been brought on by
deep emotion.
“She’s forty-six,” I kept saying to myself, “and I’ve
stopped loving her long ago.”
Finally, I rang. She opened the door to me herself.
Vera did not look middle-aged. Her cheeks burned with

* Of Alexander II

257
bright colour as they never had before. Her eyes shined, and
there was no grey hair visible from beneath her snow-white
assistant-doctor’s kerchief. In silence we embraced and wept.
Though we had been apart, we had lived all our lives to­
gether.
“Serge, you’re the only one left who knows Mikhail.
Martha died of typhus last spring. I would not have dared
summon you if she were still alive. But I need a witness.”
Vera had a fit of coughing followed by a haemorrhage.
The doctor put her to bed, and when I told him I was a rel­
ative, he said her days were numbered.
She was consumed with the same inhuman energy that
had possessed her in bygone days, when she still hoped to
help Mikhail. Thus, the very next ‘day she had got control of
herself and was able to tell me what had happened.
Martha had been working at the insane asylum as an
assistant-doctor and had been able to find out that on July
1, 1881, two gendarmes had brought from Petersburg a
mysterious prisoner who was put into a completely isolated
room. No one of the junior staff except one assistant-doctor
was allowed into this room.
Vera immediately decided the prisoner was Mikhail. The
assistant-doctor would not accept a bribe, and no money in
the world would make him arrange a visit.
“I was only able to induce him to do one thing.” Sudden­
ly Vera turned pale. “Serge, what if you don’t remember?
You are my last hope! Mikhail had a birthmark on his right
arm .. . . ”
“Which looked just like a spider,” I said and calmed Her
by telling her of the incident in Auntie Kushina’s parlour
when he had been scalded. Her father had also told her about
it.
“Now I can die in peace,” she said. “There is a witness.
Serge, the assistant-doctor said there was a spider-like
birthmark on the patient’s arm. That was just before Martha
suddenly took ill. The doctor is being transferred to another
town, and he has agreed, for a very large sum, to allow me

258
to visit Mikhail. I told him about you, and he was very im­
pressed by your rank and title. Go to him tomorrow and
arrange for the exact time and day of the visit. I know I
shall not live long.”
Everything came off well. The bribed doctor said we were
to come at six o’clock on the 1st of December. He said the
prisoner was very weak and would not live long.
On December 1st we were in the doctor’s over-heated
ground-floor room near the prisoner’s isolated cell a full
two hours before six. None of the staff were to see us. At
six, when they had all gone down the corridor to supper,
the doctor signalled to us, took some keys, and led us to the
solitary cell.
“Wait a minute,” Vera said, when he had turned the key
in the lock. “Just one second.”
She had difficulty in breathing. I, too, felt my knees
buckling under. We were about to see Mikhail after a lapse
of twenty-six years.
“Is he grey?” I asked.
I had to find out something, to prepare myself somehow,
as one prepares to see the body of a dearly beloved person.
The doctor found the question to be irrelevant, and instead
of answering he muttered:
“Not longer than ten minutes, as we agreed.”
We entered.
A creature was sitting on a hospital cot in a room long
in need of whitewashing. I didn’t know who it was. There
was not a single feature that resembled Mikhail’s. His hair
and beard were snow-white. His eyes were glassy, without
a trace of intelligence. When he saw us approach, his face
twitched in horror; he made as if to move and half rose to
dart under the cot, but his swollen legs would not obey
him. Then he made a pitiful attempt to fly away and escape
his imaginary tormentors.
He stood up to his full height and placed his hands on
top of his head, causing the wide sleeves to slide back and
reveal his emaciated arms. A black spider with pencil-thin
259
legs stood out clearly on his right arm. Mikhail flapped his
arms like wings. He thought he could take off.
But he did not know, as I now know, that he should first
have slit his throat with a pair of scissors to let the out­
side air in. But this will take place tomorrow. Now I must
speak of the change that had come over Mikhail.
Yes. Twenty years of solitary confinement In the Ravelin.
He was then transferred to the Kazan insane asylum, where
he spent another six years in solitary confinement. Twenty-
six years in all. I counted them as I looked at the stranger
who had not a single point of resemblance with the beautiful,
inspired youth I had known. Just the black spider on the
bent and flapping arm.
“Mikhail, I’m Vera. I have come. Vera . . . I’m Vera!’’
She spoke in a voice that causes miracles to happen. She
sunk to her knees and embraced his legs. She did not tire
of calling to his darkened mind, as the Prophet called out
to draw water from stone.
“I’m Vera!”
“V era.. . ” he repeated in a rasping voice unused to human
speech, though it was still his voice, so deep and hollow:
“V era.. . . ”
And he stretched out his hands. To Vera? No, not to her,
who had performed the miracle, but to the image of Vera
in her youth. He had glimpsed her in the past.
For a second his face lighted with a semblance of emo­
tion, but the strain was too great and he collapsed on the bed.
She kissed his long, yellowed, corpse-like hands, while he
stared ahead with dull, tormented eyes that reflected 'not a
spark of thought.
“It’s time to go. You’ll get me in trouble, Madame! It’s
late, it’s late!” Gorlenko repeated.
Mikhail recognized the doctor and uttered happy sounds,
smacking his lips loudly and opening wide his toothless
mouth.
“He wants to eat,” Gorlenko said.
We left. The doctor and I took Vera home. The next day

260
she lay on a table, covered with a sheet, as much a stranger
as Mikhail had been.
I did not recognize her when some women who had fin­
ished washing the body, said “All right,” and let me in. I re­
member that the yellow waxen doll had two copper coins on
her eyelids. A very white eyeball glistened from under one
of the coppers.
“One eye didn’t close. That means she has to find her
enemy,” an old woman said.
I am that enemy.
I did not fulfil Vera’s last wish. I did not tell anyone how
Mikhail died a slow death, neither then, nor in 1905, when
an historian appealed to the public to shed some light on
the matter.
They have found out about it from the archives without
my help.
But I did not want any unpleasantness and lived quietly on
my estate, and was often -drunk. That is when Vera’s hoo­
poe first entered my brain and began tapping day and night:
“No good here. . . no good here.”

Something in my brain is building up pressure of all the

atmospheres. I’m putting down my pen, for I must hold my
head and teach my arms to be wings—flap! flap!
At the first sound of the music tomorrow and the words
" '77s the final conflict. . . . ”
One! Slit my throat!
Two! Go through the window head-first! And to hell with
the Spider!
And Mirgil will sail over the city.
The artist flies.
And years disappear.. . .
Cavalier of the Orders of St. George, Anna, Vladimir.. . .
R-r-ight shoulder first!
1923
 TO THE READER

The Foreign Languages Publishing House

would be glad to have your opinion of the
translation and the design of this book.
Please send all suggestions to 21, Zubov­
sky Boulevard, Moscow, U.S.S.R.
Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
 Olga Forsh, the oldest living
Soviet writer, had the honour of
opening the Second All-Union
Congress of Soviet Writers in
December, 1954
She earned this right through
her nearly half-century’s services
to Art and Literature. Olga
Forsh is the author of many
historical novels, the most pop­
ular of which are: Palace
and Prison (1923), which went
through nearly 20 printings; the
trilogy Radishchev, about a Rus­
sian revolutionary, author of the
famous Journey from Petersburg
to Moscow; Mikhailovsky Castle,
about the talented architect Rossi
and his tragic fate; Freedom's
Firstlings, about the Decembrists.
This is what Olga Forsh has
to say of herself: “The truth of
the new way of life has helped
me to perceive correctly all that
was best in the culture of the
old society. . . to determine my
goal and see more clearly the
problems confronting me in my
work on the historical novel. In
my creative searchings I have
attempted to show history truth­
fully, to bind the interests of
art with the revolutionary ideas
of modern times. My preoccu­
pation with art and famous
artists and architects is indica­
tive of my desire to find a solu­
tion to the creative problem of
the unity of life and art. . .
“The truth of the new way
of life” came to Olga Forsh
when she was already a mature
writer with an established world
outlook. This new way of life
swept her up so forcefully that
she found she could not but
dedicate herself to it completely.