Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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III
The whole of that night, with its almost absurd events and ghastly "denouement" in the morning, comes back to me even now as a hideous, nightmarish dream, and constitutes—for me at least—the most difficult part of my chronicle. Though I came late to the ball, I arrived towards the end of it anyway—so quickly was it destined to end. It was already past ten when I reached the entrance of the marshal's wife's house, where the same White Hall in which the reading took place had, despite the shortness of time, been cleared and made ready to serve as the main ballroom, it was supposed, for the whole town. But however ill-disposed I had been towards the ball that morning—even so I did not anticipate the full truth: not a single family from higher circles came; even officials of any importance at all were absent—and that was an extremely marked feature. As for ladies and young girls, here Pyotr Stepanovich's (now obviously perfidious) calculations turned out to be incorrect to the highest degree: exceedingly few had appeared; there was scarcely one lady to four men, and what ladies! "Certain" wives of regimental officers, of various small fry from the post office and petty clerkdom, three doctors' wives with their daughters, two or three landowners of the poorer sort, the seven daughters and one niece of that secretary I mentioned somewhere above, some merchants' wives—was this what Yulia Mikhailovna had expected? Even half of the merchants did not come. As for the men, their mass was still indeed dense, despite the compact absence of all our nobility, but produced an ambiguous and suspicious impression. Of course, there were several rather quiet and respectful officers with their wives, several most obedient fathers of families, as again, for example, that same secretary, the father of his seven daughters. All these humble small potatoes came, so to speak, "out of inevitability," as one of these gentlemen put it. But, on the other hand, the mass of perky characters, and the mass, besides, of such persons as Pyotr Stepanovich and I had suspected of being let in to the matinée without tickets, seemed to have increased still more compared with the matinée. For the time being they were sitting in the buffet, and had gone straight to the buffet on arrival, as if the place had been appointed beforehand. At least it seemed so to me. The buffet was located at the end of the suite of rooms, in a spacious hall, where Prokhorych had installed himself with all the enticements of the club kitchen and with a tempting display of snacks and drinks. I noticed several personages there in all but torn frock coats, in the most dubious and utterly un-ball-like outfits, who had obviously been sobered up with boundless effort and for a short time only, and had been fetched from God knows where, perhaps from out of town. I knew, of course, that in accordance with Yulia Mikhailovna's idea it had been suggested to arrange a most democratic ball, "not refusing even tradesmen, if any such should happen to pay for a ticket." She could bravely utter these words in her committee, knowing perfectly well that it would not occur to any of our town tradesmen, all of them destitute, to buy a ticket. But anyway I doubted that these gloomy, all but tattered frock-coaters ought to have been let in, despite all the democratism of the committee. Who, then, had let them in, and with what purpose? Liputin and Lyamshin had been deprived of their ushers' bows (though they were present at the ball, as participants in the "quadrille of literature"); but Liputin's place had been taken, to my surprise, by that same seminarian who more than anyone else had made a scandal of the "matinée" by his skirmish with Stepan Trofimovich, and Lyamshin's by Pyotr Stepanovich himself; what, then, could be expected in such a case? I tried to listen in on conversations. Some opinions were striking in their wildness. It was maintained in one group, for example, that the whole story of Stavrogin and Liza had been fixed up by Yulia Mikhailovna, who had taken money from Stavrogin for it. The amount was even quoted. It was maintained that she had even arranged the fête for that purpose; and that was why, when they learned what was going on, half the town stayed away, and Lembke himself was so jolted that his "reason got deranged," and she was now "leading him about" insane. There was also much guffawing, hoarse, savage, and sly. Everyone criticized the ball terribly and abused Yulia Mikhailovna without any ceremony. Generally, the babble was disorderly, fragmentary, drunken, and agitated, so that it was difficult to grasp or infer anything. Simple merrymakers also found refuge in the buffet, and there were even several ladies of the sort that can no longer be surprised or frightened by anything, most jolly and amiable, mainly officers' wives, with their husbands. They settled in groups at separate tables and had an extremely merry time drinking tea. The buffet turned into a snug haven for nearly half the assembled public. And yet in a short time this whole mass was to come pouring into the ballroom; it was terrible even to think of it.
And meanwhile in the White Hall three skimpy little quadrilles had been formed, with the prince's participation. The young ladies were dancing, and their parents were rejoicing over them. But here, too, many of these respectable persons were already thinking of how, after letting their girls have fun, they could clear out in time, and not be there "once it starts." Decidedly everyone was certain that it was inevitably going to start. It would be difficult for me to describe the state of mind of Yulia Mikhailovna herself; I did not speak with her, though I came quite close to her. She did not respond to my bow on entering, because she did not notice me (really did not notice). Her face was pained, her glance haughty and disdainful, yet wandering and anxious. She was controlling herself with visible suffering—for what and for whom? She ought certainly to have left, and, above all, to have taken her husband away, yet she stayed! One could tell just by the look of her that her eyes had been "fully opened" and she had nothing more to wait for. She did not even call Pyotr Stepanovich over to her (he seemed to be avoiding her himself; I saw him in the buffet, in an exceedingly gay mood). But nevertheless she stayed at the ball and would not let Andrei Antonovich leave her side even for a moment. Oh, to the last minute she would have rejected with genuine indignation any hint at his health, even that morning, but now her eyes were to be opened in this respect as well. As for me, it seemed to me from the first glance that Andrei Antonovich looked worse than in the morning. It seemed he was in some sort of oblivion and was not quite sure where he was. Sometimes he would suddenly look around with unexpected sternness, a couple of times at me, for example. Once he tried to talk about something, began in a loud voice, and did not finish, almost throwing a scare into one humble old official who happened to be near him. But even this humble part of the public present in the White Hall gloomily and timorously avoided Yulia Mikhailovna, at the same time casting extremely strange glances at her husband, glances all too out of harmony, in their intent candor, with the fearfulness of these people.
"It was this trait that pierced me through and made me suddenly begin to guess about Andrei Antonovich," Yulia Mikhailovna privately confessed to me afterwards.
Yes, again she was to blame! Probably earlier, when, after my flight, she and Pyotr Stepanovich had decided that the ball would be and that she would be at the ball—probably she had gone again to the study of Andrei Antonovich, now finally "shaken" at the "reading," again employed all her seductions, and thus drew him along with her. But how tormented she must have been now! And still she would not leave! Whether she was tormented by pride, or was simply lost—I do not know. For all her haughtiness, she did try with humiliation and smiles to make conversation with some of the ladies, but they at once became confused, got off with a laconic, mistrustful "yes, ma'am" or "no, ma'am," and visibly avoided her.
Of the unquestionable dignitaries of our town, only one turned up at the ball—that same important retired general I have already described once, who, at the marshal's wife's, after the duel between Stavrogin and Gaganov, had "opened the door for public impatience."
He pompously strutted about the rooms, looked and listened, and tried to make it seem as if he had come more to observe morals than for any indubitable pleasure. He ended by attaching himself wholly to Yulia Mikhailovna and would not go a step away from her, apparently trying to reassure her and calm her. He was undoubtedly a most kind man, a great dignitary, and so very old that one could even tolerate his pity. But to confess to herself that this old babbler dared to pity her and almost to patronize her, understanding that he was honoring her with his presence, was extremely vexing. And the general would not leave off but kept babbling nonstop.
"A city, they say, cannot stand without seven righteous men... seven, I think, I don't remember the re-com-men-ded number. [180] How many of these seven... indubitably righteous men of our town... have the honor of attending your ball, I don't know, but in spite of their presence I am beginning to feel myself unsafe. Vous me pardonnerez, charmante dame, n'est-ce pas? [clii] I am speaking al-le-gor-i-cally, but I went to the buffet and am glad to have come back in one piece ... Our inestimable Prokhorych is out of place there, and it looks as though his kiosk will be pulled down before morning. I'm joking, however. I'm only waiting to see how this 'quadrille of lit-er-ature' turns out, and then to bed. Forgive a gouty old man, I retire early, and I'd advise you to go 'bye-bye,' too, as they say aux enfants.In fact, I came for the young beauties ... whom, of course, I can meet nowhere else in such rich assortment, except in this place here... They're all from across the river, and I don't go there. There's the wife of one officer ... of the chasseurs, I think... not bad, not bad at all, and... and she knows it herself. I spoke with the minx—a pert thing, and... well, and the girls are fresh, too; but that's about it; apart from the freshness—nothing. Still, it's a pleasure. There are some sweet little buds; only they have thick lips. Generally, the Russian beauty of women's faces has little of that regularity and... and comes down to something like a pancake... Vous me pardonnerez, n 'est-ce pas ...with nice eyes, however... pretty, laughing eyes. These little buds are cha-a-arming for about two years of their youth, even three... well, and then they spread out forever... producing in their husbands that lamentable in-dif-fer-entism which contributes so much to the development of the woman question ... if I understand that question correctly ... Hm. The hall is nice; the décor isn't bad. Could be worse. The music could be much worse ... not to say it should be. Generally, having so few ladies produces a bad impression. I o-mit all men-tion of costume. It's bad that that one in the gray trousers allows himself to can-can-ize so openly. If it's from joy, I'll forgive him, and also because he's the local apothecary... but before eleven is still too early even for an apothecary... Two men had a fight there in the buffet, and they weren't taken out. Before eleven the fighters ought to be taken out, whatever the morals of the public... not to say past two; there we must yield to public opinion—if this ball survives until two o'clock. Varvara Petrovna, however, didn't keep her promise and supply the flowers. Hm, she can't be bothered with flowers, pauvre mère! And poor Liza, have you heard? A mysterious story, they say, and... and Stavrogin is back in the arena... Hm. I'd like to go home to bed... I'm dropping off. And when is this 'quadrille of lit-er-ature'?"
At last the "quadrille of literature" began. [181]In town lately, whenever a conversation about the coming ball started up somewhere, it would inevitably come round to this "quadrille of literature," and since no one could imagine what it was, it aroused boundless curiosity. Nothing could have been a greater threat to its success, and—what a disappointment it turned out to be!
The side doors to the White Hall, hitherto locked, were now opened, and several maskers suddenly appeared. The public eagerly surrounded them. The entire buffet to the last man poured into the hall at once. The maskers took up their positions for the dance. I managed to squeeze to the front and settled myself just behind Yulia Mikhailovna, von Lembke, and the general. Here Pyotr Stepanovich, who had been missing so far, sprang over to Yulia Mikhailovna.
"I've been in the buffet all this time, watching," he whispered, with the air of a guilty schoolboy, assumed on purpose, however, to tease her even more. She flushed with anger.
"Stop deceiving me now, at least, you brazen man!" escaped her, almost aloud, so that it was heard in the public. Pyotr Stepanovich sprang away, extremely pleased with himself.
It would be hard to imagine a more pathetic, trite, giftless, and insipid allegory than this "quadrille of literature." Nothing less suited to our public could have been devised; and yet it was said to have been devised by Karmazinov. True, it was arranged by Liputin, with advice from that lame teacher who had been at Virginsky's party. But, all the same, Karmazinov had supplied the idea, and it was said that he even wanted to dress up himself and take some special and independent role. The quadrille consisted of six pairs of pathetic maskers—almost not even maskers, because they were wearing the same clothes as everyone else. Thus, for example, one elderly gentleman, short, in a tailcoat– dressed like everyone else, in a word—with a venerable gray beard (tied on, this constituting the whole costume), was shuffling in place as he danced, with a solid expression on his face, trotting with rapid, tiny steps, and almost without moving from his place. He was producing some sounds in a moderate but husky bass, and it was this huskiness of his voice that was meant to signify one of the well-known newspapers. Opposite this masker danced a pair of giants, X and Z, with those letters pinned to their tailcoats, but what the X and Z signified remained unclear. "Honest Russian thought" was presented as a middle-aged gentleman in spectacles, tailcoat, gloves, and—in fetters (real fetters). Under this thought's arm was a briefcase containing some "dossier." Out of his pocket peeked an unsealed letter from abroad, which included an attestation, for all who doubted it, of the honesty of "honest Russian thought." All this was filled in orally by the ushers, since it was hardly possible to read a letter sticking out of someone's pocket. In his raised right hand "honest Russian thought" was holding a glass, as if he wished to propose a toast. Close to him on either side two crop-haired nihilist girls were trotting, while vis-à-vis danced some gentleman, also elderly, in a tailcoat, but with a heavy club in his hand, supposedly representing the non-Petersburg but formidable publication: One Swat– A Wet Spot.But, in spite of his club, he was quite unable to endure the spectacles of "honest Russian thought" staring fixedly at him and tried to avert his eyes, and as he performed the pas de deux,he twisted and fidgeted and did not know what to do with himself—so greatly, no doubt, did his conscience torment him... However, I cannot recall all these dumb little inventions;
everything was in the same vein, so that I finally felt painfully ashamed. And precisely the same impression as if of shame showed in all the public, even on the most sullen physiognomies from the buffet. For some time everyone was silent and watched in angry perplexity. An ashamed man usually begins to get angry and is inclined to cynicism. Gradually our public began to buzz:
"What on earth is this?" muttered a buffet person in one group.
"Some sort of silliness."
"Literature of some sort. They're criticizing the Voice.”
"What do I care."
From another group:
"Asses!"
"No, they're not asses, we're asses."
"Why are you an ass?"
"I'm not an ass."
"If you're not an ass, I'm certainly not either."
From a third group:
"Give them all a good pasting and to hell with them!"
"Shake the whole hall up!"
From a fourth:
"Aren't the Lembkas ashamed to look?"
"Why should they be ashamed? You're not ashamed, are you?"
"I am, too, ashamed, and he's the governor."
"And you are a swine."
"Never in my life have I seen such an utterly ordinary ball," one lady said venomously right beside Yulia Mikhailovna, obviously wishing to be heard. The lady was about forty, thick-set and rouged, wearing a bright silk dress; almost everyone in town knew her, but no one received her. She was the widow of a state councillor, who had left her a wooden house and a scanty pension, but she lived well and kept horses. About two months earlier she had paid a first call on Yulia Mikhailovna, but she did not receive her.
"Exactly what one might have foreseen," she added, insolently peeking into Yulia Mikhailovna's eyes.
"If you could foresee it, why then were you so good as to come?" Yulia Mikhailovna could not help saying.
"Why, out of naivety," the perky lady snapped at once, getting all fluttered up (she wished terribly to have a fight); but the general stepped between them.
"Chère dame, "he bent towards Yulia Mikhailovna, "you really ought to leave. We are only hindering them, and without us they will have excellent fun. You have fulfilled everything, you have opened the ball for them, so now let them be... Besides, it seems Andrei Antonovich is not feeling quite sa-tis-fac-torily... To avoid trouble?"
But it was too late.
Throughout the quadrille, Andrei Antonovich gazed at the dancers in some wrathful perplexity, and when the public began to comment, he began to look around uneasily. Here, for the first time, certain of the buffet personages caught his attention; his eyes expressed extraordinary surprise. Suddenly there was loud laughter over one antic of the quadrille: the publisher of the "formidable non-Petersburg publication," who was dancing with a club in his hands, feeling finally that he could no longer endure the spectacles of "honest Russian thought" fixed on him, and not knowing where to hide, suddenly, during the last figure, went to meet the spectacles walking upside down—which, incidentally, was to signify the constant turning upside down of common sense in the "formidable non-Petersburg publication." Since Lyamshin was the only one who knew how to walk upside down, he had undertaken to represent the publisher with the club. Yulia Mikhailovna was decidedly unaware that there was going to be any walking upside down. "They concealed it from me, they concealed it," she repeated to me afterwards, in despair and indignation. The guffawing of the crowd greeted, of course, not the allegory, which nobody cared about, but simply the walking upside down in a coat with tails. Lembke boiled over and started shaking.
"Scoundrel!" he cried, pointing to Lyamshin. "Seize the blackguard, turn him... turn his legs ... his head ... so his head is up... up!"
Lyamshin jumped back to his feet. The guffawing was getting louder.
"Throw out all the scoundrels who are laughing!" Lembke suddenly prescribed. The crowd began to buzz and rumble.
"That's not right, Your Excellency."
"Shouldn't abuse the public, sir."
"A fool yourself!" came a voice from somewhere in a corner.
"Filibusters!" someone shouted from the other end.
Lembke quickly turned at the shout and went all pale. A dull smile appeared on his lips—as if he had suddenly understood and remembered something.
"Gentlemen," Yulia Mikhailovna addressed the oncoming crowd, at the same time drawing her husband away with her, "gentlemen, excuse Andrei Antonovich, Andrei Antonovich is unwell... excuse... forgive him, gentlemen!"
I precisely heard her say "forgive." The scene went very quickly. But I decidedly remember that part of the public rushed from the hall at that same moment, as if in fright, precisely after these words of Yulia Mikhailovna's. I even remember one hysterical woman's tearful cry:
"Ah, again like before!"
And suddenly, into what was already the beginnings of a crush, a bomb struck, precisely "again like before":
"Fire! All of Zarechye's in flames!"
I only do not remember where this terrible cry first arose—whether it was in the hall, or, as it now seems, someone ran in from the front steps—but it was followed by such alarm as I cannot even begin to describe. More than half of the public assembled at the ball came from Zarechye—owners of wooden houses there, or inhabitants of them. People rushed to the windows, instantly pulled open the curtains, tore down the blinds. Zarechye was ablaze. True, the fire was still just beginning, but it was blazing in three completely different places—and that was what was frightening.
"Arson! The Shpigulin men!" came screams from the crowd.
I remember several rather characteristic exclamations:
"I just felt in my heart that they'd set fire to it, all these days I've been feeling it!"
"It's the Shpigulin men, the Shpigulin men, and no one else!"
"And they gathered us here on purpose so they could set fires over there!"
This last, most astonishing cry came from a woman—the inadvertent, involuntary cry of a burnt-out Korobochka. [182]All surged towards the exit. I will not describe the crush in the entryway as people hunted for their fur coats, shawls, and cloaks, the shrieks of frightened women, the weeping of young girls. There was hardly any theft, but it was not surprising that in such disorder some people simply left without their warm clothes, unable to find them, of which there was talk in town for a long time afterwards, with legends and embellishments. Lembke and Yulia Mikhailovna were nearly crushed by the crowd in the doorway.
"Stop them all! Let no one leave!" Lembke screamed, holding out a menacing arm to meet the crowding people. "The strictest search of every last man of them, at once!"
Strong oaths poured from the hall.
"Andrei Antonovich! Andrei Antonovich!" Yulia Mikhailovna cried out in complete despair.
"Arrest her first!" the man shouted, pointing a menacing finger at her. "Search her first! The ball was organized with the intent of arson..."
She gave a cry and fainted (oh, it was most assuredly a real faint). The prince, the general, and I rushed to help her; there were others who helped us in this difficult moment, even from among the ladies. We carried the unfortunate woman out of that hell and into her carriage; but she came to her senses only as we neared her house, and her first cry was again about Andrei Antonovich. With the destruction of all her fantasies, Andrei Antonovich alone remained before her. A doctor was sent for. I spent a whole hour waiting at her place, as did the prince; the general, in a fit of magnanimity (though very frightened himself), wanted not to leave "the unfortunate woman's bedside" all night, but in ten minutes had fallen asleep in the drawing room while waiting for the doctor, and we simply left him there in his armchair.
The police chief, hastening from the ball to the fire, managed to lead Andrei Antonovich out behind us and tried to put him into Yulia Mikhailovna's carriage, persuading His Excellency with all his might to "take repose." I do not understand why, but he did not prevail. Of course, Andrei Antonovich would not even hear of repose and was straining to get to the fire; but this was no reason. It ended with the police chief taking him to the fire in his droshky. He told later that Lembke kept gesticulating all the way and "was shouting out such ideas as, being extraordinary, were impossible to obey." Afterwards it was reported that in those moments His Excellency was already in a state of brain fever owing to "a suddenness of fright."
There is no point in telling how the ball ended. A few dozen carousers, and with them even a few ladies, remained in the rooms. No police. They would not let the music go, and beat up the musicians who wanted to leave. By morning "Prokhorych's kiosk" had been all pulled down, they were drinking to distraction, dancing the "komarinsky" uncensored, [183]the rooms were filthy, and only at dawn did part of this rabble, totally drunk, arrive at the scene of the dying-down fire for new disorders... The other half simply spent the night in the rooms, dead drunk, with all the consequences, on velvet sofas or on the floor. In the morning, at the first opportunity, they were dragged outside by the feet. Thus ended the fête for the benefit of the governesses of our province.
IV
The fire frightened our public from across the river precisely because the arson was so obvious. Remarkably, at the first cry of "fire," there came at once the cry that it was "the work of the Shpigulin men." It is known only too well now that three Shpigulin men did in fact participate in the arson, but—that was all; the rest of the factory hands were entirely vindicated both in general opinion and officially. Aside from those three scoundrels (one of whom has been caught and has confessed, while two are still in hiding), Fedka the Convict undoubtedly participated in the arson. That is all that is so far known with certainty about the origin of the fire; surmises are quite a different matter. What led these three scoundrels, were they guided by someone, or not? It is very difficult to answer all this even now.
The fire, owing to a strong wind, to the predominantly wooden buildings of Zarechye, and, finally, to its having been set at three different points, spread quickly and covered the whole area with incredible force (incidentally, the fire should be reckoned as having been set at two points: the third was caught and extinguished almost the moment it flared up—of that later). But, even so, the reporting of our disaster in the metropolitan newspapers was exaggerated: approximately speaking, no more (and perhaps less) than a quarter of the whole of Zarechye burned down. Our fire brigade, though weak in comparison with the extent and population of the town, acted quite correctly and selflessly. But it would not have done much, even with the concerted assistance of the populace, were it not that the wind changed towards morning, ceasing just before dawn. When, just an hour after fleeing from the ball, I made my way to Zarechye, the fire was already at full force. The entire street parallel to the river was in flames. It was as bright as day. I will not describe the picture of the fire in detail: who in Russia does not know it? The lanes nearest the blazing street were bustling and crowded beyond measure. Here the fire was definitely expected, and the inhabitants were dragging out their possessions, yet still would not leave their homes, but sat expectantly on dragged-out chests and feather beds, each under his own windows. Part of the male population was working hard, ruthlessly chopping down fences and even knocking apart entire shanties that stood closer to the fire and to windward. There was only the crying of awakened children and the wailing lamentations of women who had already successfully dragged their junk out. The unsuccessful were silently and energetically dragging theirs out. Sparks and grit flew far away; they were extinguished as well as possible. At the fire itself there was a crowd of spectators who had come running from every end of town. Some helped to put it out, others gazed like admirers. A big fire at night always produces a stirring and exhilarating impression; fireworks are based on that, but there the fire is disposed along graceful, regular lines and, with all its safety, produces a playful and light impression, as after a glass of champagne. A real fire is another matter: here horror and, after all, some sense of personal danger, as it were– combined with the well-known exhilarating impression of a fire at night—produce in the spectator (not, of course, in the burnt-out inhabitant) a sort of brain concussion and a challenge, as it were, to his own destructive instincts, which, alas! lie hidden in every soul, even that of the most humble and familial titular councillor [184]... This gloomy sensation is almost always intoxicating. "I really do not know whether it is possible to watch a fire without a certain pleasure." This was said to me, word for word, by Stepan Trofimovich, on returning from a night fire he had chanced to witness, and still under the first impression of the spectacle. Of course, that same admirer of night fires will also rush into the fire to save a burning child or an old woman; but that is an altogether different matter.
Plodding after the curious crowd, I made my way, without any inquiries, to the most important and dangerous spot, where I finally caught sight of Lembke, whom I was looking for on instructions from Yulia Mikhailovna herself. His position was astonishing and extraordinary. He was standing on the debris of a fence; to the left of him, about thirty steps away, towered the black skeleton of a nearly burnt-down two-story wooden house, with holes instead of windows on both floors, its roof fallen in, and flames still snaking here and there over the charred beams. At the back of the courtyard, about twenty steps away from the burnt-down house, a cottage, also two-storied, was beginning to blaze, and the firemen were working on it as hard as they could. To the right, the firemen and the people were fighting for a rather large wooden building which was not yet burning, but had already caught fire several times, and was inevitably fated to burn down. Lembke was shouting and gesticulating, his face turned towards the cottage, and issuing orders which no one obeyed. I almost thought he had simply been left there and completely abandoned. At least no one in the dense and extremely diverse crowd that surrounded him, in which, along with all kinds of people, there were also some gentlemen and even the cathedral priest, though they all listened to him with curiosity and astonishment, either spoke to him or tried to lead him away. Lembke, pale, his eyes flashing, was uttering the most astonishing things; to top it off, he was without his hat, and had lost it long ago.
