Demons

9: Stepan Trofimovich Perquisitioned

Meanwhile we had an adventure which surprised me and shocked Stepan Trofimovich. In the morning, at eight o'clock, Nastasya came running to me from him with the news that her master had been "perquisitioned." At first I could understand nothing: all I got was that he had been "perquisitioned" by officials, who had come and taken papers, and a soldier had tied them into a bundle and "carted them away in a wheelbarrow." It was wild news. I hastened at once to Stepan Trofimovich.

I found him in a surprising state: upset and greatly agitated, but at the same time with an unquestionably triumphant air. On the table, in the middle of the room, the samovar was boiling and there stood a full but untouched and forgotten glass of tea. Stepan Trofimovich was dawdling around the table and going into all the corners of the room, not conscious of his movements. He was wearing his usual red dressing jacket, but, seeing me, hastened to put on his waistcoat and frock coat—something he had never done before when any close friend found him in his dressing jacket. He seized me at once and ardently by the hand.

"Enfin un ami.'"^[xcvii] (He drew a deep breath.) "Cher, I sent only to you, and no one knows anything. Nastasya must be ordered to lock the door and let no one in, except them, of course... Vous comprenez?"^[xcviii]

He looked at me worriedly, as if waiting for a reply. Of course, I fell to questioning him and learned somehow from his incoherent speech, full of interruptions and unnecessary additions, that at seven o'clock in the morning a governor's official had "suddenly" come to him ...

"Pardon, j'ai oublié son nom. Il n 'est pas du pays, but I believe Lembke brought him here, quelque chose de bête et d'allemand dans la physionomie. Il s'appelle Rosenthal."^[xcix]

"Not Blum?"

"Blum. Precisely the name he gave. Vous le connaissez? Quelque chose d'hébété et de très content dans la figure, pourtant très sévère, roide et sérieux,^[c] A police figure, the obedient sort, je m'y connais.^[ci] I was still asleep, and, imagine, he asked 'to have a glance' at my books and manuscripts, oui, je m'en souviens, il a employé ce mot.^[cii] He didn't arrest me, only books ... Il se tenait à distance,^[ciii] and when he began explaining his visit to me, he looked as though I... enfin, il avait l'air de croire que je tomberai sur lui immédiatement et que je commencerai à le battre comme plâtre. Tous ces gens du bas étage sont comme ça,^[civ] when they're dealing with a decent man. Needless to say, I understood everything at once. Voilà vingt ans que je m'y prépare,^[cv] I unlocked all the drawers for him, and gave him all the keys; I personally handed them over, I handed everything over. J'étais digne et calme.^[cvi] Of the books, he took foreign editions of Herzen, a bound volume of The Bell, four copies of my poem, et, enfin, tout ça.^[cvii] Then papers and letters et quelques-unes de mes ébauches historiques, critiques et politiques.^[cviii] All this they carried off. Nastasya says a soldier carted it away in a wheelbarrow, and they covered it with an apron, oui, c'est cela,^[cix] with an apron."

It was all raving. Who could understand any of it? Once again I showered him with questions: had Blum come alone or not? on whose behalf? by what right? how dared he? did he explain?

"Il était seul, bien seul,^[cx] though there was someone else dans l'anti-chambre, oui, je m'en souviens, et puis^[cxi]. . . Though there did seem to be someone else, and a guard was standing in the entryway. We must ask Nastasya; she knows it all better. J'étais surexcité, voyez-vous. Il parlait, il parlait. . . un tas de choses;^[cxii] though he talked very little, it was I who kept talking ... I told him my life, from that point of view only, of course... J'étais surexcité, mais digne, je vous l'assure.^[cxiii] I'm afraid, though, that I seem to have wept. The wheelbarrow they got from a shopkeeper next door."

"Oh, God, how could all this have happened! But, for God's sake, speak more precisely. Stepan Trofimovich, this is a dream, what you're telling me!"

"Cher, I'm as if in a dream myself... Savez-vous, il a prononcé le nom de Teliatnikoff,^[cxiv] and I think it was he who was hiding in the entry-way. Yes, I recall he suggested the prosecutor, and it seems Dmitri Mitrych... qui me doit encore quinze roubles de pinochle soit dit en passant. Enfin, je n 'ai pas trop compris.^[cxv] But I outwitted them, and what do I care about Dmitri Mitrych. I think I even started begging him very much to conceal, begging him very much, very much, I'm even afraid I humiliated myself, comment croyez-vous? Enfin, il a consenti.^[cxvi] Yes, I recall it was he himself who asked that it would be better if it were concealed, because he only came 'to have a glance,' et rien de plus,^[cxvii] and nothing more, nothing ... and that if they found nothing, then there'd be nothing. So that we ended it all en amis, je suis tout-à-fait content,"^[cxviii]

"But, for pity's sake, he was offering you guarantees and the order proper in such cases, and you yourself refused!" I cried in friendly indignation.

"No, it's better this way, without any guarantees. And who needs a scandal? Let it be en amis for the time being... You know, in this town, if they find out... mes ennemis... et puis à quoi bon ce procureur, ce cochon de notre procureur, qui deux fois m 'a manqué de politesse et qu'on a rossé à plaisir l'autre année chez cette charmante et belle Natalia Pavlovna, quand il se cacha dans son boudoir. Et puis, mon ami,^[cxix] don't contradict me, or discourage, I beg you, because nothing is more unbearable when a man is unhappy than for a hundred friends to come right then and point out to him how stupid he's been. Sit down, anyway, and have some tea, I confess I'm very tired... oughtn't I to lie down and put some vinegar to my head, what do you think?"

"Absolutely," I cried out, "and maybe even ice. You're very upset. You're pale, your hands are trembling. Lie down, rest, and wait to tell me. I'll sit here and wait."

He could not get himself to lie down, but I insisted. Nastasya brought vinegar in a bowl, I wetted a towel and put it to his head. Then Nastasya climbed on a chair and set about lighting an icon lamp in front of the icon in the corner. I noticed it with surprise; besides, there had never even been any icon lamp, and now one had suddenly appeared.

"It was I who ordered it today, just after they left," Stepan Trofimovich muttered, glancing slyly at me. "Quand on a de ces choses-là dans sa chambre et qu 'on vient vous arrêter,^[cxx] it makes an impression, and they really must report that they've seen..."

Having finished with the icon lamp, Nastasya planted herself in the doorway, put her right hand to her cheek, and began looking at him with a lamentable air.

"Éloignez-la^[cxxi] under some pretext," he beckoned to me from the sofa, "I can't stand this Russian pity, et puis ça m'embête,"^[cxxii]

But she left on her own. I noticed that he kept glancing back at the door and listening towards the entryway.

"Il faut être prêt, voyez-vous," he gave me a significant look, "chaque moment^[cxxiii] ... they'll come, take, and ffft!—a man disappears!"

"Lord! Who will come? Who will take you?"

"Voyez-vous, mon cher, I asked him directly as he was leaving: What will they do to me now?"

"You might as well have asked where they'll exile you to!" I cried out in the same indignation.

"That's what I implied when I asked the question, but he left without answering. Voyez-vous, as regards underwear, clothing, warm clothing especially, that's up to them, if they tell me to take it, well and good, or else they may send me in a soldier's greatcoat. But thirty-five roubles" (here he suddenly lowered his voice, glancing back at the door through which Nastasya had left), "I've quietly slipped through a tear in my waistcoat pocket—here, feel it... I think they won't take my waistcoat off, and I left seven roubles in my purse, to pretend 'this is all I have.' You know, there's some change and a few coppers on the table, so they won't guess where I've hidden the money, and they'll think this is all. For God knows where I shall have to spend this night."

I hung my head at such madness. Obviously, it was not possible to make an arrest or a search in the way he was saying, and he was most certainly confused. True, it all happened in those days, before the present latest laws. True, too, he had been offered (according to his own words) a more regular procedure, but had outwitted them and refused ... Of course, before—that is, still quite recently—a governor could, in extreme cases ... But, again, what sort of extreme case could this be? That was what baffled me.

"Most likely there was a telegram from Petersburg," Stepan Trofimovich suddenly said.

"A telegram? About you? You mean on account of Herzen's writings and your poem? You're out of your mind, what's there to arrest you for?"

I simply got angry. He made a face and was apparently offended— not at my yelling at him, but at the thought that there was nothing to arrest him for.

"Who can tell these days what he might be arrested for?" he muttered mysteriously. A wild and most absurd idea flashed through my mind.

"Stepan Trofimovich, tell me as a friend," I cried out, "as a true friend, I won't betray you: do you belong to some secret society, or do you not?"

And now, to my surprise, even here he was not certain whether he was or was not a participant in some secret society.

"But that depends, voyez-vous ..."

"How does it 'depend'?"

"When one belongs wholeheartedly to progress, and... who can vouch for it: you think you don't belong, and then, lo and behold, it turns out you do belong to something."

"How can that be? It's either yes or no."

"Cela date de Pétersbourg,^[cxxiv] when she and I wanted to found a magazine there. That's the root of it. We slipped away then and they forgot us, but now they've remembered. Cher, cher, but don't you know!" he exclaimed painfully. "In our country they can take you, put you in a kibitka, and march you off to Siberia for good, or else forget you in some dungeon ..."

And he suddenly burst into hot, hot tears. Tears simply poured out of him. He covered his eyes with his red foulard and sobbed, sobbed for a good five minutes, convulsively. I cringed all over. This was the man who for twenty years had been prophesying to us, our preacher, mentor, patriarch, Kukolnik, holding himself so loftily and majestically over us all, before whom we bowed so wholeheartedly, considering it an honor—and now suddenly he was sobbing, sobbing like a naughty little boy waiting for a birching from the teacher who has just gone to fetch the rod. I felt terribly sorry for him. He obviously believed as much in the "kibitka" as in the fact that I was sitting beside him, and expected it precisely that morning, that very minute, and all because of Herzen's writings and some sort of poem of his own! Such full, such total ignorance of everyday reality was both moving and somehow disgusting.

He finally stopped weeping, got up from the sofa, and began pacing the room again, continuing our conversation, but glancing out the window every moment and listening towards the entryway. Our conversation continued disjointedly. All my assurances and reassurances were like sand against the wind. He scarcely listened, and yet he needed terribly for me to reassure him, and talked nonstop to that end. I saw that he could no longer do without me, and would not let me go for anything in the world. I stayed, and we sat for something over two hours. In the course of the conversation, he recalled that Blum had taken with him two tracts he had found.

"What tracts!" I was fool enough to get scared. "Did you really ..."

"Eh, ten copies were passed off on me," he replied vexedly (he spoke with me now vexedly and haughtily, now terribly plaintively and humbly), "but I had already taken care of eight, so Blum got hold of only two..."

And he suddenly flushed with indignation.

"Vous me mettez avec ces gens-là!^[cxxv] Do you really suppose I could be in with those scoundrels, with tract-mongers, with my boy Pyotr Stepanovich, avec ces esprits-forts de la lâcheté!^[cxxvi] Oh, God!"

"Hah, haven't they somehow mixed you up with... Nonsense, though, it can't be!" I observed.

"Savez-vous," suddenly escaped him, "I feel at moments que je ferai là-bas quelque esclandre.^[cxxvii] Oh, don't go away, don't leave me alone! Ma carrière est finie aujourd'hui, je le sens.^[cxxviii] I, you know, I will perhaps rush at someone there and bite him, like that sub-lieutenant..."

He gave me a strange look—frightened and at the same time as if wishing to frighten. He was indeed growing more and more vexed at someone and at something as time went by and the "kibitkas" failed to come; he was even angry. Suddenly Nastasya, who had gone from the kitchen to the entryway for something, brushed against the coat-rack there and knocked it over. Stepan Trofimovich trembled and went dead on the spot; but when the matter was clarified, he all but shrieked at Nastasya and, stamping his feet, chased her back into the kitchen. A minute later he said, looking at me in despair:

"I'm lost! Cher,” he suddenly sat down by me and gazed pitifully, so pitifully, into my eyes, "cher, it's not Siberia I'm afraid of, I swear to you, oh, je vous jure"^[cxxix] (tears even came to his eyes), "I am afraid of something else..."

I could tell from his look alone that he wished finally to tell me something extraordinary, meaning something he had refrained from telling me so far.

"I am afraid of disgrace," he whispered mysteriously.

"What disgrace? But quite the contrary! Believe me, Stepan Trofimovich, it will all be explained this very day and will end in your favor..."

"You're so certain I'll be pardoned?"

"But what is this 'pardoned'! Such words! What is it you've done? I assure you you haven't done anything!"

"Qu 'en savez-vous;^[cxxx] all my life has been... cher... They'll recall everything... and even if they find nothing, so much the worse," he suddenly added unexpectedly.

"How, so much the worse?"

"Worse."

"I don't understand."

"My friend, my friend, so, let it be Siberia, Arkhangelsk, stripping of rights—if I'm lost, I'm lost! But... I'm afraid of something else" (again a whisper, a frightened look, and mysteriousness).

"But of what, of what?"

"Flogging," he uttered, and gave me a helpless look.

"Who is going to flog you? Where? Why?" I cried out, afraid he was losing his mind.

"Where? Why, there... where it's done."

"And where is it done?"

"Eh, cher," he whispered almost into my ear, "the floor suddenly opens under you, and you're lowered in up to the middle... Everybody knows that."

"Fables!" I cried, once I understood. "Old fables! And can it be that you've believed them all along?" I burst out laughing.

"Fables! But they must have started somewhere, these fables; a flogged man doesn't talk. I've pictured it ten thousand times in my imagination!"

"But you, why you? If you haven't done anything?"

"So much the worse, they'll see I haven't done anything, and they'll flog me."

"And you're convinced you'll be taken to Petersburg for that?"

"My friend, I've already said I do not regret anything, ma carrière est finie. From that hour in Skvoreshniki when she said farewell to me, I've had no regret for my life... but the disgrace, the disgrace, que dira-t-elle,^[cxxxi] if she finds out?"

He glanced at me despairingly, poor man, and blushed all over. I, too, looked down.

"She'll find out nothing, because nothing's going to happen to you. It's as if I were talking to you for the first time in my life, Stepan Trofimovich, you've surprised me so much this morning."

"But, my friend, this is not fear. Let them even pardon me, let them even bring me back here and do nothing—it's here that I am lost. Elle me soupçonnera toute sa vie^[cxxxii] ... me, me, the poet, the thinker, the man she worshiped for twenty-two years!"

"It won't even occur to her."

"It will," he whispered with profound conviction. "She and I talked of it several times in Petersburg, during the Great Lent, before we left, when we were both afraid... Elle me soupçonnera toute sa vie ... and how undeceive her? It will come out as improbable. And who in this paltry town will believe it, c'est invraisemblable... et puis les femmes^[cxxxiii] ... She'll be glad. She'll be very upset, very, genuinely, like a true friend, but secretly—she'll be glad... I'll have given her a weapon against me for my whole life. Oh, my life is lost! Twenty years of such complete happiness with her... and now!"

He covered his face with his hands.

"Stepan Trofimovich, why don't you let Varvara Petrovna know at once?" I suggested.

"God forbid!" he gave a start and jumped up from his place. "Not for anything, never, after what was said at our farewell in Skvoreshniki, never!"

His eyes began to flash.

We sat there, I think, for another hour or more, still waiting for something—anyway, that was the idea. He lay down again, even closed his eyes, and lay for about twenty minutes without saying a word, so that I even thought he was asleep or oblivious. Suddenly he rose up impetuously, tore the towel from his head, sprang from the sofa, dashed to the mirror, with trembling fingers tied his tie, and in a thundering voice summoned Nastasya, ordering her to bring him his coat, his new hat, and his stick.

"I can bear it no longer," he said, in a breaking voice, "I cannot, I cannot! ... I am going myself."

"Where?" I, too, jumped up.

"To Lembke. Cher, I must, I am obliged to. It is my duty. I am a citizen and a human being, not a chip of wood, I have rights, I want my rights... For twenty years I never demanded my rights, all my life I've criminally forgotten them... but now I will demand them. He must tell me everything, everything. He received a telegram. He dare not torment me, otherwise arrest me, arrest me, arrest me!"

He exclaimed this with some shrieking and stamping of feet.

"I approve," I said on purpose, as calmly as I could, though I was very afraid for him. "Indeed, it is better than to sit in such anguish; but I do not approve of your mood—just look at yourself and in what state you'll be going there. Il faut être digne et calme avec Lembke.^[cxxxiv] You may really rush at someone and bite him."

"I am giving myself up. I am walking straight into the lion's maw ..."

"And I'm going with you."

"I expected nothing less of you, I accept your sacrifice, the sacrifice of a true friend, but as far as the house, only as far as the house: you must not, you have no right to compromise yourself further by associating with me. Oh, croyez-moi, je serai calme!^[cxxxv] I am aware of being at this moment à la hauteur de tout ce qu'il y a de plus sacrê^[cxxxvi] . . ."

"I might even go into the house with you," I interrupted him. "Yesterday I was informed by their stupid committee, through Vysotsky, that they're counting on me and inviting me to this fête tomorrow as one of the ushers, or whatever they're called ... these six young men appointed to look after the trays, take care of the ladies, show the guests to their seats, and wear a bow of white and crimson ribbons on their left shoulder. I intended to refuse, but why don't I go into the house now on the pretext of talking with Yulia Mikhailovna herself... And that way you and I can go in together."

He listened, nodding, but it seems he understood nothing. We were standing on the threshold.

"Cher," he stretched out his arm towards the icon lamp in the corner, "cher, I have never believed in this, but ... so be it, so be it!" (He crossed himself.) "Allons!"

"Well, that's better," I thought, going out to the porch with him. "The fresh air on the way will help, we'll calm down a bit, come back home, and retire to bed..."

But I was reckoning without my host. Precisely on the way, an adventure occurred which gave Stepan Trofimovich an even greater shock and finally determined his course ... so that, I confess, I never expected as much pluck from our friend as he suddenly showed that morning. Poor friend, good friend!