— and I went back to me stove. I opened the little door, so that the heat began to burn my face and hands, and whispered: “ "Guess that trouble has befallen me ... Come, come, come!..."
“But no one came. The fire roared in the stove, rain lashed at the windows. Then the final thing happened. I took the heavy manuscript of the novel and the draft notebooks from the desk drawer and started burning them.
This was terribly hard to do, because written-on paper burns reluctandy.
Breaking my fingernails, I tore up the notebooks, stuck them vertically between the logs, and ruffled the pages with the poker. At times the ashes got the best of me, choking the flames, but I struggled with them, and the novel, though stubbornly resisting, was nevertheless perishing. Familiar words flashed before me, the yellow climbed steadily up the pages, but the words still showed dirough it. They would vanish only when the paper turned black, and I finished diem off with the poker.
“Just then someone began scratching quietly at the window. My heart leaped, and having stuffed the last notebook into the fire, I rushed to open the door. Brick steps led up from the basement to the door on the yard.
Stumbling, I ran up to it and asked quietly: "Who’s there?"
“And that voice, her voice, answered: “It’s me...”
“I don’t remember how I managed with the chain and hook. As soon as she stepped inside, she clung to me, trembling, all wet, her cheeks wet and her hair uncurled. I could only utter the word: "You ... you? ...", and my voice broke, and we ran downstairs.
“She freed herself of her overcoat in the front hall, and we quickly went into the first room. With a soft cry, she pulled out of the stove with her bare hands and threw on to the floor the last of what was there, a sheaf that had caught fire from below. Smoke filled the room at once. I stamped out the fire with my feet, and she collapsed on the sofa and wept irrepressibly and convulsively.
“When she calmed down, I said: “I came to hate this novel, and I’m afraid. I’m ill. Frightened."
She stood up and said: "God, how sick you are. Why is it, why? But I’ll save you. I’ll save you. What is all this?"
“I saw her eyes swollen with smoke and weeping, felt her cold hands stroke my forehead.
“"I’ll cure you, I’ll cure you," she was murmuring, clutching my shoulders. "You’ll restore it. Why, why didn’t I keep a copy?"
“She bared her teeth with rage, she said something else inarticulately.
Then, compressing her lips, she began to collect and smoodi out the burnt-edged pages. It was some chapter from the middle of the novel, I don’t remember which. She neady stacked the pages, wrapped them in paper, tied them with a ribbon. All her actions showed that she was full of determination, and that she had regained control of herself. She asked for wine and, having drunk it, spoke more calmly: “This is how one pays for lying," she said, "and I don’t want to lie any more. I’d stay with you right now, but I’d rather not do it that way. I don’t want it to remain forever in his memory that I ran away from him in the middle of the night. He’s never done me any wrong ... He was summoned unexpectedly, there was a fire at the factory. But he’ll be back soon. I’ll talk with him tomorrow morning, I’ll tell him that I love another man and come back to you for ever. Or maybe you don’t want that? Answer me."
"Poor dear, my poor dear," I said to her. "I won’t allow you to do it. Things won’t go well for me, and I don’t want you to perish with me."
"Is that the only reason?" she asked, and brought her eyes dose to mine.
“The only one."
“She became terribly animated, she dung to me, put her arms around my neck and said: “I’m perishing with you. In the morning I’ll be here."
And so, the last thing I remember from my life is a strip of light from my front hall, and in that strip of light an uncurled strand of hair, her beret and her eyes filled with determination. I also remember the black silhouette in the outside doorway and the white package.
"I’d see you home, but it’s beyond my strength to come back alone. I’m afraid."
“Don’t be afraid. Bear with it for a few hours. Tomorrow morning I’ll be here."
“Those were her last words in my life ... Shh! ...” the patient suddenly interrupted himself and raised a finger. “It’s a restless moonlit night tonight.”
He disappeared on to the balcony. Ivan heard little wheels roll down the corridor, someone sobbed or cried out weakly.
When everything grew still, the guest came back and announced that room 120 had received an occupant. Someone had been brought, and he kept asking to be given back his head. The two interlocutors fell anxiously silent, but, having calmed down, they returned to the interrupted story. The guest was just opening his mouth, but the night was indeed a restless one. There were still voices in the corridor, and the guest began to speak into Ivan’s ear, so softly that what he told him was known only to the poet, apart from the first phrase: “A quarter of an hour after she left me, there came a knock at my window...”
What the patient whispered into Ivan’s ear evidently agitated him very much. Spasms repeatedly passed over his face. Fear and rage swam and flitted in his eyes. The narrator pointed his hand somewhere in the direction of the moon, which had long since left the balcony. Only when all sounds from outside ceased to reach them did the guest move away from Ivan and begin to speak more loudly: “Yes, and so in mid-January, at night, in the same coat but with the buttons torn off,[90] I was huddled with cold in my little yard.
Behind me were snowdrifts that hid the lilac bushes, and before me and below my little windows, dimly lit, covered with shades. I bent down to the first of them and listened – a gramophone was playing in my rooms. That was all I heard, but I could not see anything. I stood there a while, then went out the gate to the lane. A blizzard was frolicking in it. A dog, dashing under my feet, frightened me, and I ran away from it to the other side. The cold, and the fear that had become my constant companion, were driving me to frenzy. I had nowhere to go, and the simplest thing, of course, would have been to throw myself under a tram-car on the street where my lane came out.
From far off I could see those light-filled, ice-covered boxes and hear their loathsome screeching in the frost. But, my dear neighbour, the whole thing was that fear possessed every cell of my body. And, just as I was afraid of the dog, so I was afraid of the tram-car. Yes, there is no illness in this place worse than mine, I assure you!”
“But you could have let her know,” said Ivan, sympathizing with the poor patient. “Besides, she has your money. She did keep it, of course?”
“You needn’t doubt that, of course she kept it. But you evidently don’t understand me. Or, rather, I’ve lost the ability I once had for describing things. However, I’m not very sorry about that, since I no longer have any use for it. Before her,” the guest reverently looked out at the darkness of the night, “there would lie a letter from a madhouse. How can one send letters from such an address ... a mental patient? ... You’re joking, my friend! Make her unhappy? No, I’m not capable of that.”
Ivan was unable to object to this, but the silent Ivan sympathized with the guest, he commiserated with him. And the other, from the pain of his memories, nodded his head in the black cap and spoke thus: “Poor woman ... However, I have hopes that she has forgotten me ...”
“But you may recover...” Ivan said timidly.
“I am incurable,” the guest replied calmly. “When Stravinsky says he will bring me back to life, I don’t believe him. He is humane and simply wants to comfort me. I don’t deny, however, that I’m much better now. Yes, so where did I leave off? Frost, those flying trams ... I knew that this clinic had been opened, and set out for it on foot across the entire city.
Madness! Outside the city I probably would have frozen to death, but chance saved me. A truck had broken down, I came up to the driver, it was some three miles beyond the city limits, and to my surprise he took pity on me.
The truck was c
oming here. And he took me along. I got away with having my left toes frostbitten. But they cured that. And now this is the fourth month that I’ve been here. And, you know, I find it not at all bad here. One mustn’t make grandiose plans, dear neighbour, really! I, for instance, wanted to go all around the globe. Well, so it turns out that I’m not going to do it. I see only an insignificant piece of that globe. I suppose it’s not the very best there is on it, but, I repeat, it’s not so bad. Summer is coming, the ivy will twine up on to the balcony. So Praskovya Fyodorovna promises. The keys have broadened my possibilities. There’ll be the moon at night. Ah, it’s gone! Freshness. It’s falling past midnight. Time to go.”
Tell me, what happened afterwards with Yeshua and Pilate?” Ivan asked.
“I beg you, I want to know.”
“Ah, no, no,” the guest replied with a painful twitch. “I cannot recall my novel without trembling. And your acquaintance from the Patriarch’s Ponds would do it better than I. Thank you for the conversation. Goodbye.”
And before Ivan could collect his senses, the grille closed with a quiet clang, and the guest vanished.
Chapter 14. Glory to the Cock!
His nerves gave out, as they say, and Rimsky fled to his office before they finished drawing up the report. He sat at his desk and stared with inflamed eyes at the magic banknotes lying before him. The findirector’s wits were addled. A steady hum came from outside. The audience poured in streams from the Variety building into the street. Rimsky’s extremely sharpened hearing suddenly caught the distant trill of a policeman. That in itself never bodes anything pleasant. But when it was repeated and, to assist it, another joined in, more authoritative and prolonged, and to them was added a clearly audible guffawing and even some hooting, the findirector understood at once that something else scandalous and vile had happened in the street. And that, however much he wanted to wave it away, it was closely connected with the repulsive séance presented by the black magician and his assistants.
The keen-eared findirector was not mistaken in the least. As soon as he cast a glance out the window on to Sadovaya, his face twisted, and he did not whisper but hissed: “So I thought!”
In the bright glare of the strongest street lights he saw, just below him on the sidewalk, a lady in nothing but a shift and violet bloomers.
True, there was a little hat on the lady’s head and an umbrella in her hands. The lady, who was in a state of utter consternation, now crouching down, now making as if to run off somewhere, was surrounded by an agitated crowd, which produced the very guffawing that had sent a shiver down the fin-director’s spine. Next to the lady some citizen was flitting about, trying . to tear off his summer coat, and in his agitation simply unable to manage the sleeve in which his arm was stuck.
Shouts and roaring guffaws came from yet another place — namely, the left entrance – and turning his head in that direction, Grigory Danilovich saw a second lady, in pink underwear. She leaped from the street to the sidewalk, striving to hide in the hallway, but the audience pouring out blocked the way, and the poor victim other own flightiness and passion for dressing up, deceived by vile Fagott’s firm, dreamed of only one thing — falling through the earth. A policeman made for the unfortunate woman, drilling the air with his whistle, and after the policeman hastened some merry young men in caps. It was they who produced the guffawing and hooting.
A skinny, moustachioed cabby flew up to the first undressed woman and dashingly reined in his bony, broken-down nag. The moustached face was grinning gleefully.
Rimsky beat himself on the head with his fist, spat, and leaped back from the window. For some time he sat at his desk listening to the street.
The whistling at various points reached its highest pitch, then began to subside. The scandal, to Rimsky’s surprise, was somehow liquidated with unexpected swiftness.
It came time to act. He had to drink the bitter cup of responsibility.
The telephones had been repaired during the third part. He had to make calls, to tell what had happened, to ask for help, lie his way out of it, heap everything on Likhodeev, cover up for himself, and so on. Pah, the devil!
Twice the upset director put his hand on the receiver, and twice he drew it back. And suddenly, in the dead silence of the office, the telephone burst out ringing by itself right in the findirector’s face, and he gave a start and went cold. “My nerves are really upset, though!” he thought, and picked up the receiver. He recoiled from it instantly and turned whiter than paper. A soft but at the same time insinuating and lewd female voice whispered into the receiver: “Don’t call anywhere, Rimsky, it’ll be bad ...”
The receiver straight away went empty. With goose-flesh prickling on his back, the findirector hung up the telephone and for some reason turned to look at the window behind him. Through the scant and still barely greening branches of a maple, he saw the moon racing in a transparent cloud.
His eyes fixed on the branches for some reason, Rimsky went on gazing at them, and the longer he gazed, the more strongly he was gripped by fear.
With great effort, the findirector finally turned away from the moonlit window and stood up. There could no longer be any question of phone calls, and now the findirector was thinking of only one thing — getting out of the theatre as quickly as possible.
He listened: the theatre building was silent. Rimsky realized that he had long been the only one on the whole second floor, and a childish, irrepressible fear came over him at this thought. He could not think without shuddering of having to walk alone now along the empty corridors and down the stairs. Feverishly he seized the hypnotist’s banknotes from the table, put them in his briefcase, and coughed so as to cheer himself up at least a little. The cough came out slightly hoarse, weak.
And here it seemed to him that a whiff of some putrid dankness was coming in under the office door. Shivers ran down the findirector’s spine.
And then the clock also rang out unexpectedly and began to strike midnight.
And even its striking provoked shivers in the findirector. But his heart definitively sank when he heard the English key turning quietly in the lock.
Clutching his briefcase with damp, cold hands, the findirector felt that if this scraping in the keyhole were to go on any longer, he would break down and give a piercing scream.
Finally the door yielded to someone’s efforts, opened, and Varenukha noiselessly entered the office. Rimsky simply sank down into the armchair where he stood, because his legs gave way. Drawing a deep breath, he smiled an ingratiating smile, as it were, and said quietly: “God, you frightened me ...”
Yes, this sudden appearance might have frightened anyone you like, and yet at the same time it was a great joy: at least one little end peeped out in this tangled affair.
Well, tell me quickly! Well? Well?” Rimsky wheezed, grasping at this little end. “What does it all mean?!”
“Excuse me, please,” the entering man replied in a hollow voice, closing the door, “I thought you had already left.”
And Varenukha, without taking his cap off, walked to the armchair and sat on the other side of the desk.
It must be said that Varenukha’s response was marked by a slight oddity which at once needled the findirector, who could compete in sensitivity with the seismograph of any of the world’s best stations. How could it be? Why did Varenukha come to the findirector’s office if he thought he was not there? He had his own office, first of all. And second, whichever entrance to the building Varenukha had used, he would inevitably have met one of the night-watchmen, to all of whom it had been announced that Grigory Danilovich was staying late in his office. But the findirector did not spend long pondering this oddity – he had other problems.
“Why didn’t you call? What are all these shenanigans about Yalta?”
"Well, it’s as I was saying,” the administrator replied, sucking as if he were troubled by a bad tooth. “He was found in the tavern in Pushkino.”
“In Pushkino?! You mean just o
utside Moscow?! What about the telegrams from Yalta?!”
“The devil they’re from Yalta! He got a telegrapher drunk in Pushkino, and the two of them started acting up, sending telegrams marked "Yalta", among other things.”
“Aha ... aha ... Well, all right, all right...” Rimsky did not say but sang out. His eyes lit up with a yellow light. In his head there formed the festive picture of Styopa’s shameful dismissal from his job. Deliverance!
The findirector’s long-awaited deliverance from this disaster in the person of Likhodeev! And maybe Stepan Bogdanovich would achieve something worse than dismissal ... The details!” said Rimsky, banging the paperweight on the desk.
And Varenukha began giving the details. As soon as he arrived where the findirector had sent him, he was received at once and given a most attentive hearing. No one, of course, even entertained the thought that Styopa could be in Yalta. Everyone agreed at once with Varenukha’s suggestion that Likhodeev was, of course, at the Yalta in Pushkino.
“Then where is he now?” the agitated findirector interrupted the administrator.
“Well, where else could he be?” the administrator replied, grinning crookedly. “In a sobering-up cell, naturally!”