Petersburg (Penguin Classics)

by Andrei Bely

  ‘Enfranshish, enfranshish! …’

  It was hard – to enter this whitish blotch under their fixed gaze: to be lit up by the moon, feeling on both sides the keen stare of an observer; and again – what was it, to feel the observers of the back staircase behind one’s back, ready for anything at any second; it was hard, was it not, to refrain from quickening one’s step and to cough indifferently?

  For Aleksandr Ivanovich had only to rush suddenly, as swift as lightning, up the steps of the staircase, and the observers would rush up after him.

  Here the whitish blotches became grey blotches and then began harmoniously to melt; and melted away altogether in the total darkness (a black cloud had evidently covered the moon).

  Aleksandr Ivanovich calmly entered the place that had previously been white, and could no longer see the eyes, from which he concluded that his eyes too could not be seen (poor fellow, he consoled himself with the vain thought that he would be able to slip upstairs to his garret unseen). Aleksandr Ivanovich did not quicken his step, and even – began to tweak his small moustache; and …

  … Aleksandr Ivanovich could not endure it any longer.

  He flew like an arrow up to the second-floor landing (oh, what an indiscretion!). And, having flown up to the landing, he permitted himself something that definitely lowered him in the opinion of the outline standing there.

  Leaning over the railings, he hurled down a bewildered, frightened glance, having first thrown down a lighted match: the iron struts of the railings flared; and amidst this yellow glimmering Aleksandr Ivanovich plainly discerned silhouettes.

  Great was his amazement!

  One of the silhouettes was quite simply the Tartar, Makhmudka, who lived in the basement; in the yellow shimmer of the dying match as it fell past, Makhmudka was leaning towards a little gentleman of ordinary appearance; the little gentleman of ordinary appearance was wearing a bowler hat, but had the features of an Oriental; and the hook-nosed, Oriental man was trying to ask Makhmudka something, and Makhmudka was shaking his head.

  After that, the match went out: nothing could be discerned.

  But the burning match had betrayed Aleksandr Ivanovich’s presence to the hook-nosed Oriental; feet began quickly to shuffle upstairs; and now, right above Aleksandr Ivanovich’s ear, a glib voice rang out, but … imagine, without an accent.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Andrei Andreich Gorelsky?’

  ‘No, I’m Aleksandr Ivanovich Dudkin …’

  ‘Yes, according to your false passport …’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich started: he was indeed living on a false passport, but his name, patronymic and surname were: Aleksandr Alekseyevich Pogorelsky, not Andrei Andreich Gorelsky.

  Aleksandr Ivanovich started, but … decided that attempts at concealment would serve no purpose:

  ‘I am he, but what is your business? …’

  ‘Excuse me, please: on the first occasion I came to see you at such an inopportune time …’

  ‘That’s all right …’

  ‘This unlit back staircase: your flat turned out to be locked … And there is someone in there … I preferred to wait for you at the entrance … And then this back staircase …’

  ‘But who is waiting for me there? …’

  ‘I do not know: the voice of some man of the common people answered me from within …’

  Styopka! … Thank God: it was Styopka!

  ‘But what is your business? …’

  ‘Forgive me, I have heard so much about you: you and I have mutual friends … Nikolai Stepanych Lippanchenko, at whose home I am received like a son … I have long, long wanted to make your acquaintance … I have heard that you are a night-owl … And so I took the liberty … Actually, I live in Helsingfors and am here on a visit, though my home is in the south …’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich quickly realized that his guest was lying; and lying, moreover, in a most insolent fashion, for the same story had been repeated once before (where and when – that he could not remember at the moment: perhaps it had all happened in a dream that had instantly been forgotten; and now it had arisen once again).

  No, no, no: there was something altogether fishy here; but he must not let on; and Aleksandr Ivanovich replied into the total darkness:

  ‘With whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

  ‘My name is Shishnarfne, I am a Persian subject … You and I have already met …’

  ‘Shishnarfiev? …

  ‘No, Shishnarfne: they added the v ending to my name – for the sake of russisme, perhaps … You and I were together today – back there, at Lippanchenko’s; two hours I sat, waiting for you to finish your business conversation, and then I couldn’t wait for you any longer … Zoya Zakharovna did not warn me in time that you would be there. I have long been seeking a meeting with you … I have been looking for you for a long time …’

  This last sentence, like the transformation of Shishnarfiev into Shishnarfne, again dreamily reminded him of something: it was something nasty, depressing, worrying.

  ‘You and I have met before?’

  ‘Yes … don’t you remember? In Helsingfors …’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich dimly remembered something; unexpectedly to himself he lit another match and brought this match right up to Shishnarfiev’s – or rather, Shishnarfne’s – nose; for a moment the walls flared with a yellow reflection, the struts of the railings glimmered; and out of the darkness before his very face suddenly formed the face of the Persian subject; Aleksandr Ivanovich clearly remembered now having seen this face in a Helsingfors coffee house;12 but the face had for some reason not lowered its suspicious eyes from Aleksandr Ivanovich on that occasion, too.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich remembered more, more: namely: it had been in Helsingfors that all the symptoms of the illness that menaced him had begun; it was precisely in Helsingfors that the whole of that idle cerebral game of his, a game that seemed as if inspired by someone else, had begun.

  He recalled that at that period he had had occasion to develop a paradoxical theory about the necessity of destroying culture, because the period of obsolete humanism was over and cultural history now stood before us like weathered marl; a period of healthy brutishness was beginning, pushing forth out of the depths of the people (the hooliganism, the violence of the Apachés),13 from the heights of the aristocracy (the revolt of the arts against established forms, the love of primitive culture, exoticism) and from the bourgeoisie itself (the Oriental ladies’ fashions, the cakewalk – a Negro dance; and – so on); at this time Aleksandr Ivanovich was preaching the burning of libraries, universities, and museums; he also preached summoning the Mongols (later on he took fright at the Mongols). All the phenomena of contemporary reality were divided by him into two categories; the symptoms of an already obsolete culture and the signs of a healthy barbarism, compelled for the moment to hide under a mask of refinement (the phenomenon of Nietzsche and Ibsen) and under this mask to infect the heart with a chaos that was already secretly crying out in people’s souls.

  Aleksandr Ivanovich invited them to remove their masks and openly exist with chaos.

  He recalled that he had preached this that day in the Helsingfors coffee house; and when someone asked him how he would view Satanism, he had replied:

  ‘Christianity is obsolete: in Satanism there is a crude fetish worship, that is, a healthy barbarism …’

  And that day – he remembered – by his side, at a table, Shishnarfne had sat, never taking his eyes off him.

  The preaching of barbarism had ended in an unexpected fashion (in Helsingfors, that same day): had ended in a complete nightmare; Aleksandr Ivanovich had seen (half in a dream, half in a state of falling asleep) himself being whirled through what might most simply be called interplanetary space (but which was not that): whirled in order to perform an act that was quite commonplace there, but was from our point of view none the less infamous; this had indubitably been in a dream (between ourselves – what is a d
ream?), but a hideous dream that had had its effect in bringing the preaching to an end; the unpleasant thing about it all was that Aleksandr Ivanych could not remember whether he had performed the act or not; Aleksandr Ivanych subsequently considered this dream to have been the beginning of his illness, but – even so: he did not like to remember it.

  This was the reason why back then he had begun to read the Book of Revelation on the sly.

  And now, here on the staircase, the mention of Helsingfors had a dreadful effect. Helsingfors rose before him. He found himself thinking:

  ‘That is why I have been hearing over and again these past few weeks, without any meaning: “Hel-sin-fors, Hel-sin-fors …” ’

  And Shishnarfne continued:

  ‘Do you remember?’

  The matter had taken a repulsive turn: he must rush into flight immediately – up the stone flights of stairs; he must take advantage of the darkness; otherwise a phosphorescent light would cast whitish blotches through the windows. But Aleksandr Ivanovich lingered in the most total horror; for some reason he had been shocked by his commonplace visitor’s surname:

  ‘Shishnarfne, Shishnarfne … I know it from somewhere …’

  And Shishnarfne continued:

  ‘So will you permit me to come in? … I must confess I have grown tired, waiting for you … I hope you will excuse me this midnight visit of mine …’

  And in a fit of involuntary terror, Aleksandr Ivanovich shrieked out:

  ‘You are welcome …’

  But thought:

  ‘Styopka there will get me out of it.’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich ran up the staircase. After him ran Shishnarfne; the infinite series of steps did not seem to be taking them to the fifth floor: the end of the staircase was not in sight; and it was impossible to run back down again: at his shoulders ran Shishnarfne, while before him from his little room came a stream of light.

  Aleksandr Ivanovich thought:

  ‘How could Styopka have dropped in to see me: after all, I have the key on me, don’t I?’

  But, feeling about in his pocket, he realized that the key was not there: instead of the door key he had the key to his old suitcase.

  Petersburg

  Aleksandr Ivanovich flew, not himself, into his wretched room and saw that Stepan was sprawled on the dirty trestle of the bed over a guttering candle; his shaggy head was sunk low before an open book with Church Slavonic lettering.

  Stepan was reading the Prayer Book.

  Aleksandr Ivanovich remembered Styopka’s promise: to bring the Prayer Book with him (he was interested in a prayer it contained – St Basil the Great’s prayer, the admonitory one, to devils).14 And he caught at Styopka.

  ‘It’s you, Styopka: oh, I’m glad!’

  ‘Here, barin, I’ve brought you the Pr –’ – but after a look at the visitor who had entered, Styopka added – ‘what you asked for …’

  ‘Thank you …’

  ‘While I was waiting for you, I got absorbed in reading …’ (again a look in the direction of the visitor) ‘… It’s time I went …’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich caught at Styopka with his hand:

  ‘Don’t go away, stay for a bit … This barin is Mr Shishnarfiev …’

  But from the door a metallic voice rapped out hoarsely:

  ‘Not Shishnarfiev, but … Shishnar-fne …’

  And what made him insist on the absence of the v ending? He was visible outside the door; he took off his little bowler hat; did not throw off his little coat and surveyed the room with a questioning gaze:

  ‘It’s not very nice in your room … A bit damp … and cold …’

  The candle was burning down: the wrapping paper flared, and suddenly the walls began to dance in a watery red light.

  ‘No, barin, let me go: it’s time I went’ – Styopka began to fuss at this point, squinting in hostile fashion at Aleksandr Ivanovich and not looking at the guest at all – ‘let me go – until another time.’

  He took the Prayer Book with him.

  Under Stepan’s fixed gaze Aleksandr Ivanovich lowered his eyes; the fixed gaze, it seemed to him, was a condemning gaze. And what was he going to do with Stepan now? He wanted to say something to Stepan; he had hurt Stepan; Stepan would not forgive; and, it seemed to him, Stepan was now thinking:

  ‘No, barin, if folk like that have taken to coming to visit you, there is nothing to be done; and the Prayer Book is no use … Folk like that don’t come to see everyone; and those to whom they come are birds of the same feather …’

  That meant, that meant, if Stepan thought he was – the visitor: was indeed suspicious … And then, how would he manage, he, alone – without Styopka:

  ‘Stepan, please stay.’

  But Stepan waved him away, not without a shade of revulsion: as though he were afraid that this fellow might come bothering him, too:

  ‘It’s you he’s come to see: not me …’

  And in his soul reverberated:

  ‘It’s you they’re looking for …’

  The door banged shut behind Stepan. Aleksandr Ivanovich was about to shout after him to tell him to leave the Prayer Book, but … was too ashamed. Suddenly he would utter the little words, ‘Prayer Book’, so compromising for a free-thinker; but – Aleksandr Ivanovich had vowed to himself in advance: not to be excessively frightened, because the events that he might be involved in after Stepan left would be an auditory and visual hallucination. The flames, blood-red torches, having done their dance, were dying on the walls; the paper had burned up: the little flame of the candle was dying; everything was a deathly green colour …

  With a gesture of his hand he invited the visitor to sit down on the blanket-covered trestle at the little table; he himself stood in the doorway, so that if necessary he would be able to get out to the staircase and lock the visitor in, while he went racing off down all ninety-six steps as fast as his legs would carry him.

  The visitor, leaning on the windowsill, lit a cigarette and jabbered; his black contour was delineated against the shining green spaces beyond the window (there the moon was racing through the clouds) …

  ‘I see that I have come to visit you at the wrong time … that I am evidently troubling you …’

  ‘It’s all right, very glad to see you,’ Aleksandr Ivanovich Dudkin said, trying unconvincingly to reassure his guest, but himself in need of reassurance, and warily feeling with a hand behind his back to see if the door was locked or unlocked.

  ‘But … I have so much wanted to see you, have looked for you everywhere, and when we did not manage to meet at Zoya Zakharovna Fleisch’s, I asked her to give me your address; and from her, from Zoya Zakharovna, I came straight to you: to wait for you … All the more, since I am leaving tomorrow at first light.’

  ‘Leaving?’ Aleksandr Ivanovich asked, echo-like, because it seemed to him: the visitor’s words had divided into two inside him: and while his outer ear had heard ‘I am leaving at first light’, some other kind of ear had distinctly heard:

  ‘I am leaving in the daytime, but will come back at twilight …’

  But he did not persist, continuing to hear the words beating at his ears, resounding, but not responding.

  ‘Yes, I am leaving for Finland, for Sweden … That is where I live; though actually, my home is in Shemakha; but I live in Finland: I confess that the climate of Petersburg is harmful to me, too …’

  This ‘to me, too’ echoed, divided in his consciousness. The Petersburg climate was harmful to everyone; the visitor could have easily managed without emphasizing ‘to me, too’.

  ‘Yes,’ Aleksandr Ivanovich replied mechanically, ‘Petersburg stands on a swamp …’

  At this the black contour on a background of green spaces beyond the window (there the moon was racing through the clouds) darted away, and – went off to write complete balderdash.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes … For the Russian Empire Petersburg is a most characteristic little dot … Take the geographical map … But concerning the fact th
at our capital city, abundantly adorned with monuments, also belongs to the land of the world beyond the grave …’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ thought Aleksandr Ivanovich: ‘I must keep my ears pricked up, so that I’ll be able to run away in time …’

  But he retorted:

  ‘You say our capital city … But it isn’t yours: your capital city is not Petersburg but Teheran … For you, an Oriental, the climatic conditions of our capital …’

  ‘I’m a cosmopolitan: why, I have been in both Paris and London … Yes – what was I saying: that our capital city,’ the black contour went on, ‘belongs to the land of the world beyond the grave – it is not done to speak of this for some reason when compiling geographical maps, guidebooks and directories; the venerable Mr Baedeker keeps eloquently silent about it; the modest provincial who is not informed of this in time gets into a fix at the Nikolayevsky or even the Varshavsky Station; he reckons in terms of Petersburg’s visible administration: he has no shadow passport.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, quite simply: when I set off for the land of the Papuans, I know that in the land of the Papuans a Papuan awaits me: Karl Baedeker warns me in advance about this sad phenomenon of nature; but how would it be if on the way to Kirsanov I were to encounter the camp of a swarthy Papuan horde, something that will, as a matter of fact, soon happen in France, for France is arming the black hordes on the quiet and will introduce them into Europe – you will see: actually, that ought to serve your purpose – your theory of the brutalization and overthrow of culture: do you remember? … In the Helsingfors coffee house I listened to you with sympathy.’

  Aleksandr Ivanovich was growing more and more out of sorts: he was shaken by fever; it was especially loathsome to hear a reference to a theory he had abandoned; after his dreadful Helsingfors dream, he had manifestly realized the connection between that theory and Satanism; he had rejected all that, as an illness; and now, when he was ill again, the black contour was returning it all to him with interest, in a revolting fashion.