Lizaveta Ivanovna had become bent and toothless; all she had were the heavy tresses of white hair enmeshing the whole of her head, but her light blue eyes had grown even lighter and seemed to shine brightly. She had lived many years in this world, although for her this world consisted of nothing but that desolate, little, old white city with its fifteen white churches, and it was as though all her days were resonant with the reproachful sound of its funeral bells. Kostrinsk is an old town on the River Ustiuzhin, for the peal of its mourning bells the first among weeping cities. Lizaveta Ivanovna had buried many people, and she would visit all of their graves. On Easter Sunday she would bring them eggs dyed red and give them an Easter kiss, for it is more important to kiss the dead than the living, so thought the old woman. And she lived on her own in the bathhouse, as though she were in a proper dwelling. She loved watching the sun going down behind the bell tower and gilding the cross, and when people would start taking sleigh rides at the beginning of the winter, and when they would jump from plank to plank in the spring. She was just waiting for someone to come along to whom she could pass on everything that the old washerwoman Inchikha had once passed on to her. Surely the person to whom she would pass this on would be as happy as she was herself, for the old woman thought that there was no one so happy as she. And her joy came from the fact that through her intricate, prophetic knowledge—imagined or real, it does not matter—she had come to understand how one should live, and that she was living not for herself, nor for others, and that, whenever she did something, she was thinking not of herself, nor of the good folk of Kostrinsk, but she was preparing for the next life and the next world. And in her dealings she was thinking about the next life and the next world. For that reason she felt good, and others felt the benefit from being in her company.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was to Kostrinsk what one of the holy brothers from the harbor district was for the Petersburg poor.
Mariia Aleksandrovna had come to Kostrinsk as an exile from Petersburg. In her banishment time hung heavy on her hands. To find some way to make the days pass more quickly she took it upon herself to teach Vera Nikolaevna, whom she had come to like. And she would often visit the Klikachovs. She also became interested in Lizaveta Ivanovna, and she used to ask the old woman what she thought, how one should live, what to live by in this world, how to forget what we can never put out of our mind, and what to do in order to avoid being afraid or wanting things that we cannot have—those were the sort of things she questioned the old woman about. And judging by her questions the old woman realized, and this accorded with what her heart was telling her, that this exile was the very person to whom she should pass on all her intricate, prophetic knowledge of the world and thereby make her happy.
Mariia Aleksandrovna had been living under compulsion for about a year in that desolate, little, old white city with its fifteen white churches. She came for Easter to break the Lenten fast with the Klikachovs. At Easter, as people say, everything is particularly visible and clear to those who know. And Lizaveta Ivanovna saw a sign of death somewhere above the brow of her favored one, the one she had chosen. When she recognized that mystery, she did not want to believe her own thought. But somehow in the holy days that followed there was no sign of Mariia Aleksandrovna in Kostrinsk—she had disappeared and all traces of her had gone cold.
Lizaveta Ivanovna had experienced much in her life. She had buried her husband and seen a great deal of other people’s woe—where is it not to be found? Only never did she sigh as heavily as when the morning came, the day went by till evening and the night, and nowhere in Kostrinsk was there to be seen her favored one, the one whom she had chosen and who was now doomed to die. Lizaveta Ivanovna had been happy: she had learned how to live through her own intricate, prophetic knowledge of the world—imagined or real, it does not matter. She had come to understand how one should live, but she had not carried out the task set her by God by passing on her wisdom and, if Mariia Aleksandrovna did not come back, she, Lizaveta, would die in misery. And the old woman waits, shaking her head enmeshed in its heavy tresses of white hair, praying quietly, humbly, resignedly. Above her the old bells reproachfully ring out their mourning peal. Kostrinsk is the old city on the River Ustiuzhin with its fifteen white churches, and the first among weeping cities for the peal of its mourning bells.
“So what has become of Mariia Aleksandrovna?” Marakulin asked once.
But Vera Nikolaevna said nothing in reply—only her eyes were lost; like those of wandering Holy Russia they were like two fires in the dark, and the whole night she had not wept, but howled, as though people had placed a noose around her throat and the noose was being drawn tight.
Marakulin also failed to get to sleep that night, as he kept on listening for something. He had realized what it was all about, and for some reason he felt terrified.
“Whereas if you take Gorbachov,” he thought, “he’ll have nuns and girls in little black scarves singing ‘Christ Is Risen from the Dead’ for him from now until eternity.”
This thought kept coming back into his head, pounding along in a heavy way, articulating itself in words, but when it was played out, he was seized by a sort of apprehension: he forgot, both about Gorbachov, and about Mariia Aleksandrovna, and about Lizaveta Ivanovna; he was just striving to realize what he had to push out of his mind in order to calm himself down.
And suddenly for some reason he remembered General Kholmogorov’s wife, how she walked around, so well-fed and healthy, contented and triumphant—a louse who had nothing to repent of, taking her constitutional, strolling along the Fontanka with her little folding chair, or coming back from church along Zagorodny Prospekt with a dead spider’s web seemingly trailing after her—the kind that hangs in dark, airless, rat-filled storerooms, or that lies between the floor and the bottom of heavy old chests, so difficult to move—that was the kind of web she was trailing behind her, that might get into your mouth and choke you; better to drown yourself in the Fontanka!
He had been noticing this for a long time, but only now did he understand it. And the whole night through to morning he kept on turning over in his mind the most cunning way of getting rid of the general’s wife, so that there would be no trace left at all of her; and besides, if he didn’t eliminate her, he couldn’t go on living, there was no air to breathe—with her dead spider’s web she didn’t let him breathe freely—and as long as she was there he would have no sleep, and no patience, and no rest.
And if Marakulin in a moment of desperation were to kill the general’s wife and were called to account for that the next morning, then recovering his wits he could say one thing in his justification: that she had been killed not by him, but by the cruel Burkov night.
And the whole night through to morning Vera Nikolaevna had not wept, but howled, as though people had placed a noose around her throat and the noose was being drawn tight.
Cruel nights stretched ahead for Marakulin. What had happened to his readiness to endure everything, and only see, only hear, only feel? The one persistent thought of the general’s wife never left his mind; that wretched woman stuck in his throat. A wayward man, stubborn even in his waywardness.
In the morning paper he read about a doctor who had poisoned someone. He hid the newspaper under his pillow and read it through again in the evening just before going to bed.
“You, doctor, are a benefactor of humanity,” he whispered in the dark. “You have already sent one louse into the next world…. Perhaps you’ll manage to get rid of someone else!”
When he remembered the fury and indignation expressed by the papers, he said to himself with delight:
“Now we can see how Mrs. Kholmogorov’s sisters have all banded together to defend the louse poisoned by the doctor, that genuine benefactor of humanity!”
He would get up in the middle of the night, light a candle, read the paper through again, hide it under his pillow, lie down once more, and carry on whispering in the dark, his brain active until the morning. And he would tr
ansfer his despair at the Burkov flats from himself onto the whole human race, whose benefactor might be that doctor, the poisoner, as he cleared the air by sending one louse after another into the next world, thus making it easier to breathe—otherwise there would be no air for him to breathe and he would have no sleep, and no patience, and no peace. A wayward man, stubborn even in his waywardness.
For a week or more Marakulin lived in a sort of frenzy and reached, as he thought, a certain limit, and when he came to that limit, he found a way of crawling back into the world; he had found once again the right to live in the world, for after all ever since autumn that right had wavered or rather, for what’s the point in hiding the truth, had not wavered, but disappeared, together with sleep, and patience, and peace.
Gorbachov, in Marakulin’s opinion, after all his waverings and stratagems, had discovered and come to understand how he should live: he wanted to save his soul and, in order to do so, swung incense into all his corners, and all the rest—whether he were to hang all the children on a rope, or set about feeding them sweets enclosed in pink wrappers—was of no importance for saving his soul. Mariia Aleksandrovna, after all the questions she had asked, had also discovered and come to understand how she should live: it wasn’t even that she placed a high value on danger, the kind of life where death was always close at hand; she had been ready to destroy her soul, she had been willing to surrender her soul for the sake of others, she had been preparing herself as a victim for the sake of some law or other and justice, the advent of which would determine the happiness of mankind, and she must have killed or have been preparing to kill or helped to kill any individual whom she judged to be harmful to the law and to justice. Lizaveta Ivanovna through her intricate prophetic knowledge, imagined or real, it did not matter, had discovered and come to understand how she should live; not thinking of herself, nor of others, but thinking about the next world and about life in that world, and preparing herself for the next world and for the next life, she behaved in a way that befitted her hopes. But, after all, whether one waved incense around or tried to fight off children, or whether one was preparing for a murder or preparing for the life hereafter, all this was work, effort, action and, moreover, its completion entailed many highly important decisions and, above all, one must know and, whether out of conscience or out of fear of the way things had been done in the past, that did not matter, one must be able to answer what it was that should save one’s soul or what it was that should destroy it, or what it was that should prepare it for the next life, and that was also something that should be set as a firm duty in the name of the indisputable.
But the general’s wife did not stir a muscle, she did absolutely nothing at all—you couldn’t really count going to the bathhouse as activity—and yet she achieved everything and in the most remarkable way. She made herself fit in the most conspicuous manner and could see no end to her life; the palmist had made no mistake about that, so perhaps she already was immortal; and, when all was said and done, she was concerned neither with saving her soul, nor with ruining it; ruining it and saving it were all one to her, and she prospered by ignoring all means of salvation, owing nothing to anyone or anything. And if Gorbachov had the right to exist—since he knew how to live—and if Mariia Aleksandrovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna possessed that right also—since they, too, knew how to live—then the general’s wife, like some vessel of God’s choosing, not only had that right, but possessed it as an absolute entitlement.
Pushing the matter to what seemed to be its limit, Marakulin reasoned: “If I have to take thought now and really work it out, I need to decide firmly for myself once and for all how humanity would behave if, for example, the great powers, that union of countries headed by England, were—through parliaments and assemblies and by special manifestos—to propose to their subjects, to the whole of humanity that they live the louse-like, carefree, sin-free, and immortal life of the general’s wife. Such a possibility would appear to be a genuine revelation, which some learned German scientist like Wittenshtaube would arrive at by means of his X-rays, or by deceiving us, or someone like our former Governor Burkov, the agent of his own destruction—are there not in Russia plenty of such agents who zealously turn their exceptional powers against themselves? Burkov himself might come up with some stunt, some cunning trick that would work for a while and of course allow some radiant holy elder like Kabakov to stuff a gramophone into his cellar and to proclaim as a voice from heaven that he is the leader and judge to the world who will redeem us from Murka’s original sin and in peace and kindness create the New Zion, not made by human hand, and do so swiftly, simply, and cheaply—how would humanity react to that, how would it respond?”
With his own innate, Marakulian stubbornness, he continued to expand his thoughts to an end point: “But I consider that, without any superfluous words or ceremonies, forgetting both what they owe and what they do not owe and any means of salvation, quietly, without doffing their caps or any other headgear befitting their rank, these subjects would let down their trousers and, protecting themselves with the sign of the cross, would answer the courageous, free, proud, holy summons by diving into the enormous head covered in horsehair, for example the one constructed by us at that same Belgian factory, and would jump into that New Zion created in peace and kindness by Kabakov and not made by human hand, in order then to begin their new louse-like, carefree, sin-free, immortal and—above all—peaceful lives: eat, digest, and make yourself fit. There will always be time enough to equip yourself with a little folding chair. Yes, it can be done in conditions that are compulsory, but that are accepted voluntarily and, therefore, are generally widespread, when each of us will have a little cowbell clanging around our neck, so that we don’t become lost as we are eating our food, and even without our little folding chair it will not be dangerous for us to take our constitutional strolling along the Fontanka, and going to the church on Zagorodny Prospekt. We must also think that all things reasonable and good would act that way—for who is going to be his own enemy? We would be acting lawfully, correctly, wisely, and humanely for, after all, who really wants to be wandering, panting and sleepless, losing both patience and peace?”
When he was a child, Marakulin wanted to serve in the cavalry guards, and he used to pray that the Lord would do this for him, would help him to become a horse guardsman. But when he wanted to become a highwayman, he used to pray with the same words, only substituting “robber” for “horse guardsman.” And he used just those same words in his prayers when he wanted to become a teacher of calligraphy. These were the main prayers he made for himself when he was still in the Taganka in Moscow, rather than asking to get top marks at school. Later on, when he was just uttering a habitual prayer, he didn’t ask anything special from God. As he woke up in the morning and before going to sleep at night, he would just repeat: “Lord, have mercy on me.” And then later he even forgot to ask “Lord, have mercy on me.” But now, when it seemed to him that his reasoning had led him to the limit and he had discovered that he had an absolute, unlimited right, he suddenly wanted this supreme right to be enacted in this world, so that he prostrated himself to the floor at night to the point of feeling real pain.
“Lord,” he begged, “just allow me one minute of the real life of a louse, admit me to your glory. Lord, let me rest just for one brief hour, and then Thy will be done!”
And if in a moment of despair Marakulin had broken his skull by banging his forehead on the floor, and if the next morning they called him to account, then he could say just one thing in his justification: that it was not he who had killed himself, but the cruel Burkov night.
It must be admitted that in general by Christmas things had managed to get really bad for him. There was no work to be had. It was difficult for a publicly punished person to find work, especially when he was asked: “What kind of work do you do?” and he would not conceal the real cause of his unemployment. And Marakulin somehow could not hide it, but told it naively, like some twelve-year-
old boy talking about the scrapes he had got into—telling of the business with the payment slips and of how he had lost his job over them.
Things were in a bad way. He was being rescued by the Damaskin artistes, Sergei Aleksandrovich and Vasily Aleksandrovich, and also by Vera Nikolaevna. Otherwise, the only alternative would be to write a petition, like that restless old man Gvozdev, who had turned up to see him on his last day in the old apartment, on the day Murka met her end.
Very well—you may write—you have an absolute, unlimited right to do so, that is your absolute, unlimited prerogative in the hours of the night—but it is obvious that it is not so easily acted upon, even without all the compound interest which it would take all your life to pay; perhaps it would be better not to go troubling God about it—you won’t achieve anything!
For the festive season the artistes put up a Christmas tree in their flat and invited Adoniia Ivoilovna’s tenants, among others, to visit them. A great many people came, all of them artistes, we must assume. Sergei Aleksandrovich bustled about most of all, setting out ashtrays for the guests, so they shouldn’t throw cigarette ends on the floor; but Vasily Aleksandrovich became so entertaining and extraordinarily bright-eyed that he had people rolling around with laughter till their stomachs hurt and they became exhausted. Playing cards, both Sergei and Vasily Aleksandrovich lost almost everything, bar the clothes they were standing in. When Vera Nikolaevna found herself in company she, too, let herself go, singing her old songs from Kostrinsk, as she had learned them from her mother, Lizaveta Ivanovna.
Sisters of the Cross Page 7