Sisters of the Cross

by Alexei Remizov

  That evening, when she came home and, just as she had thought, found the student already sitting with her father by the samovar in the dining room, playing chess, she said nothing to either of them about what had happened between her and Tsyganov and did not utter a word about the horror she felt.

  Horror and shame were stronger than all her desire to tell the truth, and she concealed the most important thing that had happened. She kept silent, but, unable to dissemble, her demeanor told everything. And even so, no one noticed anything; only her father saw a certain sadness in her face that had not been there before. And much later a few other people besides her father began to notice it, but they didn’t say anything and could not say anything since, though they had seen her often before, they had perhaps examined her carefully now for the first time and could not decide whether she had always been sad like this, and they just hadn’t noticed, or there had really been a change in her.

  Of course, she had always had that sadness about her from the day of her birth; it had been hiding inside her, and it was just they who had failed to notice. For all her seventeen years, the sadness lay hidden in her being, and it was only on the evening when she and Tsyganov had been sorting out leaflets and, having finished them, she was able to think joyfully of telling her student friend, her God, that the sadness had emerged from her sense of horror.

  And was it only sadness that was expressed on her face when she was rolling on the floor in animal pain, when, if she had not held back the pain, she would have cried out in horror and disgust? Was it only sadness her face was expressing at that time when, though tormented, she kept silent, only her demeanor showing evidence of her pain?

  If people studied each other carefully and took note of one another, if they all were granted eyes with which to see, then only a heart of stone would be able to bear all the horror and mystery of life. Or perhaps none of us would need a heart of stone if only individuals took note of one another.

  But how had all this happened, what had caused it to be so, and how did Zhenia explain it all to herself?

  On the first evening, that very evening, Tsyganov had gone blind; there was no predetermined cause of any kind—he had simply gone blind. And if he had had seven eyes, who knows whether perhaps all seven would not have been blinded by those two eyes of hers, so joyful, so ready to transmit some of her joy to the student, to her God. And her joy was immense, for this was the first time she had been entrusted with something dangerous, and she believed she had found salvation for those pitiful lives that made her feel sick at heart. In the end, she had accomplished all her duty.

  That was how Zhenia explained everything, laying the blame on no one but herself.

  Whether that was so or not, whether he had gone blind or not, whether he could have refrained from jumping on top of her or not, Tsyganov is not the only one who, engaged in an enterprise that needs to be conducted secretively and clandestinely, seemingly goes blind from the suspiciousness that it engenders. Yes, of course he lost his sight, and it doesn’t matter why; after all, if he had noticed anything at all, then what went on to happen would not have taken place at all. And what happened was that every time that Zhenia came to see him to help sort out pamphlets or on some other business of that nature, every time without fail that first evening, so full of danger and joy, was repeated. And she used to plead with him, prayed for him to spare her, not to touch her, but he would not listen, because he heard nothing and noticed nothing. And so things went on for a whole year.

  Then when Tsyganov disappeared from Plotnikov’s factory somewhere or other, some people said that he had been exiled to Siberia, others that he had found a job in a factory beyond the Triokhgorny Gate and had a big salary, and yet others that he had seemingly announced the New Jerusalem to the world—in short: after Tsyganov had disappeared and Zhenia was about to breathe a sigh of relief, then to a hair the same thing occurred once again, only this time she found her brother, a military cadet, had turned up to replace Tsyganov. And she asked her brother, begged him to spare her, not to touch her, but he did not want to listen, because he heard nothing and noticed nothing.

  The reason he heard nothing and noticed nothing was because he went blind at that very minute, for the reason that there was something in her that makes men blind: after all, the evenings with her brother had nothing in common with the danger and joy of the evenings with Tsyganov.

  That was how Zhenia explained everything, laying the blame on no one but herself.

  Whether that was so or not, whether her brother went blind or not, he, the brother, without engaging in Tsyganov’s enterprise, nor being driven by its clandestine and dangerous nature into blind suspicion, but on the contrary with an open road before him, without any need to look around or take special precautions, he, like many people from all walks of life, was not endowed with any particular sharp-sightedness. Yes, of course, this was the case, and it doesn’t matter that he was not sharp-sighted. After all, if he had noticed anything at all, then what went on to happen would not have taken place. And what happened was that every time he found her alone, he repeated all the same things that he had enacted on the first evening with his sister. And so things went on for about a year.

  But, when her brother left Moscow and she remained on her own and could breathe again, then, just as Tsyganov had been replaced by her brother, so he in turn was replaced by an assistant of her father’s, a young doctor, and after the doctor another man, and then someone else: they approached her quite boldly and did what they liked.

  And they could do what they liked, not because it was there for the taking; they had their way with her because they were brought to it in their blindness.

  That was how Zhenia explained everything, laying the blame on no one but herself.

  Whether that was so or not, whether they went blind or not, whether they were led to her or they themselves hunted her out, however things stood—she did not blame a single one of them, but only accused herself, something inside herself that made other people blind and deaf.

  She remained silent, silent for the whole three years, giving no hint, nor uttering a single word. But she had a feeling of horror and shame and torment. People loved her. She had many women friends, and she knew how they loved her and thought about her, but, being righteous, with all her righteousness she could not say to them that they were wrong and she was not as they thought she was. After all, if they knew the whole truth, perhaps they would recoil from her. And now, by concealing the truth about herself, she was stealing their love.

  Men approached her and did whatever they liked; whatever they were brought to, that they did, and she could offer no resistance, yielding to them with animal pain and revulsion. And for the fact that she yielded to them and could not help but yield to them in spite of all her animal pain and revulsion; for that thing inside herself which made others blind and deaf and which made people throw themselves on her—for all this: mere human punishment was not enough for her. To commit suicide would be very simple, but what would it matter if she did put an end to her life?! And if they were to inflict pain and torture her, harrow and torment her to death, what would it matter if they tortured her to death? Mere human punishment, punishment devised by men, was not enough for her. She herself must both punish and execute herself. But how was she to set about this? During these three years of horror, shame, and torment, during the horror, shame, and torment that she experienced in her sleepless nights, she had torn at her hair again and again and beaten her head against the iron bedstead, her mockery of a maiden’s couch, but what good had that done? No good whatsoever. So who then would show her the punishment and how to punish herself? And she prayed with all the sharpness of her horror, shame, and torment, begging God to show her a fitting end.

  If people studied each other carefully and took note of one another, if they all were granted eyes with which to see, then only a heart of stone would be able to bear all the horror and mystery of life. Or perhaps none of us would need a heart o
f stone if only individuals took note of one another.

  Zhenia left Moscow and stayed for some time not far away along the Kursk highroad with the family of a doctor who was a friend of her father’s. By now her father had noticed that it was not just a question of sadness. Alarmed and attributing everything to overwork, it was he who had persuaded Zhenia to leave Moscow and take some time off in the country. But this is what happened in the country: on the Tuesday of Easter week she went home, as they thought, to be with her father for the festival, but in reality she had gone to pray for three days and three nights in the forest with all the burning horror, shame, and torment of someone whose heart is damning her and who asks for one thing only—to be put to death: to be shown the form it will take and the punishment that will follow. And on Good Friday, when they were bringing out the holy shroud, she appeared in the church completely naked, holding only a razor in her hand. And when they brought in the shroud, she followed on behind it—and the ranks of the congregation parted before her, as they melted before the shroud. And she stood naked before the shroud with the razor in her hand: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Someone answered: “Amen.” Then she brought the razor up and started to slash her body, placing crosses on her forehead, on her shoulders, on her arms and on her breasts—and blood poured from her onto the shroud.

  For about a year and no less, Zhenia lay in the hospital, where they brought her after she had fainted in the church. There were no visible signs of the crosses she had made, except for a barely noticeable little scar on her brow, and her hair covered that, so it could not be seen. Then, when they found that she had recovered, they released her from hospital and sent her back to her father.

  So, was she at peace now? No, she was not at peace. However, she was no longer asking for execution. Somewhere in the depths of her being she had fallen silent. God knows, perhaps they were treating her with some special medicine, or it could be that as she recovered and became healthy, she could no longer listen so intently and hear the message being uttered in the depths of her soul. But she did come to hear it soon and quite unexpectedly. There came to visit her father the accountant from the Plotnikov factory, Aleksei Ivanovich Marakulin. It must be that he took a great fancy to Zhenia and somehow he managed to declare his love for her. And then it was that she heard the message being uttered in the depths of her soul.

  Surely not a single human being knows for what she had asked to be punished; not a single person knows about the three years of her torment and the fourth year of her thoughts of execution. She said nothing to her confessor—she spoke only in her thoughts, when the priest was giving her absolution after confession. She could not bring herself to declare it all to the priest; it would not be enough for him to know that what she had done was her sin, and he might always ask about those people who were with her. Perhaps, when he saw her horror, shame, and torment and wanted to give her some consolation in this life, he might want to find out how it had all happened and then, when he knew all the circumstances, he might condemn those people and absolve her. But she herself did not accuse them of anything, laying all the blame on herself, on that something inside her that made other people blind and deaf, and then the priest might denounce them. And now the moment had come when she would say everything to the man who loved her. And she must come out with it—that was the message being uttered in the depths of her soul. Without fail she must tell all to that man.

  And she told him all that had happened without holding anything back. He listened humbly and he wept, because he loved her. Although in his heart of hearts he did not believe that what had happened to her would not be repeated once again, that those three years of hers would not return once more, he wanted to believe it because he loved her.

  Zhenia devoted all the rest of her life to her children. In the first year of her new life she suddenly looked much older somehow. This was nothing to do with old age, but from the horror, shame, and torment that appeared for all to see and lay upon her face, as did her sadness. Until the very end of her life her posture was marked by a seeming plea for men to spare her, not to touch her, with her hands joined together and her eyes uplifted as though she was about to take flight in alarm. And as she lay in her coffin there could be clearly seen, beneath the wreath that covered her forehead—the cross.

  At that time Marakulin was ten years old, but he always remembered that cross, her cross peeping out on her waxen brow from beneath the white wreath of flowers. So now, on his way to Moscow, he remembered this cross, and the memory of his mother’s cross became indissolubly fused with the memory of his own baptismal cross made of gold, the one that someone had stolen just before Christmas.

  And a kind of melancholy swept over him.

  Marakulin was going to Moscow at the insistent demand of Plotnikov.

  Pavel Plotnikov had studied at the same school as Marakulin, and was two classes below him. When Marakulin first saw Pavel, he greatly took to him. He was a healthy boy, like milk fresh from the cow somehow, so that you wanted to go up to him and stroke him, to tousle his hair, or wash him like a little pet—take his cheeks between your fingers and tap his nose with your middle finger gently, gently, making him break into a smile. In his first year he had a sore throat and the white bandage round his neck made him look even more lovable. Marakulin tried to speak to him, touching him and speaking gently, but Plotnikov fought shy of him. It was only in the following year that chance brought them together. Marakulin was a chorister, and when Plotnikov was chosen to join the choir, they both sang as altos. At rehearsals Plotnikov found himself beside Marakulin and gradually became less shy of him. He became attached to this boy, who would help him in every way; if they were set a difficult problem, he would solve it for him, or if a difficult translation, he would do it. So for a whole year they had a touching and tender friendship. Then suddenly, some time after the summer holidays, Plotnikov grew up, and there was nothing left in him of that puppyish, kittenish quality that had attracted Marakulin to go up and stroke him like a little pet. So now he no longer fussed over him so much, no longer spoke so tenderly to him. But Plotnikov often turned to him for advice, as to someone older and wiser, who knew life in a way that seemed beyond his reach.

  Plotnikov did not finish the course at the technical school. He stuck in the fifth class, and his parents withdrew him. He was the only son—and that after a succession of daughters. He was greatly needed in the firm, and the Plotnikov Company was known not only around the Taganka, but all over Russia. By the time Pavel’s schooling came to its untimely end in the fifth year, he had grown so much and so filled out that, looking at him, it was hard to recall the new boy Pasha with his white bandage, Pasha, who looked like milk fresh from the cow, Pasha, whom you wanted to take between your fingers and whose nose you wanted to tap. It looked as if all links between them would come to an end, but that did not happen. Plotnikov kept on coming to Marakulin, each time to borrow a book that he asked to have time to read, and for some reason or other he always seemed to be shy. Marakulin gave him the book, and Pasha would disappear for a long time. Then, quite unexpectedly, he might come back at some extraordinarily early hour in the morning, often in an excited state—as though he had begun the evening in some Taganka beer saloon, spent half the night drinking in some out-of-the-way place like the Saratov and the other half of the night until morning in the Iar, then washed himself in the five-kopeck Poluiaroslavsky public baths and had now appeared straight from there, only without his switch of birch twigs—and it turned out later that this was exactly what he had done. He would shyly return the book, always making the same timid declaration that he had not mastered it and needed something more simple. Marakulin gave him an easier book, and Plotnikov would disappear again for a long time.

  The upper classes of the school were a motley crew, united we must suppose by the same things that linked Marakulin and Glotov. There were all sorts of desperate characters there, and their hangers-on who tried to keep up
with them, and all those who had to spread their wings, individuals who later would become either those who would turn into smart operators, or the most run-of-the-mill clerks, and some who might take to drink and finish among the down-and-out on the Khitrovsky market. Those sorts of people were habitués of the Taganka beer saloon and the Moscow boulevards, and on summer Sundays they were to be found in Kuskovo, since that was where the Taganka and Rogozhskaia crowd decamped to in the warmer months. Marakulin went around with those people, who were sometimes joined by Plotnikov.

  On one occasion, as drunk as a lord and with so few clothes on that he might have been taken in by the police, Plotnikov got into a battle with some horses on Taganka Square. When drunk, he was so full of fight and difficult to humor that he might attempt any wild stunt, without rhyme or reason, without fearing anything or anybody, just to pass the time. Everyone knew that. And he made just one exception: for Marakulin. In the most extreme circumstances, when Plotnikov was quite intractable and untamed, he alone could calm him down and reason with him.

  Pavel Plotnikov was exactly like his father, Vasily Pavlovich, in his intractability and in his talent for finding all sorts of tricks to enliven the passing scene, but in the Taganka Vasily Pavlovich held the lead in this respect; his example was infectious, and he had many followers. However, the father never became violent, although he had missed attending not just the fifth class, but any classes at all, and he never got into fights on Taganka Square, either with horses or with people. Quite the opposite: Vasily Pavlovich was quiet and humble and never let a drop of alcohol pass his lips. In his final years, when he was old and could no longer hope to come up with anything fresh and knew that his life was drawing to a close, he conjured up the madcap idea of passing the time by getting the local police officers drunk—not seeking to set the police force on its feet, as they say, but rather to get them legless. He set about this idea with great skill, achieving his aim by hook or by crook, doing nothing himself, but getting things done indirectly through instructing others. The bait that lured them in was a carriage, nothing special, just a carriage without any crest on it—around the Taganka people were not supposed to have coats of arms denoting their rank. In the mornings Vasily Pavlovich usually sat by his window on the lookout for a policeman, who about that time would be passing his house on his way to the police station. This man would be enticed into the house, seemingly on business. But, of course, there was no business, since people tried to avoid having dealings with the police. But you could always find some trifle or other for the occasion. Meanwhile Vasily Pavlovich would invite the policeman to inspect his carriage and invite him to do so in such a way that it would be hard for him to refuse. So the policeman, being flattered, would follow him into the carriage shed, where everything that was needed was ready, and there was no way the man would get out except legless. The next day the same thing would happen, so that eventually, little by little, the policeman forgot all about walking his beat. First thing every morning he would appear at the shed to look at the carriage. And, of course, they soon threw the man out of the force and appointed another to replace him. Then the same business with the carriage would start all over again. Infected by the example of Vasily Pavlovich, the fish merchant Barabokhin at the very same hour began to get the priests drunk. To attract them Barabokhin used his fishpond, quite an ordinary pond, in no way intended to contain some rare, nonexistent, foreign fish with an unpronounceable name—but simply a pond for sterlet. Both the carriage and the fishpond enjoyed extraordinary success for a good long time before their charms faded. Such was Vasily Pavlovich, who left behind a worthy successor in the shape of Pavel, his heir. Along with the carriage, Pavel inherited from his father all sorts of devices for passing the time of day, and he did not hide his talent beneath a bushel, but perfected it. If something came into his head, he would not rest until he had acted on it, and very many ideas came to him, including what other people were a bit scared of. But he never allowed himself to do anything that might have affected Marakulin. Marakulin was the exception to all his pranks. Everyone knew that.