Katy turned her gaze on me. “Why did I? … A lot of people have asked me that.”
Tina seized on this: “See, now I bet you’re a rich girl, they took up a collection for you in the hospital. It’ll last a long time, now. But what about Natalya, who kicked it this spring? She threw herself out a window. She had a pretty new jacket, brand new, and someone pinched it. Naturally, she was upset.”
“No, it’s not that,” Rocky Katy said again. “I just…”
“Because of life,” Matara explained. “Of course, the way our life is…”
Convert tittered. “Whatever way it is. Look at ’em, phoo! You Persian princesses. Don’t like it, who needs you?”
To me, Rocky Katy seemed just like everyone else. As if she had never tried to kill herself, like Barb, Tina, myself and Khan.
“So, there wasn’t any reason?” I asked her. “Just because?”
Unexpectedly, Rocky Katy burst into laughter, so unexpectedly that I even winced. “My head is spinning from that cognac. Not used to it anymore. Why what for? Why’d I take it? Is that what you’re asking? Well, I’ve forgotten already. When they were bringing me round, they kept after me for the reason. My innards are burning up, and they keep going on about the reason. So I tell ’em, ‘Get away from me, there’s no reason, and that’s all there is to it!’”
All the girls had a good laugh, while Johnny Khan and Convert, having finished off the whole bottle of cognac under cover of the general hubbub, set to cursing furiously.
I got tired of it and left. On top of all the rest, Tina had been naïvely coming on to me. Clearly she didn’t believe that I was just interested in talking. And the conversation wasn’t what I’d hoped for, either.
I’ll probably go and see them again, but just not right away. Either there’s something I’m not seeing, not understanding, or else people are the same everywhere. And there’s no such thing as a suicidal psychology. A stolen jacket—that’s one reason. The way life is—another reason. No reason—that’s a reason, too.
I definitely don’t understand a thing.
November 20
I tried to get to work, went to see my professor, spent time in the university library. Saw some people. Looked at them with curiosity. It could be that some of them have already tried to kill themselves, tomorrow others will—but you can’t tell by looking. They behave as normally as I do. And their faces look as boring as mine probably does.
Outside the yellow mud is knee-high, and the smell of warm manure is suffocating: there’s been a thaw. It’s been dark outside since this morning. Some plasterers who murdered someone in the Old Village—robbed him for a rouble and then drank it up—got tried and sentenced with the speed of lightning and have already been hanged. And by the way, the whole time they behaved with complete indifference. It made me think about John Khan: “There’s no difference, as far as the result is concerned.”
To be sure, they and Khan and Convert all have one thing in common—the psychology of a plasterer.
And what about my little chap—the one who tried to drown himself?
November 21
Today I was given a letter at half past nine. I was still lying in bed. It was so dark that I had to light a candle.
I read it. Didn’t understand right away. Read it through again.
This was really something!
The letter was from Lebedev, the little old secretary of the Kazan News. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known the Tolmachevs. Mr Tolmachev was an editor, and his wife was his faithful assistant. Hardworking, nice people, getting on in years. In September both of them came to St. Petersburg on newspaper business. I saw them often, helped out where I could … They were under a lot of pressure. They complained, of course, about the times and how bad it was in the provinces … They complained, as people always do, but … I didn’t notice anything.
Not a thing! And now Mr. Lebedev writes that last week they both, husband and wife, poisoned themselves. From the same glass. I didn’t know, somehow I missed it … or perhaps they don’t even write about what happens in the provinces?
The letter was surprisingly calm, quietly shocked.
“Things kept getting worse … It was just impossible to fight it … They couldn’t hold out…”
Things. So. My older, “honest” friends had poisoned themselves. And what would have happened if instead of going to the Record I had gone to Kazan? Just now, a week ago? No, that’s nonsense. They would have been the same as they had been in September. I would have sat with them for an evening, they would have complained, as always—and that very night, perhaps, poisoned themselves. Things were going badly. It was impossible to work.
After managing so long, they had given up.
Somehow this didn’t shake me. Strangely, it was even as if I had expected it. Or had I just got used to the unexpected happening?
I think about them, though. I feel melancholy, but this melancholy is also because of the dark November thaw. I can’t stand thaws.
I think about myself as well. My life is going relatively well. I’m young, single, not much money, but enough to get by, because I don’t demand too much. I’ve been kept on at the university, getting ready to take my master’s examination, I love my work … that is, I’ve always loved it. Those “years of transformation”4 (which didn’t transform anything after all) shook me up, took hold of me then, and I … but no, it’s no good reminiscing about that. I don’t want to, don’t like to. It’s all past now; everything’s changed. I’m content like this. Peacefully doing what I do. And why did these suicides suddenly come to mind? I don’t know. Whatever you start looking into starts to get into you. Like now with my old couple in Kazan … The reason—things were bad. The reason—they stole my new jacket. The reason … what else?
There is no reason. And “as far as the result is concerned”—what’s the difference? None whatsoever.
November 24
Today I went to the “psycho-metaphysical” society. I never have liked societies, but I was suddenly drawn to this one. The place was packed. What was it that attracted all these people?
Many familiar faces. Although as a rule I try to avoid people I know. Got to talking with just one fellow I’ve always liked—a young lawyer connected with literature.
We chatted about a recent comic duel between two third-rate poets.
“What did they do it for?” I say. “All they did was amuse people and lose a boot.”5
“Yes … But you know, somehow, I looked into it a bit: they were terribly tired of life. Had it up to here.”
This was unexpected and hardly believable. I smiled. “And so they lost a boot?”
“Well, they did their best. But I assure you, you can feel it in them.”
I left him. From a distance I took another look at my friend. He was just standing there, and his expression was cheerful. But he looked a little weak, abandoned, as if his legs were buckling slightly. I wanted to go back and ask him, hadn’t he “had it up to here” with life? But I didn’t. He wouldn’t know, anyway. His expression was cheerful. And anyway it’s beside the point that one gets tired of life! I went into the salon. Took up my place near the door.
I heard neither the lecture nor the debate. Just kept looking at how everyone sat and listened. They sat there as usual. Quietly. Didn’t move around much. And somehow carefully, as if they were made of glass. For the first time I noticed this new, limp calmness in the crowd—a cautious and indifferent quietude. And it wasn’t that they were bored—not at all! They were just sitting the way they sit.
There were so many of them. Who among them will finally break down tomorrow, unable to bear that their jacket was stolen, or something else? Who among them broke down yesterday and happened to be saved in time, like my Rocky Katy?
I don’t know. And they themselves don’t know. Not the people at the Record, and not these here … And even my colleagues from Kazan didn’t know until the last minute that they would drink the poison, that they had
drunk it.
And when did this all happen? Something so enormous happened, and no one noticed. What kind of people are these? Perhaps they’re not people at all!
I felt as if I’d been physically struck. I left immediately, went home on foot, deep in thought the whole time. Yes, yes, now it was completely clear. An example had made everything clear.
What had helped me was a novel by Wells. Suddenly it had come to mind, like a bolt of lightning. Two earth people landed on the moon. There were a bunch of creatures living there already. They were like ants that stood on their hind legs—a little shorter than people. There were only the two people, and whole battalions of hostile giant ants began to move against them, in some kind of subterranean tunnels. It seemed this would be the end. But the people suddenly noticed that these ants were extraordinarily weak and fragile. At the merest touch—of a twig or a finger—they crumpled up and fell down dead. Not only that, but the ants themselves, if they even just brushed up against something, would fall apart; their legs would twist up awkwardly, one after another, and down they’d go with the life knocked out of them. And so their dead bodies ended up rolling all around the cavern.
And now people are quietly turning into something like those ants. When did it happen, how long has it been going on, and why?
It was as if someone had saturated the air with undetectable vapours that had hidden powers of transformation; and everyone was breathing it, from the Record to the Psycho-Metaphysical Society, from St. Peterburg to Kazan and Saratov—everywhere, everyone; and they were growing weak and fragile and dropping dead. Dropping dead, from a human standpoint, for almost no reason at all. The ant itself doesn’t think about it, doesn’t expect it … accidentally tripping over something, he’s already down, broken apart, already dead, to his own surprise.
What sort of vapours are these? When did this poison spread over our earth? Who has made people into ants, so vulnerable to death?
November 25
I slept well. No dreams. This morning it was a little lighter, at least you can read, once your eyes grow accustomed, without a lamp.
The following particulars were in the New Times (I’m purposely copying out the whole article—it is genuine; documents are boring, but edifying). This one is from yesterday, St. Catherine’s day:
“… Riga Blvd.; worker Alexandra Smirnov, 15, went to her grandmother’s house and as they were talking suddenly drank a bottle of vinegar essence. She is in critical condition. Alexandra Sergeyev, 17, was found on the embankment of Obvodny Canal after she poisoned herself with liquid ammonia. Disappointment in life. At 3 Mogilev St., Ivan Filev, 29, a mechanic, drank vinegar essence. In Damm’s fabric-dyeing workshop, Ivan Philippov, 23, poisoned himself with sulphuric acid. On Maly Ave., Alexander Maslennikov, after an argument with his wife, took vinegar essence. That same evening an unidentified young man threw himself into the Obvodny Canal. Breaking through the ice, he disappeared beneath the water. His body has not been found. Anna Zakharova, 16, took vinegar essence and died at Obukhovsky Hospital. On the same day St. Petersburg court bailiff V. K. Kosminsky was found in his flat, having hanged himself. He was 65. The reason is unknown. At 20 First-Company-of-the-Izmailovsky-Regiment St., retired colonel V. G. Petrovich, 70, cut his own throat. He had been living on his pension, never married, left no note, in critical condition…”
That seems like enough already, doesn’t it? But there’s more: two unidentified girls hired a driver and drank a bottle of vinegar essence while riding in the cab.
In another paper I came upon an interview with Professor Przibytek. Oh, these endless interviews! But today’s ended very sensibly:
“‘I’m not saying,’” the professor declared firmly, ‘that we don’t need to fight against the self-poisonings, but that in the end, it is futile. No matter what efforts we make, and who makes them and how they try to help, nothing at all will come of it.’”
Well said! How does one combat the possibility that an ant-Natasha will have her jacket stolen, that an ant-Filev will argue with his wife, that student B. will be disappointed in life, and that ants everywhere will inevitably slip and fall?
The problem isn’t that they will slip and fall; it’s a more serious problem, namely, that everyone on earth is going around on ant legs instead of human legs.
This evening I headed off to the Record. None of my acquaintances were there. I went out on Ligovka Street and walked for a long time, turning into neighbouring lanes as well; I saw some people, but didn’t want to talk—I was looking for the people I knew. I did ask one girl about Matara; it seems she is very well-known around here. Didn’t find out anything useful.
I stopped by two teahouses. Nothing. It was warm and windy, though not terribly wet. At least this sort of weather is possible to bear.
I was ready to head home, when suddenly I caught sight of a familiar, bobbing figure in the shadows just around the corner.
I caught up and softly called him: “Hey, Convert!”
Convert turned and looked at me with hostility:“Whattaya want?”
“What’s wrong? Want to drop in at a teahouse? Where did everybody disappear to?”
Convert kept on looking sullenly at me. “Naw, mister, you’d better go about your own business and not hang around here.”
“Don’t you go off the wall, then,” I raised my voice at him. “If you’re so busy, go to the devil, and I’ll go looking for Johnny Khan.”
The shouting had its effect, as it always does. Convert danced up closer to me, and looking around him, muttered, “Pardon me, the thing is, I’ve been put on notice for a while now. They even made me turn in my student’s cap. And, pardon me, you won’t find Johnny Khan.”
“Why is that?’
“Because. The state’s feeding him these days.”
“Really?! Has he been there for long?’
“Long, not so long,” Convert whispered, moving even closer, “but now he’s done for. He smashed a policeman in the snout, pardon the expression!”
“How about that! He must have been drunk?”
“Not at all! We had a little scandal here, of course, everything would have been all right, but Johnny, it was like he exploded, how he went at it with his fists! And then a knife was found … Ah, the hell with him, dammit all,” Convert added, suddenly growing angry. “He ought not to get other people mixed up in his affairs, the idiot.”
“All right, all right, good-bye then,” I said. “You all went mad ages ago, you can all go to the devil for all I care!”
“That’s for sure, we’re all mad. But I, begging your pardon, as you’ve always been so gracious … At least I appreciate a conversation. You were interested in Rocky Katy so you could make your observations … But now those two girls have done themselves in.”
“What are you talking about? What two girls? Why don’t you go and get yourself a drink, if that’s how it is? As for me, I’m heading home.”
“Thank you,” Convert pronounced with dignity, putting away my rouble. (I wasn’t in the habit of lavishing money on them, but why not—I’ll never see him again).
“I thank you from the heart. But it’s true about the girls. Darla and Barb. They hailed a cab and tossed off a draught. Their driver took them straight to Obukhovsky Hospital.”
“To Obukhovsky?”
“Where else would he take them? Not to the Winter Palace, that’s for sure!”
He giggled idiotically. I turned sharply away from him. So that was who the “unidentified girls” in the newspaper were! Barb and Darla, stupid, cheerful little girls, like sparrows! But they were no sparrows at all. They were moon ants. “Suddenly” there’s something unpleasant. “Suddenly” a ten-kopeck piece buys the poison and “suddenly” they drink it down. And then … “It hurts, but I’m fine!” as Tina’s sister said “after the sacrament.” She slipped and crushed her wings.
A stale thaw wind took my breath away. I waited until it passed, and went on.
November 27, 3 a.m.
> It’s finished. Let today be the last day of my journal, the day I went to Obukhovsky to see my cheerful little ants. And when I finally understood what I needed to understand. Close up, little notebook! Lie wherever you like! I just don’t need you anymore.
It was not easy to find out anything about those girls in that cursed hospital. But I was persistent. I decided that I wouldn’t go away without an answer. The people were busy and soon got tired of me. And when I finally got to see them, I saw that there was nothing particular to find out.
They told me that Darla died yesterday, and Barb had been unconscious for more than a day and would die soon. They offered to let me go in to her, but I didn’t go to see Barb lying unconscious.
I went back home and now I’m sitting here in my usual room, with my usual papers and books, with the green lamp that always smells slightly of kerosene.
Moon ants … And why didn’t it occur to me right away (it just now occurred to me) that I, too, I myself am a moon ant? Because for me this is the most important thing. Only now do I understand. I understand that it could not have been otherwise. Because I’m suffocated by the same asphyxia, poisoned by the same transparent, invisible, evil gas that has spread over my earth and turned people—little by little—into fragile, flimsy, vulnerable ants. None of us thinks about death, we don’t see it coming—because it is too close, too—right there.
They kill people, knock them down like ants, hang them—and we kill ourselves, get knocked down, hang ourselves—either way we die, and it’s all the same “as far as the result is concerned,” as John Khan said. And you yourself might even kill for the sake of one rouble and then drink it up. Again the “result is the same,” because it’s death—your own, in the end. And that way one worthless corpse will pile on top of another in a heap: just like the ants sprawled one on top of another in the cavern in the moon. And why not let them?
Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence Page 20