Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence

by Lodge, Kirsten; Rosen, Margo Shohl; Dashevsky, Grigory

  “But why carts?” Nemovetsky smiled, although he felt uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know. Carts. One, then another … forever.”

  The darkness stealthily thickened, and the storm cloud had already passed over their heads and seemed to be glancing back into their now pale, lowered faces. And with increasing frequency the dark figures of ragged, dirty women appeared, as though the deep pits—dug who knows why—were casting them to the surface, and their wet hems fluttered uneasily. They appeared singly or in twos and threes, and their voices sounded loud and strangely lonely in the frozen air.

  “Who are those women? Where did they all come from?” asked Zinochka timorously and softly.

  Nemovetsky knew who the women were, and he was frightened that they had happened upon such a bad and dangerous place, but he calmly answered, “I don’t know. They’re just there. Don’t talk about them. Look, now we just go through this little wood, and then we’ll see the gates and the town. It’s a pity we came out so late.”

  It seemed funny to her that he said “late,” because they had gone out at four o’clock, and she glanced at him and smiled. But his brow remained furrowed, and she suggested, comforting and reassuring him, “Let’s go. I’d like some tea. And anyway, the forest is already near.”

  “Yes, let’s go.”

  When they entered the forest and the treetops silently closed over their heads, it got very dark, but seemed cosy and peaceful.

  “Give me your hand,” Nemovetsky suggested. She hesitatingly gave her hand, and the light contact seemed to chase away the dark. Their hands were motionless and they didn’t press one another at all, and Zinochka even moved a little away from her companion, but all their consciousness was concentrated on how it felt at that tiny little place on their bodies where their hands were touching. And again they wanted to speak about beauty and the mysterious power of love, but to speak in a way that wouldn’t destroy the silence, to speak not with words, but with looks. And they thought they should look at each other, and they wanted to, but they couldn’t bring themselves to do it.

  “Oh, look! More people!” Zinochka said gaily.

  III

  In a clearing, where it was lighter, three people were sitting near an emptied bottle and silently, expectantly watching them approach. One, clean-shaven like an actor, gave a laugh and an appreciative whistle.

  Nemovetsky’s heart sank and nearly stopped beating, his alarm was so great, but as if propelled from behind, he kept walking straight towards the men, who were sitting alongside the path. They continued to wait, and their three motionless pairs of eyes were dark and frightening. And, vaguely hoping that these sombre, ragged men with their threatening silence would be kindly disposed towards him, to indicate his helplessness and arouse their compassion, Nemovetsky asked, “Where can we get through to the gates? Here?”

  But they didn’t answer. The clean-shaven one whistled something indistinct and mocking while the other two remained silent and stared with solemn and ominous intensity. They were drunk and malicious, and they wanted love and destruction. One of them, red-cheeked and bloated, half-rose onto his elbows, then without haste, like a bear, leaned his weight on his paws and stood up, sighing heavily. His companions gave him a passing glance, and again stared fixedly at Zinochka.

  “I’m frightened,” she mouthed, moving only her lips.

  Without hearing the words, Nemovetsky understood her from the weight of her hand in his. And, trying to maintain a calm appearance, but feeling the fateful inevitability of whatever was about to happen, he passed on with firm, even steps. And the three pairs of eyes grew closer, flashed by, and then were behind them. “We’d better run,” thought Nemovetsky, and he answered himself, “No, better not to run.”

  “Right sickly, that fellow, more’s the pity,” said the third one, a bald man with a skimpy reddish beard. “But the girl is pretty. Every man should be so lucky.”

  All three laughed in a somewhat forced way.

  “Sir, just two words!” said the tall one in a thick, bass voice, and he looked at his companions.

  They began to get up.

  Nemovetsky continued walking without looking back.

  “Better stop when you’re being asked to,” said the red-bearded one. “Or else you might get…”

  “We’re talking to you!” croaked the tall one, and in two leaps he caught up with them.

  A massive hand came down on Nemovetsky’s shoulder and shook him. Turning around, he found a pair of round, bulging and terrifying eyes staring him in the face. They were so close, it was as if he were looking through a magnifying glass, and he could clearly make out their bloodshot veins and a yellowish pus on the lashes. And letting go of Zinochka’s mute hand, he dug around in his pocket and mumbled, “Money! Here you go. A pleasure.”

  The bulging eyes got even rounder and brightened. And when Nemovetsky turned his own eyes away from them, the tall one stepped back a little and, without swinging, gave Nemovetsky a hook to the jaw. Nemovetsky’s head jerked back, his teeth clicked, his cap tipped down over his forehead and fell off, and waving his arms, he fell backward. Silently, without crying out, Zinochka turned and ran for all she was worth. The clean-shaven one gave a long, strange cry: “A-a-a!..”

  And shouting, he sped after her.

  Nemovetsky jumped unsteadily to his feet, but before he could even straighten up a blow to the back of the head knocked him down again. There were two of them, and he was alone, weak and unaccustomed to fighting, but he struggled for a long time, scratching with his nails like a woman, sobbing with unconscious despair and gnashing. When he finally went limp, they picked him up and carried him; he resisted, but there was a roaring in his ears and he couldn’t understand what was happening to him, and he sagged helplessly in their arms. The last thing he saw was a piece of red beard going almost into his mouth, and behind it the darkness of the forest and the light sweater of the running girl. She ran silently and quickly, as she had just the other day while playing tag—and the clean-shaven one sped after her, catching up with his short strides. And then Nemovetsky sensed emptiness around him, and terrified, he flew downward, hit the ground with a force that exploded through his whole body, and lost consciousness.

  The tall one and the one with the red beard, having thrown Nemovetsky into a gully, stood there for a while, listening for sounds from the bottom. But their faces and eyes were seeking out Zinochka. From the forest a high, half-smothered woman’s scream was heard and immediately died out.

  “Son of a bitch!” exclaimed the tall one angrily, and set off at a run, breaking through the brush like a bear.

  “Me too! Me too!” yelled the red-bearded one in his thin little voice, setting off after him. He was feeble and out of breath; in the fight he had hurt his knee, and he was annoyed that even though he was the one who had had the idea about the girl, he would be the last to get her. He stopped to take a breath, gave his knee a rub, put a finger up to his nose, blew it, and again set off at a run, plaintively yelling, “Me too! Me too!”

  A dark storm cloud had already spread over the whole sky, and the dark, quiet night had begun. In the darkness the rather short figure of the red-bearded one soon disappeared, but the uneven patter of his feet could be heard for a long time, as could the rustle of parting leaves and the shattering, plaintive cry, “Me too! Hey, lads, me too!”

  IV

  Dirt had got into Nemovetsky’s mouth and grated against his teeth. And the first and strongest thing he sensed as he came to was the dense and tranquil smell of earth. His head felt heavy, as if filled with dull lead, so that it was hard to turn; his whole body ached, and his shoulder hurt badly, but nothing was broken. Nemovetsky sat for some time looking upwards, without any thoughts or recollections. Above him dangled a bush with broad, black leaves, through which the now clear sky could be seen. The storm cloud had passed without a single drop of rain, and it had made the air dry and light, and high up in the middle of the sky rose a thin crescent moon, its
edge transparent and melting. It was living out its last nights and shone in a cold, sad and lonely way. Small wisps of clouds were skimming fast in the heights, where a strong wind evidently continued to blow. They did not, however, cover up the moon, but cautiously skirted it. The mysterious depth of the night soaring over the earth was palpable in the loneliness of the moon, the timidity of the high, bright clouds and the blowing of wind not felt below.

  Nemovetsky remembered everything that had happened, and he didn’t believe it. Everything that had taken place was so terrifying and unlike the truth, which couldn’t possibly be so awful, and he himself, sitting in the middle of the night and looking from somewhere below at an upside-down crescent moon and rushing clouds—he was just as strange and unlike his real self. And he thought that this was an ordinary bad dream, very bad and vile. And all those many women they had met were likewise part of the dream.

  “It can’t be true,” he affirmed, shaking his heavy head weakly. “It can’t be.”

  He stretched out his hand, groping for his cap so he could go, but his cap wasn’t there. And the fact that it wasn’t there suddenly made everything clear, and he realised that what he had gone through had not been a bad dream, but the awful truth. In the next minute, faint with horror, he had already clambered upwards, fallen back along with the crumbling earth, and clambered up again, grabbing onto the bush’s supple branches.

  After climbing out, he set off straight ahead at a run, without thinking and without choosing a direction, and for a long time he ran in circles among the trees. Just as suddenly, for no reason, he ran in the other direction, and again the branches scraped his face, and again everything seemed like a dream. And it seemed to Nemovetsky that there had been a time when something like this had happened to him before: the darkness, the unseen branches, the scraped face, and him running with his eyes closed and thinking that it was all a dream. Nemovetsky stopped, then sat down in the uncomfortable and unusual posture of a man sitting on the bare ground, with nothing to raise him. And again he thought about his cap and said, “This is me. I should kill myself. I should kill myself, even if it is a dream.”

  He jumped up and started running again, but collected himself and instead began to walk slowly, dimly picturing the place where they had been attacked. It was totally dark in the forest, but sometimes a pale ray from the moon broke through and played tricks, illuminating the white tree trunks, and the forest would seem full of immobile and strangely silent people. And this had happened before, and it seemed like a dream.

  “Zinaida Nikolaevna!” Nemovetsky called, pronouncing the first word loudly, but the second quietly, as if between the sounds he were losing hope that someone would respond.

  And no one responded.

  Then he happened upon the path, recognised it and reached the clearing. And once again, this time fully, he understood that it was all true, and in horror he began to run aimlessly, crying, “Zinaida Nikolaevna! It’s me! Me!”

  No one called back, and turning his face to where the town ought to be, Nemovetsky distinctly shouted out, “He-lp me-ee!…”

  And again he started running about, whispering something, rummaging through the bushes, when before his very feet something dull and white showed, looking like a still patch of weak light. It was Zinochka lying there.

  “Lord! What is this?!” Nemovetsky said with dry eyes, but in the voice of a man who is crying, and, dropping to his knees, he touched the woman lying there.

  His hand lit on a naked body, smooth, supple, cold, but not dead, and with a shudder Nemovetsky jerked his hand back.

  “My dear, my darling, it’s me,” he whispered, seeking her face in the darkness.

  And he reached out his hand once more, this time in the other direction, and again he felt her naked body, and no matter where he put his hand, he met everywhere with that naked woman’s body, smooth, supple, and seeming to warm beneath his touching hand. Sometimes he quickly jerked his hand back, but sometimes he lingered, and just as he, tattered and missing his cap, had seemed unreal to himself, in the same way he could not connect his image of Zinochka with this naked body. And he imagined with sickening clarity what had taken place here, what people had done to this mute female body—and a strange kind of buzzing response surged through his limbs. Stretching so far over that all his joints cracked, he stared dully at the patch of white and knit his brows like a man thinking. The horror of what had happened cooled inside him, hardened into a ball, and lay in his soul like something unrelated to him and powerless.

  “Lord, what is this?” he repeated, but the words sounded false and hollow.

  He felt for her heart: her heartbeat was faint, but even, and when he bent down to her face he detected weak breathing, as if Zinochka weren’t in a deep faint, but simply sleeping. And he quietly called her: “Zinochka, it’s me.”

  And suddenly it seemed to him for some reason that it would be better if she didn’t wake up for a while. Holding his breath and furtively glancing around, he cautiously stroked her cheek and kissed first her closed eyes, then her lips, which gently parted under the firm kiss. Frightened that she would wake up, he pulled back and froze. But the body was mute and immobile, and in its helplessness and accessibility there was something pitiful and irritating, and irresistibly attractive. With profound tenderness and stealthy, hesitant caution, Nemovetsky tried to toss the remains of her dress onto her, and the dual sensation of the material and the naked body was as piercing as a knife, and as incomprehensible as madness. He was both her defender and her attacker, and he looked to the surrounding forest and darkness for help, but the forest and darkness gave none. There had been a banquet of beasts here, and, suddenly cast out of his comprehensible, simple, human life, he caught the scent of hot lust flooding the air, and his nostrils flared.

  “It’s me! Me!” he senselessly repeated without comprehending, brimming with memories of how he had once seen a white band of skirt and the black silhouette of a foot tenderly embraced by its little shoe. And listening intently to Zinochka’s breathing, never glancing away from the place where her face was, he moved his hand. He listened again and moved it further.

  “What is this?” he cried out loudly and despairingly, and he sprang up, horrified at himself.

  Zinochka’s face flashed before his eyes for just a second and disappeared. He tried to understand that this body was Zinochka, with whom he had been walking today, and who had talked about infinity, but he couldn’t. He tried to feel the horror of what had happened, but the horror was too great if one were to think that it was really true, and he was unable to feel it.

  “Zinaida Nikolaevna!” he shouted, pleading. “Why? Zinaida Nikolaevna?”

  But the ravaged body remained mute, and Nemovetsky fell to his knees, babbling nonsense. He pleaded, threatened, said he would kill himself, shook the woman lying there, lifting, turning and pressing her to him and all but sinking his nails into her flesh. The slightly warmed body gently yielded to his efforts, obediently complying with his movements, and all this was so frightening, incomprehensible and bestial that Nemovetsky once again sprang to his feet and cried in a broken voice, “Help!” But the sound was forced and false.

  And again he threw himself upon the unprotesting body, kissing, crying, feeling a kind of abyss before him—dark, frightening, and drawing him in. Nemovetsky was gone, Nemovetsky had been left behind somewhere, and that other one now kneaded her hot, pliant body with passionate cruelty, and said with the wily grin of a madman, “Answer me! Or don’t you want to? I love you, I love you.”

  With the same wily grin he brought his bulging eyes right up to Zinochka’s face and whispered, “I love you. You don’t want to speak, but you’re smiling, I see. I love you, I do, I do.”

  He tightly embraced the soft, limp body, which had roused a wild passion in him by its lifeless submissiveness; he wrung his hands and soundlessly whispered, having retained only one human capability—to lie.

  “I love you. We won’t tell anyone, and no
one will find out. And I’ll marry you—tomorrow, whenever you want. I love you. I’m going to kiss you, and you answer me back, all right? Zinochka…”

  And forcefully he pressed his lips to hers, feeling how his teeth pressed into her flesh, and in the pain and force of the kiss he lost the last glimmer of thought. It seemed to him that the girl’s lips quivered. For a single moment a flashing fiery horror lit up his mind, revealing before him a black abyss.

  And the black abyss swallowed him up.

  I am evil and weak. With my mind

  I have crossed the earthly sea…

  Just as sorrow once reigned,

  Now in my soul rules defeat…

  For the young spring of good

  And passion long past I long,

  I await another unearthly power,

  Another summer morn…

  I am evil and weak. I seek in vain…

  I flag in my faith—I spitefully resist,

  But it’s hard to resist … I grow feeble and sway,

  And quickly towards death I slip…

  Alexander Blok, 1899

  Children of Night

  Fixing our gaze

  On the glimmering east,

  Children of sorrow, children of night,

  Will our prophet come? We wait to see.

  We sense the unknown,

  In our hearts we believe,

  Dying, we yearn

  For worlds unconceived.

  Our words are defiant,

  But doomed, we all know,

  Too early precursors

  Of a spring that’s too slow.

  We are the resurrection,

  And, in the dark of night,

  The crow of a cock,

  And the cold morning light.

  For a novel beauty

  We transgress all limits;

  We break all laws,

  And our moans are our hymns.