Nilushka By Maxim Gorky

The timber-built town of Buev, a town which has several times
been burnt to the ground, lies huddled upon a hillock above the
river Obericha. Its houses, with their many-colored shutters,
stand so crowded together as to form around the churches and
gloomy law courts a perfect maze–the streets which intersect the
dark masses of houses meandering aimlessly hither and thither,
and throwing off alleyways as narrow as sleeves, and feeling
their way along plot-fences and warehouse walls, until, viewed
from the hillock above, the town looks as though someone has
stirred it up with a stick and dispersed and confused everything
that it contains. Only from the point where Great Zhitnaia
Street takes its rise from the river do the stone mansions of
the local merchants (for the most part German colonists) cut a
grim, direct line through the packed clusters of buildings
constructed of wood, and skirt the green islands of gardens, and
thrust aside the churches; where-after, continuing its way
through Council Square (still running inexorably straight), the
thoroughfare stretches to, and traverses, a barren plain of
scrub, and so reaches the pine plantation belonging to the
Monastery of St. Michael the Archangel where the latter is
lurking behind a screen of old red spruces of which the
denseness seems to prop the very heavens, and which on clear,
sunny days can be seen rising to mark the spot whence the
monastery’s crosses, like the gilded birds of the forest of
eternal silence, scintillate a constant welcome.

At a distance of some ten houses before Zhitnaia Street
debouches upon the plain which I have mentioned there begin to
diverge from the street and to trend towards a ravine, and
eventually to lose themselves in the latter’s recesses, the
small, squat shanties with one or two windows apiece which
constitute the suburb of Tolmachikha. This suburb, it may be
said, had as its original founders the menials of a landowner
named Tolmachev–a landowner who, after emancipating his serfs
some thirteen years before all serfs were legally emancipated,
[In the year 1861] was, for his action, visited with such
bitter revilement that, in dire offence at the same, he ended by
becoming an inmate of the monastery, and there spending ten
years under the vow of silence, until death overtook him amid a
peaceful obscurity born of the fact that the authorities had
forbidden his exhibition to pilgrims or strangers.

It is in the very cots originally apportioned to Tolmachev’s
menials, at the time, fifty years ago, when those menials were
converted into citizens, that the present inhabitants of the
suburb dwell. And never have they been burnt out of those homes,
although the same period has seen all Buev save Zhitnaia Street
consumed, and everywhere that one may delve within the township
one will be sure to come across undestroyed hearthstones.

The suburb, as I have said, stands at the hither end and on the
sloping side of one of the arms of a deep, wooded ravine, with
its windows facing towards the ravine’s yawning mouth, and
affording a view direct to the Mokrie (certain marshes beyond
the Obericha) and the swampy forest of firs into which the dim
red sun declines. Further on, the ravine trends across the
plain,then bends round towards the western side of the town,
cats away the clayey soil with an appetite which each spring
increases, and which, carrying the soil down to the river, is
gradually clogging the river’s flow, diverting the muddy
water towards the marshes, and converting those marshes into a
lagoon outright. The fissure in question is named ” The Great
Ravine,” and has its steep flanks so overgrown with chestnuts
and laburnums that even in summertime its recesses are cool and
moist, and so serve as a convenient trysting place for the
poorer lovers of the suburb and the town, and witness their
tea drinkings and frequently fatal quarrels, as well as being
used by the more well-to-do for a dumping ground for rubbish of
the nature of deceased dogs, cats, and horses.

Pleasantly singing, there scours the bottom of the ravine the
brook known as the Zhandarmski Spring, a brook celebrated
throughout Buev for its crystal-cold water, which is so icy of
temperature that even on a burning day it will make the teeth
ache. This water the denizens of Tolmachikha account to be their
peculiar property; wherefore they are proud of it, and drink it
to the exclusion of any other, and so live to a green old age
which in some cases cannot even reckon its years. And by way of
a livelihood, the men of the suburb indulge in hunting, fishing,
fowling, and thieving (not a single artisan proper does the
suburb contain, save the cobbler Gorkov–a thin, consumptive
skeleton of surname Tchulan); while, as regards the women, they,
in winter, sew and make sacks for Zimmel’s mill, and pull tow,
and in summer they scour the plantation of the monastery for
truffles and other produce, and the forest on the other side of
the river for huckleberries. Also, two of the suburb’s women
practise as fortune tellers, while two others conduct an easy
and highly lucrative trade in prostitution.

The result is that the town, as distinguished from the suburb,
believes the men of the latter to be one and all thieves, and
the women and girls of the suburb to be one and all disreputable
characters. Hence the town strives always to restrict and
extirpate the suburb, while the suburbans retaliate upon the
townsfolk with robbery and arson and murder, while despising
those townsfolk for their parsimony, decorum, and avarice, and
detesting the settled, comfortable mode of life which they lead.

So poor, for that matter, is the suburb that never do even
beggars resort thither, save when drunk. No, the only creatures
which resort thither are dogs which subsist no one knows how as
predatorily they roam from court to court with tails tucked
between their flanks, and bloodless tongues hanging down, and
legs ever prepared, on sighting a human being, to bolt into the
ravine, or to let down their owners upon subservient bellies in
expectation of a probable kick or curse.

In short, every cranny of every cot in the place, with the grimy
panes of their windows, and their lathed roofs overgrown with
velvety moss, breathes forth the universal, deadly hopelessness
induced by Russia’s crushing poverty.

In the Tolmachikhans’ backyards grow only alders, elders, and
weeds. Everywhere docks thrust up heads through cracks in the
fences to catch at the legs or the skirts of passers-by, while
masses of nettles squeeze their way under fences to sting little
children. Apropos, the latter are all thin and hungry, in the
highest degree quarrelsome, and addicted to prolonged
lamentation. Also, each spring sees a certain proportion of
their number carried off by diphtheria, while scarlatina and
measles are as epidemic among them as is typhoid among their

Thus the sounds of life most to be heard throughout the suburb
are the sounds either of weeping or of mad cursing. In general,
however, life in Tolmachikha is lived quietly and lethargically.
So much is this the case that in spring even the cats forbear to
squall save in crushed and subdued accents. The only local
person to sing is Felitzata; and even she does so only when she
is drunk. It may be said that Felitzata is a saucy, cunning
procuress, and does her singing in a peculiarly thick and
rasping voice which, with many croaks and hiatuses, necessitates
much closing of the eyes, and a great protruding of the apple of
the throat. Indeed, it is only the women of the place who,
turbulently quarrelsome and hysterically noisy, spend most of
the day in scouring the streets with skirts tucked up, and never
cease begging for pinches of salt or flour or spoonfuls of oil
as they rail and screech at and beat their children, and thrust
withered breasts into their babies’ mouths, and rush and fling
themselves about, and bawl in a constant endeavor to right
their woebegone condition. Yes, all are disheveled and dirty,
and have wizened, bony faces, and the restless eyes of thieves.
Never, indeed, is a woman plump of figure, save at the period
when she is ill, and her eyes are dim, and her gait is labored.
Yet until they are forty, the majority of the women become
pregnant with every winter, and on the arrival of spring may be
seen walking abroad with large stomachs and blue hollows under
the eyes. And even this does not prevent them from working with
the same desperate energy as when they are not with child. In
short, the inhabitants of the place resemble needles and threads
with which some rough, clumsy, and impatient hand is for ever
trying to darn a ragged cloth which as constantly parts and


The chief person of repute in the suburb is my landlord, one
Antipa Vologonov–a little old man who keeps a shop of “odd
wares,” and also lends money on pledge.

Unfortunately, Antipa is a sufferer from a long-standing tendency
to rheumatism, which has left him bow-legged, and has twisted and
swollen his fingers to the extent that they will not bend. Hence,
he always keeps his hands tucked into his sleeves, though
seemingly he has the less use for them in that, even when he
withdraws them from their shelter, he does so as cautiously as
though he were afraid of their becoming dislocated.

On the other hand, he never loses his temper, and he never grows

“Neither of those things suits me,” he will say, “for my heart
is dilated, and might at any moment fail.”

As for his face, it has high cheekbones which in places blossom
into dark red blotches; an expression as calm as that of the
face of a Khirghiz; a chin whence dangle wisps of mingled grey,
red, and flaxen hair of a perpetually moist appearance; oblique
and ever-changing eyes which are permanently contracted; a pair
of thick, parti-coloured eyebrows which cast deep shadows over
the eyes; and temples whereon a number of blue veins struggle
with an irregular, sparse coating of bristles. Finally, about
his whole personality there is something ever variable and

Also, his gait is irritatingly slow; and the more so owing to
his coat, which, of a cut devised by himself, consists, as it
were, of cassock, sarafan [jacket], and waistcoat in one. As
often as not he finds the skirts of the garment cumbering his
legs; whereupon he has to stop and give them a kick. And thus it
comes about that permanently the skirts are ragged and torn.

“No need for hurry,” is his customary remark. “Always, in
time, does one win to one’s pitch in the marketplace.”

See also  No. 126 [from The Spectator] by Joseph Addison

His speech is cast in rounded periods, and displays a great love
for ecclesiastical terms. On the occurrence of one such term, he
pauses thereafter as though mentally he were adding to the term
a very thick, a very black, full stop. Yet always he will
converse with anyone, and at great length–his probable motive
being a desire to leave behind him the reputation of a wise old

In his shanty are three windows facing on to the street, and a
partition-wall which divides it into two rooms of unequal size.
In the larger room, which contains a Russian stove, he himself
lives; in the smaller room I have my abode. By a passage the two
are separated from a storeroom where, closeted behind a door to
which there are a heavy, old-fashioned bolt and many iron and
brass screws, Antipa preserves pledges left by his neighbors,
such as samovars, ikons, winter clothing and the like. Of this
storeroom he always carries the great indentated key at the back
of the strap which upholds his cloth breeches; and, whenever the
police call to ascertain whether he is harboring any stolen
goods, a long time ensues whilst he is shifting the key round to
his stomach, and again a long time whilst he is unfastening it
from the belt. Meanwhile, he says pompously to the Superintendent
or the Deputy Superintendent:

“Never do I take in goods of that kind. Of the truth of what I
say, your honor, you have more than once assured yourself in

Also, whenever Antipa sits down the key rattles against the back
or the seat of his chair; whereupon he bends his arm with
difficulty, and feels to see whether or not the key has come
unslung. This I know for the reason that the partition-wall is
not so thick but that I can hear his every breath drawn, and
divine his every movement.

Of an evening, when the misty sun is slanting across the river
towards the auburn belt of pines, and distilling pink vapors
from the sombre vista to be seen through the shaggy mouth of the
ravine, Antipa Vologonov sets out a squat samovar that is dinted
of side, and plated with green oxide on handle, turncock, and
spout. Then he seats himself at his table by the window.

At intervals I hear the evening stillness broken by questions
put in a tone which implies always an expectation of a precise

“Where is Darika?”

“He has gone to the spring for water.” The answer is given
whiningly, and in a thin voice.

“And how is your sister?

“Still in pain.”

“Yes? Well, you can go now.”

Giving a slight cough to clear his throat, the old man begins to
sing in a quavering falsetto:

Once a bullet smote my breast,
And scarce the pang I felt.
But ne’er the pang could be express’d
Which love’s flame since hath dealt!

As the samovar hisses and bubbles, heavy footsteps resound in the
street, and an indistinct voice says:

“He thinks that because he is a Town Councillor he is also

“Yes; such folk are apt to grow very proud.”

“Why, all his brains put together wouldn’t grease one of my

And as the voices die away the old man’s falsetto trickles forth
anew, humming:

“The poor man’s anger… Minika! Hi, you! Come in here, and I
will give you a bit of sugar. How is your father getting on? Is
he drunk at present?”

“No, sober, for he is taking nothing but kvas and cabbage soup.”

“And what is he doing for a living?”

“Sitting at the table, and thinking.”

“And has your mother been beating him again?”

“No–not again.”

“And she–how is she?”

“Obliged to keep indoors.”

“Well, run along with you.”

Softly there next presents herself before the window Felitzata,
a woman of about forty with a hawk-like gleam in her coldly
civil eyes, and a pair of handsome lips compressed into a covert
smile. She is well known throughout the suburb, and once had a
son, Nilushka, who was the local ” God’s fool.” Also she has the
reputation of knowing what is correct procedure on all and
sundry occasions, as well as of being skilled in lamentations,
funeral rites, and festivities in connection with the mustering
of recruits. Lastly she has had a hip broken, so that she walks
with an inclination towards the left.

Her fellow women say of her that her veins contain “a drop of
gentle blood”; but probably the statement is inspired by no
more than the fact that she treats everyone with the same cold
civility. Nevertheless, there is something peculiar about her,
for her hands are slender and have long fingers, and her head
is haughtily poised, and her voice has a metallic ring, even
though the metal has, as it were, grown dull and rusty. Also,
she speaks of everyone, herself included, in the most rough and
downright terms, yet terms which are so simple that, though her
talk may be disconcerting to listen to, it could never be called

For instance, once I overheard Vologonov reproach her for not
leading a more becoming life:

“You ought to have more self-restraint,” said he, “seeing that
you are a lady, and also your own mistress.”

“That is played out, my friend,” she replied. “You see, I have
had very much to bear, for there was a time when such hunger
used to gnaw at my belly as you would never believe. It was then
that my eyes became dazzled with the tokens of shame. So I took
my fill of love, as does every woman. And once a woman has
become a light-o’-love she may as well doff her shift
altogether, and use the body which God has given her. And, after
all, an independent life is the best life; so I hawk myself
about like a pot of beer, and say, ‘Drink of this, anyone who
likes, while it still contains liquor.'”

“It makes one feel ashamed to hear such talk,” said Vologonov
with a sigh. In response she burst out laughing.

“What a virtuous man!” was her comment upon his remark.

Until now Antipa had spoken cautiously, and in an undertone,
whereas the woman had replied in loud accents of challenge.

“Will you come in and have some tea? ” he said next as he leant
out of the window.

“No, I thank you. In passing, what a thing I have heard about

“Do not shout so loud. Of what are you speaking?”

“Oh, of SUCH a thing!”

“Of NOTHING, I imagine.”


“God, who created all things, alone knows everything.”

Whereafter the pair whispered together awhile. Then Felitzata
disappeared as suddenly as she had come, leaving the old man
sitting motionless. At length he heaved a profound sigh, and
muttered to himself.

“Into that Eve’s ears be there poured the poison of the asp! .
. . Yet pardon me, 0h God! Yea, pardon me!”

The words contained not a particle of genuine contrition.
Rather, I believe, he uttered them because he had a weakness not
for words which signified anything, but for words which, being
out of the way, were not used by the common folk of the suburb.


Sometimes Vologonov knocks at the partition-wall with a
superannuated arshin measure which has only fifteen vershoki of
its length remaining. He knocks, and shouts:

“Lodger, would you care to join me in a pot of tea? ”

During the early days of our acquaintanceship he regarded me
with marked and constant suspicion. Clearly he deemed me to be a
police detective. But subsequently he took to scanning my face
with critical curiosity, until at length he said with an air of
imparting instruction:

“Have you ever read Paradise Lost and Destroyed?”

“No,” I replied. “Only Paradise Regained.”

This led him to wag his parti-colored beard in token that ‘be
disagreed with my choice’, and to observe:

“The reason why Adam lost Paradise is that he allowed Eve to
corrupt him. And never did the Lord permit him to regain it. For
who is worthy to return to the gates of Paradise? Not a single
human being.”

And, indeed, I found it a waste of time to dispute the matter, for
he merely listened to what I had to say, and then, without
an attempt at refutation, repeated in the same tone as before,
and exactly in the same words, his statement that ” Adam lost
Paradise for the reason that he allowed Eve to corrupt him.”

Similarly did women constitute our most usual subject of

“You are young,” once he said, ” and therefore a human being
bound to find forbidden fruit blocking your way at every step.
This because the human race is a slave to its love of sin, or,
in other words, to love of the Serpent. Yes, woman constitutes
the prime impediment to everything in life, as history has many
times affirmed. And first and foremost is she the source of
restlessness. ‘Charged with poison, the Serpent shall plunge in
thee her fangs.’ Which Serpent is, of course, our desire of the
flesh, the Serpent at whose instigation the Greeks razed towns
to the ground, and ravaged Troy and Carthagena and Egypt, and
the Serpent which caused an amorous passion for the sister of
Alexander Pavlovitch [The Emperor Alexander I] to bring about
Napoleon’s invasion of Russia. On the other hand, both the
Mohammedan nations and the Jews have from earliest times grasped
the matter aright, and kept their women shut up in their back
premises; whereas WE permit the foulest of profligacy to exist,
and walk hand in hand with our women, and allow them to graduate
as female doctors and to pull teeth, and all the rest of it.
The truth is that they ought not to be allowed to advance beyond
midwife, since it is woman’s business either to serve as a
breeding animal or opprobriously to be called neiskusobrachnaia
neviesta [Maid who hast never tasted of marriage.] Yes, woman’s
business should end there.”

Near the stove there ticks and clicks on the grimy wall that is
papered with “rules and regulations ” and sheets of yellow
manuscript the pendulum of a small clock, with, hanging to one
of its weights, a hammer and a horseshoe, and, to the other, a
copper pestle. Also, in a corner of the room a number of ikons
make a glittering show with their silver applique and the gilded
halos which surmount their figures’ black visages, while a stove
with a ponderous grate glowers out of the window at the greenery
in Zhitnaia Street and beyond the ravine (beyond the ravine
everything looks bright and beautiful), and the dusty, dimly
lighted storeroom across the passage emits a perennial odor of
dried mushroom, tobacco leaves, and hemp oil.

Vologonov stirs his strong, stewed tea with a battered old
teaspoon, and says with a sigh as he sips a little:

See also  How to Deal with Challenges?

“All my life I have been engaged in gaining experience so that
now I know most things, and ought to be listened to with
attention. Usually folk do so listen to me, but though here and
there one may find a living soul, of the rest it may be said: ‘In
the House of David shall terrible things come to pass, and
fire shall consume the spirit of lechery.'”

The words resemble bricks in that they seem, if possible, to
increase the height of the walls of strange and extraneous
events, and even stranger dramas, which loom for ever around, me.

“For example,” continues the old man, “why is Mitri Ermolaev
Polukonov, our ex-mayor, lying dead before his time? Because he
conceived a number of arrogant projects. For example, he sent
his eldest son to study at Kazan– with the result that during
the son’s second year at the University he, the son, brought
home with him a curly-headed Jewess, and said to his father:
‘Without this woman I cannot live–in her are bound up my whole
soul and strength.’ Yes, a pass indeed! And from that day forth
nothing but misfortune befell in that Yashka took to drink, the
Jewess gave way to repining, and Mitri had to go perambulating
the town with piteous invitations to ‘come and see, my brethren,
to what depths I have sunk!’ And though, eventually, the Jewess
died of a bloody flux, of a miscarriage, the past was beyond
mending, and, while the son went to the bad, and took to drink
for good and all, the father ‘fell a victim by night to untimely
death.’ Yes, the lives of two folk were thus undone by ‘the
thorn-bearing company of Judaea.’ Like ourselves, the Hebrew has
a destiny of his own. And destiny cannot be driven out with a
stick. Of each of us the destiny is unhasting. It moves slowly
and quietly, and can never be avoided. ‘Wait,’ it says. ‘ Seek
not to press onward.'”

As he discourses, Vologonov’s eyes ceaselessly change color–now
turning to a dull grey, and wearing a tired expression, and now
becoming blue, and assuming a mournful air, and now (and most
frequently of all) beginning to emit green flashes of an
impartial malevolence.

“Similarly, the Kapustins, once a powerful family, came at
length to dust-became as nothing. It was a family the members of
which were ever in favor of change, and devoted to anything
that was new. In fact, they went and set up a piano! Well, of
them only Valentine is still on his legs, and he (he is a doctor
of less than forty years of age) is a hopeless drunkard, and
saturated with dropsy, and fallen a prey to asthma, so that his
cancerous eyes protrude horribly. Yes, the Kapustins, like the
Polukonovs, may be ‘written down as dead.'”

Throughout, Vologonov speaks in a tone of unassailable
conviction, in a tone implying that never could things happen,
never could things have happened, otherwise than as he has
stated. In fact, in his hands even the most inexplicable, the
most grievous, phenomena of life become such as a law has
inevitably decreed.

“And the same thing will befall the Osmukhins,” he next
remarks. “Let them be a warning to you never to make friends
with Germans, and never to engage in business with them. In
Russia any housewife may brew beer; yet our people will not
drink it–they are more used to spirits. Also, Russian folk like
to attain their object in drinking AT ONCE; and a shkalik of
vodka will do more to sap wit than five kruzhki of beer. Once
our people liked uniform simplicity; but now they are
become like a man who was born blind, and has suddenly acquired
sight. A change indeed! For thirty-three years did Ilya of Murom
[Ilya Murometz, the legendary figure most frequently met with In
Russian bilini (folk songs), and probably identical with Elijah
the Prophet, though credited with many of the attributes proper,
rather, to the pagan god Perun the Thunderer.] sit waiting for
his end before it came; and all who cannot bide patiently in a
state of humility…”

Meanwhile clouds shaped like snow-white swans are traversing the
roseate heavens and disappearing into space, while below them,
on earth, the ravine can be seen spread out like the pelt of a
bear which the broad shoulders of some fabulous giant have
sloughed before taking refuge in the marshes and forest. In fact
the landscape reminds me of sundry ancient tales of marvels, as
also does Antipa Vologonov, the man who is so strangely
conversant with the shortcomings of human life, and so
passionately addicted to discussing them.

For a moment or two he remains silent as sibilantly he purses
his lips and drinks some saffron-colored tea from the saucer
which the splayed fingers of his right hand are balancing on
their tips. Where-after, when his wet mustache has been dried,
his level voice resumes its speech in tones as measured as those
of one reading aloud from the Psalter.

“Have you noticed a shop in Zhitnaia Street kept by an old man
named Asiev? Once that man had ten sons. Six of them, however,
died in infancy. Of the remainder the eldest, a fine singer, was
at once extravagant and a bookworm; wherefore, whilst an
officer’s servant at Tashkend, he cut the throats of his master
and mistress, and for doing so was executed by shooting. As a
matter of fact, the tale has it that he had been making love to
his mistress, and then been thrown over in favor of his master
once more. And another son, Grigori, after being given a high
school education at St. Petersburg, became a lunatic. And
another, Alexei, entered the army as a cavalryman, but is now
acting as a circus rider, and probably has also become a
drunkard. And the youngest son of all, Nikolai, ran away as a
boy, and, eventually arriving in Norway with a precious scheme
for catching fish in the Arctic Ocean, met with failure through
the fact that he had overlooked the circumstance that we
Russians have fish of our own and to spare, and had to have his
interest assigned by his father to a local monastery. So much
for fish of the Arctic Seas! Yet if Nikolai had only waited, if
he had only been more patient, he–”

Here Vologonov lowers his voice, and continues with something of
the growl of an angry dog:

“I too have had sons, one of whom was killed at Kushka (a
document has certified to that effect), another was drowned
whilst drunk, three more died in infancy, and only two are still
alive. Of these last, I know that one is acting as a waiter in a
hotel at Smolensk, while the other, Melenti, was educated for
the Church, sent to study in a seminary, induced to abscond and
get into trouble, and eventually dispatched to Siberia. There
now! Yes, the Russian is what might be called a ‘lightweighted’
individual, an individual who, unless he holds himself down by
the head, is soon carried off by the wind like a chicken’s
feather– for we are too self-confident and restless. Before now,
I myself have been a gull, a man lacking balance: for never does
youth realise its own insignificance, or know how to wait.”

Dissertations of the kind drop from the old man like water from
a leaky pipe on a cold, blustery day in autumn. Wagging his grey
beard, he talks and talks, until I begin to think that he must
be an evil wizard, and master of this remote, barren, swampy,
ravine-pitted region–that he it is who originally planted the
town in this uncomfortable, clayey hollow, and has thrown the
houses into heaps, and entangled the streets, and wantonly
created the town’s unaccountably rude and rough and deadly
existence, and addled men’s brains with disconnected nonsense,
and consumed their hearts with a fear of life. Yes, it comes to
me that it must be he who, during the long six months of winter,
causes cruel snowstorms from the plain to invade the town, and
with frost compresses the buildings of the town until their
rafters crack, and stinging cold brings birds to the ground.
Lastly, I become seized with the idea that it must be he who,
almost every summer, envelops the town in those terrible
visitations of heat by night which seem almost to cause the
houses to melt.

However, as a rule he maintains complete silence, and merely
makes chewing motions with his strong-toothed jaws as he sits
wagging his beard from side to side. At such times there is in
his eyes a bluish fire like the gleam of charcoal, while his
crooked fingers writhe like worms, and his outward appearance
becomes sheerly that of a magician of iniquity.

Once I asked him:

“What in particular ought men to wait for? ”

For a while he sat clasping his beard, and, with contracted
eyes, gazing as at something behind me. Then he said quietly and

“Someday there will arise a Strange Man who will proclaim to
the world the Word to which there never was a beginning. But to
which of us is the hour when that Man will arise known? To none
of us.. And to which of us are known the miracles which that
Word will perform? To none of us.”


Once upon a time there used to glide past the window of my room
the fair, curly, wavering, golden head of Nilushka the idiot, a
lad looking like a thing which the earth has begotten of love.
Yes, Nilushka was like an angel in some sacred picture adorning
the southern or the northern gates of an ancient church, as,
with his flushed face smeared with wax-smoke and oil, and his
light blue eyes gleaming in a cold, unearthly smile, and a frame
clad in a red smock reaching to below his knees, and the soles
of his feet showing black (always he walked on tiptoe), and his
thin calves, as straight and white as the calves of a woman,
covered with golden down, he walked the streets.

Sometimes hopping along on one leg, and smiling, and waving his
arms, and causing the ample folds and sleeves of his smock to
flutter until he seemed to be moving in the midst of a nimbus,
Nilushka would sing in a halting whisper the childish ditty:

0h Lo-ord, pardon me!
Wo-olves run,
And do-ogs run,
And the hunters wait
To kill the wolves.
0h Lo-ord, pardon me!

Meanwhile, he would diffuse a cheering atmosphere of happiness
with which no one in the locality had anything in common. For he
was ever a lighthearted, winning, essentially pure innocent of
the type which never fails to evoke good-natured smiles and
kindly emotions. Indeed, as he roamed the streets, the suburb
seemed to live its life with less clamour, to appear more decent
of outward guise, since the local folk looked upon the imbecile
with far more indulgence than they did upon their own children;
and he was intimate with, and beloved by, even the worst.
Probably the reason for this was that the semblance of flight
amid an atmosphere of golden dust which was his combined with
his straight, slender little figure to put all who beheld him in
mind of churches, angels, God, and Paradise. At all events, all
viewed him in a manner contemplative, interested, and more than
a little deferential.

See also  The Child's Return

A curious fact was the circumstance that whenever Nilushka
sighted a stray gleam from a piece of glass, or the glitter of a
morsel of copper in sunlight, he would halt dead where he was ,
turn grey with the ashiness of death, lose his smile, and remain
dilating to an unnatural extent his clouded and troubled eyes.
And so, with his whole form distorted with horror, and his thin
hand crossing himself, and his knees trembling, and his smock
fluttering around his frail wisp of a body, and his features
growing stonelike, he would, for an hour or more, continue to
stand, until at length someone laid a hand in his, and led him

The tale had it that, in the first instance, born “soft-headed,”
he finally lost his reason, five years before the
period of which I am writing, when a great fire occurred, and
that thenceforth anything, save sunlight, that in any way
resembled fire plunged him into this torpor of dumb dread.
Naturally the people of the suburb devoted to him a great deal
of attention.

“There goes God’s fool,” would be their remark. “It will not
be long before he dies and becomes a Saint, and we fall down and
worship him.”

Yet there were persons who would go so far as to crack rude
jests at his expense. For instance, as he would be skipping
along, with his childish voice raised in his little ditty, some
idler or another would shout from a window, or through the
cranny of a fence:

“Hi, Nilushka! Fire! Fire!”

Whereupon the angel-faced imbecile would sink to earth as though
his legs had been cut away at the knee from under him, and he
would huddle, frantically clutching his golden head in his
permanently soiled hands, and exposing his youthful form to the
dust, under the nearest house or fence.

Only then would the person who had given him the fright repent,
and say with a laugh:

“God in heaven, what a stupid lad this is!”

And, should that person have been asked why he had thus
terrified the boy, he would probably have replied:

“Because it is such sport to do so. As a lad who cannot feel
things as other human beings do, he inclines folk to make fun of

As for the omniscient Antipa Vologonov, the following was his
frequent comment on Nilushka:

“Christ also had to walk in terror. Christ also was persecuted.
Why so? Because ever He endured in rectitude and strength. Men
need to learn what is real and what is unreal. Many are the
sins of earth come of the fact that the seeming is mistaken for
the actual, and that men keep pressing forward when they ought
to be waiting, to be proving themselves.”

Hence Vologonov, like the rest, bestowed much attention upon
Nilushka, and frequently held conversations with him.

“Do you now pray to God,” he said once as he pointed to heaven
with one of his crooked fingers, and with the disengaged hand
clasped his dishevelled, variously coloured beard.

Whereupon Nilushka glanced fearfully at the mysteriously
pointing finger, and, plucking sharply at his forehead,
shoulders, and stomach with two fingers and a thumb, intoned in
thin, plaintive accents:

“Our Father in Heaven–”

“WHICH ART in Heaven.”

“Yes, in the Heaven of Heavens.”

“Ah, well! God will understand. He is the friend of all blessed
ones.” [Idiots; since persons mentally deficient are popularly
deemed to stand in a peculiarly close relation to the Almighty.]

Again, great was Nilushka’s interest in anything spherical.
Also, he had a love for handling the heads of children; when,
softly approaching a group from behind, he would, with his
bright, quiet smile, lay slender, bony fingers upon a
close-cropped little poll; with the result that the children,
not relishing such fingering, would take alarm at the same, and,
bolting to a discreet distance, thence abuse the idiot, put out
their tongues at him, and drawl in a nasal chorus:

“Nilka, the bottle-neck, the neck without a nape to it”
[Probably the attractiveness of this formula lay rather in the
rhyming of the Russian words: “Nilka, butilka, bashka bez
zatilka!” than in their actual meaning].

Yet their fear of him was in no way reciprocated, nor, for that
matter, did they ever assault him, despite the fact that
occasionally they would throw an old boot or a chip of wood in
his direction-throw it aimlessly, and without really desiring to
hit the mark aimed at.

Also, anything circular–for example, a plate or the wheel of a
toy, engaged Nilushka’s attention and led him to caress it as
eagerly as he did globes and balls. Evidently the rotundity of
the object was the point that excited his interest. And as he
turned the object over and over, and felt the flat part of it,
he would mutter:

“But what about the other one?”

What “the other one ” meant I could never divine. Nor could
Antipa. Once, drawing the idiot to him, he said:

“Why do you always say ‘What about the other one’?”

Troubled and nervous, Nilushka merely muttered some
unintelligible reply as his fingers turned and turned about the
circular object which he was holding.

“Nothing,” at length he replied.

“Nothing of what?

“Nothing here.”

“Ah, he is too foolish to understand,” said Vologonov with a
sigh as his eyes darkened in meditative fashion.

“Yes, though it may seem foolish to say so,” he added, “some
people would envy him.”

“Why should they?”

“For more than one reason. To begin with, he lives a life free
from care–he is kept comfortably, and even held in respect.
Since no one can properly understand him, and everyone fears
him, through a belief that folk without wit, the ‘blessed ones
of God,’ are more especially the Almighty’s favourites than
persons possessed of understanding. Only a very wise man could
deal with such a matter, and the less so in that it must be
remembered that more than one ‘blessed one’ has become a Saint,
while some of those possessed of understanding have gone–well,
have gone whither? Yes, indeed!”

And, thoughtfully contracting the bushy eyebrows which looked as
though they had been taken from the face of another man,
Vologonov thrust his hands up his sleeves, and stood eyeing
Nilushka shrewdly with his intangible gaze.

Never did Felitzata say for certain who the boy’s father had
been, but at least it was known to me that in vague terms she
had designated two men as such–the one a young ” survey
student,” and the other a merchant by name Viporotkov, a man
notorious to the whole town as a most turbulent rake and bully.
But once when she and Antipa and I were seated gossiping at the
entrance-gates, and I inquired of her whether Nilushka’s father
were still surviving, she replied in a careless way:

“He is so, damn him!”

“Then who is he? ”

Felitzata, as usual, licked her faded, but still comely, lips
with the tip of her tongue before she replied:

“A monk.”

“Ah!” Vologonov exclaimed with unexpected animation. “That,
then, explains things. At all events, we have in it an
intelligible THEORY of things.”

Whereafter, he expounded to us at length, and with no sparing of
details, the reason why a monk should have been Nilushka’s
father rather than either the merchant or the young “survey
student.” And as Vologonov proceeded he grew unwontedly
enthusiastic, and went so far as to clench his fists until
presently he heaved a sigh, as though mentally hurt, and said
frowningly and reproachfully to the woman:

“Why did you never tell us this before? It was exceedingly
negligent of you.”

Felitzata looked at the old man with sarcasm and sauciness
gleaming in her brown eyes. Suddenly, however, she contracted
her brows, counterfeited a sigh, and whined:

“Ah, I was good-looking then, and desired of all. In those days
I had both a good heart and a happy nature.”

“But the monk may prove to have been an important factor in the
question,” was Antipa’s thoughtful remark.

“Yes, and many another man than he has run after me for his
pleasure,” continued Felitzata in a tone of reminiscence. This
led Vologonov to cough, rise to his feet, lay his hand upon the
woman’s claret-coloured sleeve of satin, and say sternly:

“Do you come into my room, for I have business to transact with

As she complied she smiled and winked at me. And so the pair
departed–he shuffling carefully with his bandy legs, and she
watching her steps as though at any moment she might collapse on
to her left side.

Thenceforth, Felitzata visited Vologonov almost daily; and once
during the time of two hours or so that the pair were occupied
in drinking tea I heard, through the partition-wall, the old man
say in vigorous, level, didactical tones:

“These tales and rumours ought not to be dismissed save with
caution. At least ought they to be given the benefit of the
doubt. For, though all that he says may SEEM to us unintelligible,
there may yet be enshrined therein a meaning, such as–”

“You say a meaning?”

“Yes, a meaning which, eventually, will be vouchsafed to you in
a vision. For example, you may one day see issue from a dense
forest a man of God, and hear him cry aloud: Felitzata, Oh
servant of God, Oh sinner most dark of soul–”

“What a croaking, to be sure!”

“Be silent! No nonsense! Do you blame yourself rather than sing
your own praises. And in that vision you may hear the man of God
cry: ‘Felitzata, go you forth and do that which one who shall
meet you may request you to perform!’ And, having gone forth,
you may find the man of God to be the monk whom we have spoken

“A-a-ah!” the woman drawled with an air of being about to say
something more.

“Come, fool!”

“You see–”

“Have I, this time, abused you?”

“No, but–”

“I have an idea that the man of God will be holding a crook.”

“Of course,” assented Felitzata.

Similarly, on another occasion, did I hear Antipa mutter
confidentially to his companion:

See also  How Spirits Materialize by Anonymous

“The fact that all his sayings are so simple is not a
favourable sign. For, you see, they do not harmonise with the
affair in its entirety–in such a connection words should be
mysterious, and so, able to be interpreted in more than one
way, seeing that the more meanings words possess, the more are
those words respected and heeded by mankind.”

“Why so?” queried Felitzata.

“Why so?” re-echoed Vologonov irritably. “Are we not, then,
to respect ANYONE or ANYTHING? Only he is worthy of respect who
does not harm his fellows; and of those who do not harm their
fellows there are but few. To this point you must pay
attention–you must teach him words of variable import, words
more abstract, as well as more sonorous.”

“But I know no such words.”

“I will repeat to you a few, and every night, when he goes to
bed, you shall repeat them to HIM. For example: ‘Adom ispolneni,
pokaites'[Do ye people who are filled with venom repent]. And
mark that the exact words of the Church be adhered to. For
instance, ‘Dushenbitzi, pozhaleite Boga, okayannie,’ [Murderers
of the soul, accursed ones, repent ye before God.] must be said
rather than ‘Dushenbitzi, pozhaleite Boga, okayanni,’ since the
latter, though the shorter form, is also not the correct one.
But perhaps I had better instruct the lad myself.”

“Certainly that would be the better plan.”

So from that time onwards Vologonov fell to stopping Nilushka in
the street, and repeating to him something or another in his
kindly fashion. Once he even took him by the hand, and, leading
him to his room, and giving him something to cat, said

“Say this after me. ‘Do not hasten, Oh ye people.’ Try if you
can say that.”

“‘A lantern,'” began Nilushka civilly.

“‘A lantern?’ Yes. Well, go on, and say, ‘I am a lantern unto

“I want to sing, it.”

“There is no need for that, though presently you shall sing it.
For the moment your task is to learn the correct speaking of
things. So say after me–”

“0 Lo-ord, have mercy!” came in a quiet, thoughtful chant from
the idiot. Whereafter he added in the coaxing tone of a child:

“We shall all of us have to die.”

“Yes, but come, come! ” expostulated Vologonov. ” What are you
blurting out NOW? That much I know without your telling
me–always have I known, little friend, that each of us is
hastening towards his death. Yet your want of understanding
exceeds what should be.”

“Dogs run-”

“Dogs? Now, enough, little fellow.”

“Dogs run like chickens. They run here, in the ravine,”
continued Nilushka in the murmuring accents of a child of three.

“Nevertheless,” mused Vologonov, “even that seeming nothing of
his may mean something. Yes, there may lie in it a great deal.
Now, say: ‘Perdition will arise before him who shall hasten.'”

“No, I want to SING something.”

With a splutter Vologonov said:

“Truly you are a difficult subject to deal with!”

And with that he fell to pacing the floor with long, thoughtful
strides as the idiot’s voice cried in quavering accents:

“O Lo-ord, have me-ercy upon us!”


Thus the winsome Nilushka proved indispensable to the foul,
mean, unhealthy life of the suburb. Of that life he coloured and
rounded off the senselessness, the ugliness, the superfluity. He
resembled an apple hanging forgotten on a gnarled old worm-eaten
tree, whence all the fruit and the leaves have fallen until only
the branches wave in the autumn wind. Rather, he resembled a
sole-surviving picture in the pages of a ragged, soiled old book
which has neither a beginning nor an ending, and therefore can
no longer be read, is no longer worth the reading, since now its
pages contain nothing intelligible.

And as smiling his gracious smile, the lad’s pathetic,
legendary figure flitted past the mouldy buts and cracked fences
and riotous beds of nettles, there would readily recur to the
memory, and succeed one another, visions of some of the finer
and more reputable personages of Russian lore–there would file
before one’s mental vision, in endless sequence, men whose
biographies inform us how, in fear for their souls, they left
the life of the world, and, hieing them to the forests and the
caves, abandoned mankind for the wild things of nature. And at
the same time would there recur to one’s memory poems concerning
the blind and the poor-in particular, the poem concerning Alexei
the Man of God, and all the multitude of other fair, but
unsubstantial, forms wherein Russia has embodied her sad and
terrified soul, her humble and protesting grief. Yet it was a
process to depress one almost to the point of distraction.

Once, forgetting that Nilushka was imbecile, I conceived an
irrepressible desire to talk with him, and to read him good
poetry, and to tell him both of the world’s youthful hopes and
of my own personal thoughts.

The occasion happened on a day when, as I was sitting on the
edge of the ravine, and dangling my legs over the ravine’s
depths, the lad came floating towards me as though on air. In
his hands, with their fingers as slender as a girl’s, he was
holding a large leaf; and as he gazed at it the smile of his
clear blue eyes was, as it were, pervading him from head to foot.

“Whither, Nilushka?” said I.

With a start he raised his head and eyes heavenward. Then
timidly he glanced at the blue shadow of the ravine, and
extended to me his leaf, over the veins of which there was
crawling a ladybird.

“A bukan,” he observed.

“It is so. And whither are you going to take it?”

“We shall all of us die. I was going to take and bury it.”

“But it is alive; and one does not bury things before they are

Nilushka closed and opened his eyes once or twice.

“I should like to sing something,” he remarked.

“Rather, do you SAY something.”

He glanced at the ravine again–his pink nostrils quivering and
dilating– then sighed as though he was weary, and in all
unconsciousness muttered a foul expression. As he did so I
noticed that on the portion of his neck below his right ear
there was a large birthmark, and that, covered with golden down
like velvet, and resembling in shape a bee, it seemed to be
endowed with a similitude of life, through the faint beating of
a vein in its vicinity.

Presently the ladybird raised her upper wings as though she were
preparing for flight; whereupon Nilushka sought with a finger to
detain her, and, in so doing, let fall the leaf, and enabled the
insect to detach itself and fly away at a low level. Upon that,
bending forward with arms outstretched, the idiot went softly in
pursuit, much as though he himself were launching his body into
leisurely flight, but, when ten paces away, stopped, raised his
face to heaven, and, with arms pendent before him, and the palms
of his hands turned outwards as though resting on something
which I could not see, remained fixed and motionless.

From the ravine there were tending upwards towards the sunlight
some green sprigs of willow, with dull yellow flowers and a
clump of grey wormwood, while the damp cracks which seamed the
clay of the ravine were lined with round leaves of the
“mother-stepmother plant,” and round about us little birds were
hovering, and from both the bushes and the bed of the ravine
there was ascending the moist smell of decay. Yet over our heads
the sky was clear, as the sun, now sole occupant of the heavens,
declined slowly in the direction of the dark marshes across the
river; only above the roofs of Zhitnaia Street could there be
seen fluttering about in alarm a flock of snow-white pigeons,
while waving below them was the black besom which had, as it
were, swept them into the air, and from afar one could hear the
sound of an angry murmur, the mournful, mysterious murmur of the

Whiningly, like an old man, a child of the suburb was raising
its voice in lamentation; and as I listened to the sound, it put
me in mind of a clerk reading Vespers amid the desolation of an
empty church. Presently a brown dog passed us with shaggy head
despondently pendent, and eyes as beautiful as those of a
drunken woman.

And, to complete the picture, there was standing– outlined
against the nearest shanty of the suburb, a shanty which lay at
the extreme edge of the ravine-there was standing, face to the
sun, and back to the town, as though preparing for flight, the
straight, slender form of the boy who, while alien to all,
caressed all with the eternally incomprehensible smile of his
angel-like eyes. Yes, that golden birthmark so like a bee I can
see to this day!


Two weeks later, on a Sunday at mid-day, Nilushka passed into
the other world. That day, after returning home from late Mass,
and handing to his mother a couple of wafers which had been
given him as a mark of charity, the lad said:

“Mother, please lay out my bed on the chest, for I think that I
am going to lie down for the last time.”

Yet the words in no way surprised Felitzata, for he had often
before remarked, before retiring to rest:

“Some day we shall all of us have to die.”

At the same time, whereas, on previous occasions, Nilushka had
never gone to sleep without first of all singing to himself his
little song, and then chanting the eternal, universal “Lord,
have mercy upon us! ” he, on this occasion, merely folded his
hands upon his breast, closed his eyes, and relapsed into

That day Felitzata had dinner, and then departed on business of
her own; and when she returned in the evening, she was astonished
to find that her son was still asleep. Next, on looking closer
at him, she perceived that he was dead.

“I looked,” she related plaintively to some of the suburban
residents who came running to her cot, “and perceived his
little feet to be blue; and since it was only just before Mass
that I had washed his hands with soap, I remarked the more
readily that his feet were become less white than his hands. And
when I felt one of those hands, I found that it had stiffened.”

On Felitzata’s face, as she recounted this, there was manifest a
nervous expression. Likewise, her features were a trifle
flushed. Yet gleaming also through the tears in her languorous
eyes there was a sense of relief–one might almost have said a
sense of joy.

See also  Old Mongilet By Guy de Maupassant

“Next,” continued she, “I looked closer still, and then fell
on my knees before the body, sobbing: ‘0h my darling, whither
art thou fled? 0h God, wherefore hast Thou taken him from me?’ ”

Here Felitzata inclined her head upon her left shoulder
contracted her brows over her mischievous eyes, clasped her
hands to her breast, and fell into the lament:

Oh, gone is my dove, my radiant moon!
0 star of mine eyes, thou hast set too soon!
In darksome depths thy light lies drown’d,
And time must yet complete its round,
And the trump of the Second Advent sound,
Ere ever my–

“Here, you! Hold your tongue!” grunted Vologonov irritably.

For myself, I had, that day, been walking in the forest, until,
as I returned, I was brought up short before the windows of
Felitzata’s cot by the fact that some of the erstwhile turbulent
denizens of the suburb were whispering softly together as, with
an absence of all noise, they took turns to raise themselves on
tiptoe, and, craning their necks, to peer into one of the black
window-spaces. Yes, like bees on the step of a hive did they
look, and on the great majority of faces, and in the great
majority of eyes, there was quivering an air of tense, nervous

Only Vologonov was nudging Felitzata, and saying to her in a
loud, authoritative tone:

“Very ready are you to weep, but I should like first to hear
the exact circumstances of the lad’s death.”

Thus invited, the woman wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her
bodice, licked her lips, heaved a prolonged sigh, and fell to
regarding Antipa’s red, hardbitten face with the cheerful,
unabashed glance of a person who is under the influence of
liquor. From under her white head-band there had fallen over her
temples and her right cheek a few wisps of golden hair; and
indeed, as she drew herself up, and tossed her head and bosom,
and smoothed out and stretched the creases in her bodice, she
looked less than her years. Everyone now fell to eyeing her in
an attentive silence, though not, it would seem, without a touch
of envy.

Abruptly, sternly, the old man inquired:

“Did the lad ever complain of ill-health?”

“No, never,” Felitzata replied. “Never once did he speak of
it–never once.”

“And he had not been beaten?”

“Oh, how can you ask me such a thing, and especially seeing
that, that–?”

“I did not say beaten by YOU.”

“Well, I cannot answer for anyone else, but at least had he no
mark on his body, seeing that when I lifted the smock I could
find nothing save for scratches on legs and back.”

Her tone now had in it a new ring, a ring of increased
assurance, and when she had finished she closed her bright eyes
languidly before heaving a soft, as it were, voluptuous, and,
withal, very audible sigh.

Someone here murmured:

“She DID use to beat him.”


“At all events she used to lose her temper with him.”

This led to the putting of a further dozen or so of leading
questions; whereafter Antipa, for a while, preserved a
suggestive silence, and the crowd too remained silent, as though
it had suddenly been lulled to slumber. Only at long last, and
with a clearing of his throat, did Antipa say:

“Friends, we must suppose that God, of His infinite Mercy, has
vouchsafed to us here a special visitation, in that, as all of
us have perceived, a lad bereft of wit, the same radiant lad
whom all of us have known, has here abided in the closest of
communion with the Blessed Dispenser of life on earth.”

Then I moved away, for upon my heart there was pressing a burden
of unendurable sorrow, and I was yearning, oh, so terribly, to
see Nilushka once more.

The back portion of Felitzata’s cot stood a little sunken into
the ground, so that the front portion had its cold window panes
and raised sash tilted a trifle towards the remote heavens. I
bent my head, and entered by the open door. Near the threshold
Nilushka was lying on a narrow chest against the wall. The folds
of a dark-red pillow of fustian under the head set off to
perfection the pale blue tint of his round, innocent face under
its corona of golden curls; and though the eyes were closed, and
the lips pressed tightly together, he still seemed to be smiling
in his old quiet, but joyous, way. In general, the tall, thin
figure on the mattress of dark felt, with its bare legs, and its
slender hands and wrists folded across the breast, reminded me
less of an angel than of a certain image of the Holy Child with
which a blackened old ikon had rendered me familiar from my
boyhood upwards.

Everything amid the purple gloom was still. Even the flies were
forbearing to buzz. Only from the street was there grating
through the shaded window the strong, roguish voice of Felitzata
as it traced the strange, lugubrious word-pattern:

With my bosom pressed to the warm, grey earth,
To thee, grey earth, to thee, 0h my mother of old,
I beseech thee, I who am a mother like thee,
And a mother in pain, to enfold in thy arms
This my son, this my dead son, this my ruby,
This my drop of my heart’s blood, this my–

Suddenly I caught sight of Antipa standing in the doorway. He
was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Presently in a
gruff and unsteady voice he said:

“It is all very fine for you to weep, good woman, but the
present is not the right moment to sing such verses as
those–they were meant, rather, to be sung in a graveyard at the
side of a tomb. Well, tell me everything without reserve.
Important is it that I should know EVERYTHING.”

Whereafter, having crossed himself with a faltering hand, he
carefully scrutinised the corpse, and at last let his eyes halt
upon the lad’s sweet features. Then he muttered sadly:

“How extraordinarily he has grown! Yes, death has indeed
enlarged him! Ah, well, so be it! Soon I too shall have to be
stretching myself out. Oh that it were now!”

Then with cautious movements of his deformed fingers he
straightened the folds of the lad’s smock, and drew it over the
legs. Whereafter he pressed his flushed lips to the hem of the

Said I to him at that moment:

“What is it that you have been wanting of him? Why is it that
you have been trying to teach him strange words?”

Straightening himself, and glancing at me with dim eyes, Antipa

“What is it that I have been wanting of him?” To the repetition
he added with manifest sincerity, though also with a
self-depreciatory movement of the head:

“To tell the truth, I scarcely know WHAT it is that I have been
wanting of him. By God I do not. Yet, as one speaking the truth
in the presence of death, I say that never during my long
lifetime had I so desired aught else. . . . Yes, I have waited
and waited for fortune to reveal it to me; and ever has fortune
remained mute and tongueless. Foolish was it of me to have
expected otherwise, to have expected, for instance, that some
day there might occur something marvellous, something

With a short laugh, he indicated the corpse with his eyes, and
continued more firmly:

“Yes, bootless was it to have expected anything from such a
source as that. Never, despite one’s wishes, was anything
possible of acquisition thence. . . This is usually the case.
Felitzata, as a clever woman indeed (albeit one cold of heart),
was for having her son accounted a God’s fool, and thereby
gaining some provision against her old age.”

“But you yourself were the person who suggested that? You
yourself wished it? ”


Presently. thrusting his hands up his sleeves, he added dully
and brokenly:

“Yes, I DID wish it. Why not, indeed, seeing that at least it
would have brought comfort to the poor people of this place?
Sometimes I feel very sorry for them with their bitter,
troublous lives–lives which may be the lives of rogues and
villains, yet are lives which have produced amongst us a
pravednik,” [A “just person,” a human being without sin].

All the evening sky was now aflame. Upon the ear there fell the
mournful lament:

When snow has veiled the earth in white,
The snowy plain the wild wolves tread.
They wail for the cheering warmth of spring
As I bewail the bairn that’s dead.

Vologonov listened for a moment. Then he said firmly:

“These are mere accesses of impulse which come upon her. And
that is only what might be expected. Even as in song or in vice
there is no holding her, so remorse, when it has fastened upon
such a woman’s heart, will know no bounds. I may tell you that
on one occasion two young merchants took her, stripped her stark
naked, and drove her in their carriage down Zhitnaia Street,
with themselves sitting on the seats of the vehicle, and
Felitzata standing upright between them–yes, in a state of
nudity! Thereafter they beat her almost to death.”

As I stepped out into the dark, narrow vestibule, Antipa, who
was following me, muttered:

“Such a lament as hers could come only of genuine grief.”

We found Felitzata in front of the hut, with her back covering
the window. There, with hands pressed to her bosom, and her
skirt all awry, she was straining her disheveled head towards
the heavens, while the evening breeze, stirring her fine auburn
hair, scattered it promiscuously over her flushed,
sharply-defined features and wildly protruding eyes. A bizarre,
pitiable, and extraordinary figure did she cut as she wailed in
a throaty voice which constantly gathered strength:

0h winds of ice, winds cruel and rude,
Press on my heart till its throbbing fail!
Arrest the current of my blood!
Turn these hot melting tears to hail!

Before her there was posted a knot of women, compassionate
contemplators of the singer’s distracted, grief-wrought
features. Through the ravine’s dark opening I could see the sun
sinking below the suburb before plunging into the marshy forest
and having his disk pierced by sharp, black tips of pine trees.
Already everything around him was red. Already, seemingly, he
had been wounded, and was bleeding to death.

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *