V
Andrey Ivanovich stared into the darkness and suddenly he caught hold of my hand, exclaiming:
“Stop! We shouldn’t have come.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I told the truth. Don’t chase on after them! Wait for me. … I’ll run and see. …”
He quickly disappeared in the darkness. I stayed with Ivan Ivanovich in the road. When the steps of the bootmaker died away, we heard merely the quiet noises of the night. The grass rustled gently; at times a rail whistled as it ran nervously from place to place. In the vague distance the frogs were croaking dreamily and playing in the swamp. Hardly visible clouds were rising.
“That’s just like him. … My comrade loves to walk at night,” complained Ivan Ivanovich. “What’s the use of it? Why not by day?”
“Was he in a monastery too?”
“Yes,” answered Ivan Ivanovich. Then, with a sigh, “He’s from a good family. His father was a deacon in the city of N⸺. You may have heard of him. … His brother is a secretary in a police office. He was betrothed. …”
“Why didn’t he marry?”
“Don’t you see, he’d already gone wrong. … He ran away … but he wasn’t a wanderer yet. He had the outfit but he didn’t wander. … He passed as a suitor. He was accepted. The girl loved him, and her father didn’t object. … Oh! … Oh! … Of course, it was sinful, … he deceived them. Sometimes, when he tells about it, you’ll cry, and then again it’s really funny.”
Ivan Ivanovich acted strangely. He laughed and then began to choke and put his hand over his mouth. At first you could hardly tell he was laughing. But he really was—an hysterical, bashful, rather explosive laugh, which ended like a cough. When he quieted down, Ivan Ivanovich said, half-pityingly:
“Only he tells it different every time. … You can’t tell whether it’s the truth or not.”
“He wouldn’t lie?”
“Not exactly, … but he’s not always accurate. You see, the truth—”
“Just what does he say?”
“You know, the clerk, he says, was clever. He saw the young man wasting his time, really doing nothing. He pretended to go to a bazaar—so he went to the city, left the old woman in the house, and gave her strict orders to keep an eye on him. Avtonomov, you see, didn’t live with them, but in the village with the woman who baked the bread for the church. … He kept visiting them. … Every day. … They’d sit by the river bank. … And the old woman was there, too. And, of course, she watched them. … One time, my dear little Avtonomov saw two men coming from the city in a cart—and both drunk. They came up and turned out to be the clerk and his older brother, the secretary. He hadn’t even looked around—when they landed on him and licked him. The reason why: his brother, because he ran away from the seminary; the clerk, for deceiving and disgracing him. …”
Ivan Ivanovich sighed.
“He hardly got off alive, he says. … They were both angry and drunk. … He ran to the house where he was living, grabbed his wallet, and off into the woods. … Since then, he says, he’s been wandering. … But, another time, he really … tells something else.”
He came nearer to me and wanted to tell me something very confidentially. But suddenly out of the darkness near us came the figure of Andrey Ivanovich. He walked rapidly with a deliberately menacing scowl.
“Come here, if you please.” He took me aside and whispered:
“You and I are in a nice mess!”
“How?”
“This Avtonomov, the monk, seems to have gone off to steal. … We’ll get into trouble over him yet. …”
“That’s enough, Andrey Ivanovich.”
“Yes, for you. Did you hear what he asked in the village? Of the soldier’s wife? About a certain clerk? Is the clerk actually at home or not?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Do you remember where that clerk lived?”
“Yes, by a cemetery.”
“There it is!” said Andrey Ivanovich maliciously, pointing ahead in the darkness.
“What of it?”
“Just this. … The old woman, you heard, is alone. … And he went right there. … He walked around the yard and looked. You’ll see for yourself. … That’s the sort of a fellow you wanted to drop an old companion for. … If he’d crossed the bridge without a board creaking, we’d have gone straight along the road. … I turned aside. … Let’s go ahead quietly.”
Behind us someone coughed plaintively. Andrey Ivanovich looked around and said:
“Come with us, novice. … What can we do with you? You love your comrade.”
We crossed the bridge, followed the road and came to the cemetery. On the hill a little light shone through the trees. I saw the whitish walls of a small house, perched on the edge of a hill, and behind it was the dark outline of a bell-tower. Below on the right it was easier to imagine than to see the little stream.
“There he is,” said Andrey Ivanovich. “Do you see him?”
Not far from us, between the wall and the slope, near an arbor covered with foliage, was a figure. A man seemed to be crowded against and fastened to the fence and looking through the bushes. By the light of the window, I saw the pointed cap, the long neck, and the familiar profile of Avtonomov. The light streamed out through the trees and lilac blossoms. When I went nearer, I saw in the window the head of an old woman in a cap and with horn spectacles. Her head nodded like that of a man who is working when he is terribly sleepy, and the needles moved rapidly in her hands. The old woman was evidently waiting for her husband to return.
Suddenly she listened. … An irresolute call came out of the darkness:
“Olimpiada Nikolayevna!”
The old woman looked out of the window but saw no one.
A moment of silence, and then the same call was repeated:
“Olimpiada Nikolayevna!”
I did not recognize Avtonomov’s voice. It seemed soft and timid.
“Who’s there?” The old woman suddenly started. “Who called me?”
“It’s I. … Don’t you remember Avtonomov? … We used to know each other. …”
“Avtonomov, mercy. … We never knew anyone of that name. … I don’t know you. … Wait a moment and I’ll call someone. Fedosya, oh, Fedosya! … Come here quick. …”
“Don’t call, mother. … I won’t disturb you. … Have you really forgotten Avtonomov? … I used to be called Genasha. …”
The old woman got up, took the candle and held it out of the window. There was no breeze. The flame burned steadily and illuminated the bushes, the walls of the house, and the wrinkled face of the old woman with her glasses pressed up on her forehead.
“That voice sounded familiar. … Where are you? … If you’re a good man—”
She held the candle above her head and the light fell on Avtonomov. The old woman staggered, but just then another woman entered the room. The old woman grew bolder and again threw the light on Avtonomov.
“Fine,” she said coldly. “The suitor, of course. … What are you walking around under the window for? …”
“I happened to be passing, Olimpiada Nikolayevna—”
“Passing, and would pass. … See here, when the master returns, he’ll set the dogs on you.”
She closed the window and lowered the curtain. The bushes disappeared, and the figure of Avtonomov was lost in the darkness.
We could then think of leaving, and we quickly descended the hillock. … In a few minutes we heard the bells in the tower. Someone apparently wanted to show that there were people in the cemetery. …
Andrey Ivanovich walked slowly and thoughtfully. Ivan Ivanovich ran panting at a dog trot and constantly stifling his cough. … When we had reached a proper distance he stopped and said again with indescribable sorrow:
“We’ve lost Avtonomov. …”
His voice was so despairing that Andrey Ivanovich and I involuntarily felt sorry for him. We stopped and began to peer into the darkness.
“He’s coming,” said Andrey Ivanovich, straining his lynx-like eyes.
In very truth we soon saw behind us a strange shape like a moving tree. Avtonomov had large bunches of lilacs in his belt, on his shoulders, and in his hands, and even his cap was decorated with flowers. When he caught up with us he had perfect control of himself and seemed neither glad nor astonished. He walked on along the road and the branches waved about him in a very peculiar manner.
“It’s great to walk at night, signor,” he began grandiloquently, like an actor. “The fields are clothed in darkness. … There’s a grove on one side. … See how peaceful it is! The nightingale pours forth its melody. …”
He almost declaimed this but yet his voice showed that he was a little exasperated.
“Wouldn’t you like a spray from my garden, signor?”
With a theatrical gesture, he offered me a branch of lilacs.
Near the road a nightingale sang timidly and irresolutely. In the distance, in answer to the bells from the cemetery, came another, and we could hear the noise of a rattle. Somewhere on the dark plain dogs were barking. … The night grew darker and it began to feel like rain. …
“I’m sorry,” Avtonomov suddenly began at random, “I got separated from you by the cemetery. I have an old friend who lives there, a real old friend. If he’d been home, we’d all have gotten lodging and something to eat. … The old woman asked me to stop, … but without her husband—”
Ivan Ivanovich cleared his throat. The bootmaker snorted ironically.
Avtonomov must have guessed that we had seen more than he thought, for he turned to me and said:
“Judge not, signor, that ye be not judged. … Another’s soul, signor, is dark. … Some time,” he added resolutely, “believe me, I’ll come here, … and I’ll be entertained. … And then. …”
“And then?”
“Oh! … we’ll be entertained. … Drink till you can’t see. … And I’ll crow over it. …”
“Why?”
“Why! This place should be like any other. But yet, signor, it appeals to me. … The past. …”
He walked on more rapidly.
We passed by a little village and reached the last hut. Its small windows looked out sightlessly into the dark field. … All were sleeping within.
Avtonomov suddenly walked up to the window and tapped sharply on the pane. An indistinct face appeared behind it.
“Who’s there?” asked a dull voice, and a frightened face was pressed against the glass. “Who’s coming around this time of night?”
“The d-devil,” drawled Avtonomov in a piercing, evil tone, and he stuck his head with its floral decorations against the pane. … The face within disappeared in terror. … Dogs began to bark in the village; the guard struck his rattle; the dark plain went on guard. … Again somewhere in the distance the sleeping churches droned forth their prolonged notes, as if to defend the peaceful region from some unknown evil. As if they felt that above them was hanging the menace of certain dark and hopelessly ruined lives.