IV
Nurse Masha asked me last evening:
“Anton Ignatyevich! Do you never pray to God?”
She spoke seriously and she believed that I would answer sincerely and seriously. And I replied, without a smile, as she wished:
“No, Masha, never. But if it will afford you pleasure, you may make the sign of the cross over me.”
Maintaining the same grave demeanor, she made the sign of the cross over me thrice, and I was very glad that I afforded a minute of joy to this excellent woman. Like all highly-bred and free people, you, gentlemen experts, do not direct your attention to the servant; but to us prisoners and “madmen” it is given to observe her closely and to make astonishing discoveries occasionally. I may take it for granted that it never has occurred to you that the nurse Masha, hired by you to look after the insane, is herself insane? But such is the fact.
Observe her walk, noiseless, gliding, somewhat timid and astonishingly guarded and graceful—it is as if she were walking between invisible, drawn swords. Examine her face well, when she is not observing and is unaware of your presence. When Masha sees one of you approach her face assumes a serious, grave aspect, and smiles indulgently—the very same expression which dominates your face at the moment. The explanation is that Masha possesses the strange and significant faculty of reflecting involuntarily in her face the expression of other faces. Occasionally she will look at me and smile. It is a pale, reflected smile—not her own. And I surmise that I must have smiled when she looked at me. At times Masha’s countenance will express suffering, will seem morose, her brows will contract at the nose, the comers of the mouth will descend; the entire face will age ten years and grow sombre—evidently my own face is thus at times. Now and then I frighten her with my gaze. You know how strange and somewhat awesome is the gaze of every deeply thoughtful man. Seeing me thus the eyes of Masha will open wide, the pupils will grow darker, and, approaching me noiselessly, with uplifted hand, she will do something friendy and unexpected—smooth my hair or arrange my dress.
“Your belt will become undone,” she will say, while her face will maintain its frightened expression.
However, there are moments when I see her alone. And when she is alone her face strangely seems to lack all expression. It is pale, handsome and enigmatic, like the face of a corpse. Cry out: “Masha!” and she will turn, smiling with her own gentle and timorous smile, and ask:
“Is there anything I can bring you? …”
She is always bringing or taking away something, and if there is nothing to bring, take away or arrange, she will show signs of worriment. Her noiselessness is remarkable. Not once have I noticed her drop anything, or make a noise. I have attempted to talk with her about life, and she is strangely indifferent to everything, even to murders, conflagrations and other horrors which affect uncultured people.
“Do you realize they are being killed, wounded, and they leave behind them at home little hungry children?” said I to her concerning war.
“Yes, I understand,” she replied, and then, as if lost in thought, asked: “Had I not better bring you some milk; you have eaten so little today?”
When I laugh she responds with a somewhat frightened laugh. Never has she been in a theatre, she does not know that Russia is an empire and that there are other empires; she cannot read, and her acquaintance with the New Testament is limited to the quotations she has heard read in the church. Every evening she goes down on her knees and prays at length.
For a long time I considered her simply a limited, blunt being, born for bondage, but a single incident compelled me to change my view. You probably know, you must have been informed, that I have lived through one nasty minute here, which, of course, doesn’t demonstrate anything except weariness and a temporary collapse of one’s strength. I refer to the towel incident. Being stronger than Masha I could have killed her, as there was no one present but us two, and if she had cried out or caught my hand … but she did nothing of the kind. She merely said:
“No need of that, golubchik.”
I have thought often about this phrase and till now cannot grasp the astonishing power concentrated in it and felt by me. It is not in the words, which in themselves are meaningless and empty; rather is it somewhere in the unknown to me and unfathomable depths of Masha’s soul. She knows something. Yes, she knows, but cannot or will not say. I have tried often to secure from Masha an explanation of her words, but she cannot explain.
“Do you think suicide a sin? That it is forbidden by God?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then why no need of that?”
“Just so. Simply no need for it,” she said smilingly, and inquired: “May I bring you something?”
Without a doubt she is insane, but quiet and useful, like many insane people. Please do not molest her.
I have permitted myself to depart from my narrative, as something Masha did yesterday has recalled to me memories of childhood. I do not remember my mother, but I had an aunt named Anphisa, who made the sign of the cross over me every night. She was a taciturn old maid, with pimples on her face, and she felt ashamed when my father joked with her about a husband. I was still a youngster aged eleven when she strangled herself in the tiny barn where we kept our coals. Later she continued to appear to father, and that jolly atheist ordered prayers and masses.
My father was very clever and talented, and his speeches in court made not only nervous women, but also serious and balanced people weep. Only I did not weep, listening to him, because I knew him and knew that he himself understood little of what he was saying. He possessed considerable knowledge, many ideas and even more words; and his words and ideas and knowledge frequently combined themselves successfully and beautifully; but of this he had no comprehension. I often even doubted as to whether he existed—to such an extent did he exist in sounds and gestures that it some times occurred to me that this was not a human being, but an image flashed by a cinematograph, combined with a gramaphone. He did not comprehend that he was a human being, that today he lived and that tomorrow he might die, and he sought nothing. And when he went to bed he ceased to move and fell into a slumber; to all appearances he had no dreams and ceased to exist. With his tongue—he was an attorney—he earned his thirty thousand a year, and not once was he astonished or thoughtful over this circumstance. I recall having visited with him a newly-purchased estate, and pointing at the trees in the grounds I remarked:
“Clients?”
He smiled indulgently and replied:
“Yes, my boy, talent is a big thing.”
He drank much, and his intoxication found expression in more rapid movements, which finally would cease altogether, and he would end invariably by falling into a deep slumber. Everyone considered him extraordinarily endowed, and he often asserted that had he not become a famous attorney he would have been equally distinguished as an artist or as an author. Unfortunately, this is true.
Least of all he understood me. Once we were threatened with the loss of all our property. The thought gave me anguish. Nowadays, when only wealth gives freedom, I do not know what I should have become if fate had placed me in the ranks of the proletariat. I cannot picture to myself without anger anyone daring to place his hand upon me, compelling me to do that which I do not wish, purchasing for money my labor, my blood, my nerves, my life. This horror, however, I experienced only for one minute, as it immediately dawned upon me that such as I never remain poor. But father did not understand that. He sincerely considered me a dull youth and viewed with apprehension my supposed helplessness.
“Oh, Anton, Anton, what will become of you?” he would say. He himself seemed weary; his long, unkempt hair descended over the forehead; his face was yellow. I replied:
“Don’t worry about me, papa. As I am not talented, I will kill Rothschild or rob a bank.”
My father became angry, as he accepted my answer as an untimely and flat jest. He saw my face, he heard my voice and nevertheless accepted it as a jest. Wretched pasteboard clown, through misapprehension thou art called a man!
He did not know my soul, although the outward order of my life perturbed him, as he did not enter into its understanding. I was an apt pupil at the gymnasia, and this distressed him. Once when we had visitors—lawyers, litterateurs and artists—he directed his finger at me and said:
“I have a son; he is the first in his class. What have I done that God should punish me so?”
And they all laughed at me, and I laughed at them all. Even more than by my successes he was distressed by my conduct and attire. He would enter my room purposely to rearrange, unnoticed by me, the books on the table, and to create even a little bit of disorder. My neat way of combing my hair robbed him of his appetite.
“The superintendent has ordered a close hair cut,” I would say seriously and respectfully.
He scolded vehemently, but my entire inner being throbbed with contemptuous laughter.
Nothing, however, aroused my father’s ire so much as my copybooks. Once, when drunk, he looked through them, seeming very hopeless and comical in his despondency.
“Haven’t you ever made a blot?” he asked.
“Yes, papa, it happened once. It was when I was doing my trigonometry.”
“Did you lick it up?”
“What do you mean by ‘lick it up?’ ”
“Just what I said—did you lick up the blot of ink?”
“No, papa, I applied blotting paper.”
My father waved his hand with a drunken gesture and growled as he arose:
“No, you are no son of mine. … No! No!”
Among my despised copybooks, however, was one which afforded him gratification—notwithstanding the fact that it contained not a single crooked line, not a blot or erasure. It contained, however, approximately the following: My father is a drunkard, a thief and a coward.
This was followed by some details, which, out of respect to my father’s memory and to the law, I consider unnecessary to state.
I now recall one forgotten fact, which I think should prove of interest to you, gentlemen experts. I am very happy to have recalled it, very happy. How could it have slipped my memory?
We had in our house a maidservant named Katia, who was the mistress of my father, and simultaneously my mistress. She loved father because he gave her money, and me because I was young, had beautiful dark eyes and did not give her money. The night that my father’s corpse lay in the parlor I entered Katia’s room. It was not far from the parlor, whence could be heard clearly the voice of the chanter.
I think that the immortal spirit of my father must have experienced complete gratification!
This is really an interesting fact, and I don’t understand how I could have forgotten it. To you, gentlemen experts, it may seem a small matter, a childish prank, having no serious significance, but that isn’t so. It was a hard struggle, gentlemen experts, and the victory was not bought cheaply. My life was at stake. Had I trembled, turned back, proved thyself a fainthearted lover, I should have killed myself. I recall, that was decided.
What I did was not an easy matter for a youth of my years. Now I know that I fought with a windmill, but at that time it appeared to me in a different light. It is difficult for me to relate now all that I had lived through, but I can recall the feeling—it seemed as if with one act I had demolished all laws, divine and human. And I trembled terribly, to the point of the ridiculous; nevertheless I nerved myself, and when I entered Katia’s room I was prepared for her kisses like a Romeo.
At that time I was yet a romanticist. Happy time, how distant it is! I remember, gentlemen experts, that returning from Katia I stepped before the corpse, crossed my arms on my chest like Napoleon, and with laughable pride gazed upon the corpse. Then I shuddered, frightened at seeing the shroud stir. Happy, distant time!
I fear to think upon it, but it is possible that I never have ceased to be a romanticist. And I came near being an idealist. I believed in human thought and its boundless force. The entire history of man seemed to me as one triumphant thought, and that was not so long ago. It is terrible for me to reflect that my entire life has been an illusion, that all life long I have been a fool like that crazy actor once confined in the next ward. He had gathered from everywhere strips of blue and red paper, and he had designated each strip a million roubles; he had begged them from visitors; had stolen and carried them from the closet, to the amusement of the keepers, whom it gave an opportunity to indulge in vulgar jests. He sincerely and deeply detested them, but me he liked, and upon parting handed me a million.
“It’s a trifle,” said he, “only a million, but you will forgive me, I have such expenses, such expenses.”
Taking me aside, he explained in a whisper:
“I am about to start to Italy. I want to banish the Pope and to introduce new moneys into the country—these. Then, on Sunday, I will declare myself a Saint. The Italians will rejoice; they are always happy when given a new Saint.”
Have I not lived upon this million?
It is strange for me to reflect upon the fact that my books—my companions and friends—have remained in their cases and silently guard that which I considered the wisdom of the earth, its hope and happiness. I am aware, gentlemen experts, that whether or not I am insane, from your viewpoint I am a good-for-nothing and a scamp—you should see this good-for-nothing when he enters his library!
Go, gentlemen experts, examine my house—you will find it interesting. In the left-hand upper drawer of my writing-table you will discover a detailed catalogue of my books, pictures and trifles; there also you will find the keys to the cases. You are men of culture, and I am confident that you will conduct yourself toward my property with due respect and care. I also request you to see that the lamp doesn’t smoke. There is nothing worse than this smoke; it gathers everywhere, and it then takes the hardest kind of labor to get rid of its effects.
Remark.
The assistant doctor Petroff has refused me chloralamide in the dose which I demand. I am a physician and know what I am doing, and if it is refused me I will take decisive measures. I have not slept two nights, and do not in the least desire to become insane. I demand that chloralamide be given me. I demand it. It is infamous to make one insane.