Two days later Ilya met Pashka Gratschev. It was evening, little flakes
of snow danced in the air and glimmered in the light of the lamps. In
spite of the cold, Pavel wore nothing thicker than a cotton shirt,
without a belt. He walked slowly, his head on his breast, his hands in
his pockets, and his back bent as though he were looking for something.
When Ilya stopped him and spoke to him, Pashka raised his head, looked
into Ilya's face, and said indifferently:
"Oh, it's you!"
"How goes it?" asked Ilya, falling into step.
"It's just possible things might be worse. And you?"
"Oh, rubbing along."
"Not very grandly, it seems."
They walked along together silently, their elbows touching.
"Why didn't you come to see us?" asked Ilya. "I'm always inviting you."
"No opportunity, brother. You know people like us don't get much time."
"You could come if you wanted to."
"Don't be cross. You're always saying I ought to come, and for all
that, you've never asked me where I live, much less thought of paying
me a visit."
"You're right; it's a fact!" said Ilya, laughing. "But tell me now."
Pavel looked at him, laughed too, and went on more cheerfully:
"I live for myself. I've no friends, can't find any who can put up with
me. I've been ill--three months in hospital. Not a soul came to see me
all the time."
"What was wrong?"
"Caught cold once, when I was drunk. Typhus it was. When I was better,
that was the worst. I lay alone all day and all night. You feel dumb
and blind, like a puppy they throw into a pond. Thanks to the doctor, I
had some books at least, else I should have been bored to death."
"Were they nice books?" asked Ilya.
"Ye-es, they were jolly good, mostly poems--Lermontov, Nekrassov,
Pushkin. Lots of times, reading was like drinking milk. Verses,
brother! To read verses is like your sweetheart kissing you. A line
sometimes goes through your heart and makes the sparks fly--you feel on
fire."
"And I've given up reading books," said Ilya, with a sigh.
"Why?"
"Oh, what's the good of them, after all? You read books, and things
seem to go one way, and you look at the real thing, and it's all
different."
"You're right there! Shall we turn in anywhere? We might have a bit
of a talk. There's somewhere I must go, but there's plenty of time.
Perhaps you'll come along?"
Ilya agreed and took Pashka's arm. Pavel looked him in the face, and
said, smiling:
"We were never really friends, but I'm always very glad to meet you."
"That's your look-out," said Ilya, jokingly. "Don't be glad on my
account."
"Ah, brother," Pavel interrupted him, "it's all very well to joke! I
had something very different in my mind when you stopped me. But never
mind that."
They entered the first public house they came to, sat down in a corner
and ordered some beer. Ilya saw in the lamp-light that Pavel's face
was thin and sunken. His eyes had a restless look, and his lips, that
so often before were half-open in gay mockery, were now pressed close
together.
"Where are you working now?" asked Ilya.
"In a printing works again," said Pavel, gloomily.
"Hard work?"
"Oh, no; more play than work."
Ilya felt a vague pleasure to see Pashka, once so gay and assertive,
now sad and careworn. He wanted to find out what had changed his
friend, and, filling Pashka's glass, began to question him.
"Well, and how does the poetry get on?"
"I let it alone now. But I made a lot of poems a while ago. I showed
them to the doctor, he praised them. He got one of them printed in a
paper. I got thirty-nine kopecks for it."
"Oho!" cried Ilya. "That's something like! What sort of verses were
they? Let's hear them!"
Ilya's eager curiosity and a couple of glasses of beer brought
Gratschev into the right mood. His eyes shone and his yellow cheeks
reddened. "What shall I say to you?" he said, rubbing his forehead.
"I've forgotten it all; by God, I've forgotten it. Wait, perhaps
something'll come back to me. I've always a head full of this sort of
stuff, like a swarm of bees inside, humming. Often when I sit down to
compose, I'm in a fever, something boils away in my soul and tears come
into my eyes."
"I say! How does that happen?" asked Ilya, astonished and suspicious.
"Oh! something burns and blazes in you, and you want to express it
cleverly and you can't find words, and then it makes you rage." He
sighed, shook his head, and went on:
"Before it comes out, it seems tremendous, and when it's written down,
it's nothing."
"Say a verse or two now."
The more closely Ilya observed Pavel, the keener grew his curiosity,
and following the curiosity another warm, friendly, and at the same
time sorrowful feeling.
"Generally I make funny poems, about my own life," said Gratschev, and
laughed constrainedly.
"All right, say a funny poem."
Gratschev looked round, coughed, rubbed his chest, and began to declaim
hurriedly, in a dull voice, without looking at his friend:
"It is night, and so sad--but piercing the gloom,
The moon throws its beams into my little room.
It beckons and laughs in the friendliest way
And paints a blue pattern so cheerful and gay,
On the dull stone wall, that is damp and so cold,
And over the carpet, all tattered and old.
I sit there, fast bound by the spell of my thought
And sleep never comes, though it's longed for and sought."
Pavel paused, sighed deeply, then went on more slowly, and in a lower
voice:
"Grim fate has close gripped me in shuddering pain,
It tears at my heart, and it strikes at my brain;
It robbed me of all, when it caught at my dear,
And leaves me for comfort--this brandy-flask here.
See there, where it stands and gleams through the night,
And beckons and smiles in the moon's faint light.
The brandy shall heal me, my heart shall be well,
It shall cloud o'er my brain with the power of its spell.
Thoughts vanish in vapour, see, sleep is at hand,
Another glass, come! and all trouble is banned.
I drink yet again--who sleeps can endure,
I build against trouble a stronghold sure."
As Gratschev ended, he looked inquiringly at Ilya, then let his head
fall lower and said softly:
"That's the kind of thing generally--you see, it's silly enough."
He drummed on the edge of the table with his fingers, and shifted his
chair uneasily to and fro. For a moment, Ilya looked at him with a
searching glance and his face expressed incredulous astonishment. The
bitter, smooth running lines yet rang in his ears, and it seemed to him
hardly credible that this thin beardless lad, with restless eyes, in an
old cotton shirt and heavy boots, should have composed this poem.
"Well, brother, I shouldn't call that silly," he said slowly and
thoughtfully, while he still looked curiously at Pavel. "On the
contrary, it's beautiful, it touched my heart--say it again, will you?"
Pavel raised his head, looked delightedly at his listener, and coming
closer, asked in a whisper, "No--really--do you like it?"
"Good Lord, what a queer fellow you are. I shouldn't lie to you."
"Well, I'll believe you, you're honest; you're straight, anyhow."
"Say it again!"
Pavel softly declaimed it in melancholy tones, often stammering and
sighing deeply when his voice failed him. When he had finished, Ilya's
suspicion was strengthened, that Pavel was not really the author of the
verses.
"And the others?" he said to Pavel.
"Ah! do you know," said the other, "I'd rather bring my book to you,
for most of my poems are long, and I haven't any time now. I can't
remember them properly, the beginnings and ends get muddled up; there's
one ends like this: I'm going through the wood at night, and I've lost
my way and I'm tired--yes, and then I get frightened, it's so quiet all
round. I am alone and now I'm looking for some escape from my misery
and I lament:
"My feet are heavy,
My heart is weary,
No way is clear;
O Earth my mother,
Guide me and tell me
What course to steer.
Anxious I nestle,
Close to thy bosom;
I listen, I peer--
And out of the dark depths
Comes a soft whisper--
'Hide thy grief here!'"
"Not so bad, eh? That's the way of things. One goes, as it were,
through a break in a forest, sees a light all of a sudden, then finds
no way that'll lead to it. Listen, Ilya. Will you come with me? Come! I
don't want to say good-bye yet." Gratschev got up suddenly, caught Ilya
by the sleeve, and looked in his face in a friendly way.
"I'll come," said Ilya. "I'd like some more talk with you. To tell the
truth, I hardly know how to believe you made those verses yourself."
"You don't believe? Doesn't matter. You'll see right enough that I
did," said Pavel, as they came out into the street.
"If they are your verses, then you're a fine fellow," cried Ilya, in
downright bewilderment. "Only stick to it! Show people what life is
really like!"
"Right, brother. Once I've learnt properly how, then I'll write. They
shall hear it."
"Good! good! Plan it out well! Let 'em know!"
"Often I think, when things are quiet, 'Ah, you people, you're full and
warmly clothed, and I----'"
"It's not fair."
"Am I not a man too?"
"We're all equal."
"He who walks in brave attire
Also eats and drinks his fill,
But he whose only clothes are rags
Has an empty stomach still."
"Ah, the hypocrites!"
"Yes, they are hypocrites, all the lot!"
They strode quickly through the streets, and caught up eagerly the
passionate scattered words each threw to the other. The more excited
they became the closer together they walked. Each felt a deep pure
joy that the other thought as he did, and the joy heightened their
mood still further. The snow, falling in great flakes, melted on their
glowing faces, settled on their clothes, clung to their boots. They
marched on through a thick slush that settled noiselessly on the earth.
"I see the state of things quite clearly," cried Pavel, in a tone of
conviction.
"One can't go on living like this," Ilya seconded him.
"If you've ever been to the High School, then you're reckoned a
gentleman, even if your father was a water-carrier."
"That's it; and how can I help it that I didn't go there, eh?"
"They're to have all the learning, and I--I'm to have nothing!" cried
Gratschev, full of wrath. "Just wait a bit!"
"Oh, curse it!" cried Ilya, who that moment stepped into a mud puddle.
"Keep more to the left."
"Where are we going, anyhow--to the hangman?"
"To Sidorisha."
"Where?"
"To Sidorisha. Don't you know her?"
"N--no," said Ilya, after a moment's pause, and took two or three steps
onward. "It's a good long way, we're going."
"Oh!" said Pavel quietly, "I must go, I've something to do."
"Oh! don't mind me! of course, I'll come too."
"I'll tell you Ilya, though it's hard to speak of it."
He spat into the road and was silent for a moment or two.
"What is it?" asked Lunev, pricking up his ears.
"You see," began Pavel, hesitatingly, "it's about a girl. Well, you'll
see her. She can search a fellow's heart; she was a servant at the
doctor's house, who cured me. I got books from him after I was better.
I'd go, and then I'd have to sit in the kitchen and wait, and she was
there skipping about like a squirrel and laughing; for me, I was like
a wood shaving in the fire. Well, we were alone, things went quickly,
without many words. Ah! the happiness! as if heaven had come down to
us. I flew to her like a feather into the fire; we kissed till our lips
smarted. Ah! she was as pretty and dainty as a toy. If I caught her in
my arms, she seemed to disappear. She was like a little bird that flew
into my heart and sang and sang there."
He stopped, and a strange sound like a sob came from his lips.
"And what then?" asked Ilya, carried away by the story.
"The doctor's wife surprised us, devil take her! She was pretty too,
and used to speak quite kindly to me before, but now of course, there
was a scene. Vyerka was turned out of doors and I with her, and they
blackguarded us both horribly, my word! Vyerka stayed with me. I hadn't
any work and we starved and sold everything to the last thread. But
Vyerka is a girl of spirit. She went off--was away a fortnight and came
back dressed like a swell lady--bracelets, money in her pocket." Pashka
ground his teeth and said gloomily: "I thrashed her, I tell you."
"Did she run away?" asked Ilya.
"N--No! If she'd left me I'd have thrown myself in the river. 'Kill me
if you like,' she said 'but let me alone! I know I'm a burden to you.
No one shall have my soul,' she said."
"And what did you do?"
"Do? I struck her once more, then I cried. What could I do; I can't
find food for her."
"Why didn't she find a new place?"
"The devil knows. She said, 'it would be better this way.' If children
came, what could we do with them, and so----"