“A fine day today,” said Dmitri Petrovich.
“In the extreme…,” Forty Martyrs agreed and coughed respectfully into his hand. “How is it, Dmitri Petrovich, that you kindly thought of coming here?” he began in an ingratiating voice, evidently trying to strike up a conversation.
Dmitri Petrovich did not reply. Forty Martyrs sighed deeply and said in a low voice, not looking at us:
“I suffer solely because of the matter for which I must answer to almighty God. Of course, I’m a lost man and without ability, but believe my conscience: without a crust of bread and worse off than a dog…Forgive me, Dmitri Petrovich!”
Silin was not listening and, propping his head on his fists, was thinking about something. The church stood at the end of the street, on a high bank, and through the grill of the fence we could see the river, the water-meadows on the other side, and the bright, crimson light of a bonfire, with dark people and horses moving around it. And further on from the bonfire more lights: this was a village…They were singing a song there.
On the river and here and there on the water-meadows mist was rising. High, narrow wisps of mist, thick and white as milk, hovered over the river, covering the reflections of the stars and catching at the willows. They changed their look every moment, and it seemed as if some embraced, others bowed, still others raised their arms to the sky in wide, clerical sleeves, as if praying…They probably suggested to Dmitri Petrovich a thought about ghosts and dead people, because he turned his face to me and asked, smiling sadly:
“Tell me, my dear fellow, why is it that when we want to tell something frightening, mysterious, and fantastic, we draw material not from life but inevitably from the world of ghosts and shades from beyond the grave?”
“What’s frightening is what’s incomprehensible.”
“And is life comprehensible to you? Tell me: do you understand life better than the world beyond the grave?”
Dmitri Petrovich moved quite close to me, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek. In the evening darkness his pale, lean face seemed still more pale, and his dark beard blacker than soot. His eyes were sad, earnest, and a bit afraid, as if he were about to tell me something frightening. He looked me in the eye and went on in his habitual pleading voice.
“Our life and the world beyond the grave are equally incomprehensible and frightening. Whoever is afraid of ghosts should also be afraid of me, and of those fires, and of the sky, because all of it, if you think well, is no less incomprehensible and fantastic than apparitions from the other world. Prince Hamlet did not kill himself, because he feared the visions that might come in that sleep of death.1 I like his famous soliloquy, but, frankly speaking, it never touched my soul. I’ll confess to you as a friend, in moments of anguish I’ve sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death, my fantasy has invented thousands of the most gloomy visions, and I’ve managed to drive myself to tormenting exaltation, to nightmare, and that, I assure you, did not seem more frightening to me than reality. Needless to say, visions are frightening, but life is frightening, too. I, my dear friend, do not understand and am afraid of life. I don’t know, maybe I’m a sick, demented person. It seems to a normal, healthy person that he understands everything he sees and hears, whereas I’ve lost that ‘it seems,’ and day after day I poison myself with fear. There exists a sickness—the fear of spaces—well, so I’m sick with the fear of life. When I lie in the grass and look for a long time at a bug that was born yesterday and doesn’t understand anything, it seems to me that its whole life consists of nothing but horror, and I see myself in it.”
“What is it that actually frightens you?” I asked.
“Everything frightens me. I’m not a profound man by nature and I have little interest in such questions as life after death, the destiny of mankind, and generally I rarely soar into the heavenly heights. I’m frightened mainly by the commonplace, which none of us can escape from. I’m unable to tell what in my actions is true or false, and they bother me; I’m aware that the conditions of life and my upbringing confined me to a narrow circle of lies, and that my whole life is nothing but a daily worry about deceiving myself and others and not noticing it, and I’m frightened by the thought that till death I won’t get out of this lie. Today I do something, and tomorrow I don’t understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and got scared, I came here to take up farming and also got scared…I see that we know little and therefore make mistakes every day, we are often unfair, we slander, we prey on other people’s lives, we expend all our strength on nonsense that we don’t need and that hinders our lives, and that frightens me, because I don’t understand who needs it and why. I don’t understand people, my dear friend, and I’m afraid of them. I’m frightened looking at peasants, I don’t know for what higher purposes they suffer and what they live for. If life is pleasure, they are superfluous, unnecessary people; but if the goal and meaning of life is need and unmitigated, hopeless ignorance, I don’t understand who needs this inquisition and why. I understand no one and nothing. Kindly try to understand this subject here!” said Dmitri Petrovich, pointing to Forty Martyrs. “Set your mind to it!”
Noticing that we were both looking at him, Forty Martyrs coughed respectfully into his fist and said:
“I was always a faithful servant to good masters, but the main reason is alcoholic beverages. If you were to honor me now, an unfortunate man, and give me a post, I would kiss an icon. My word is firm.”
The sexton walked by, looked at us in perplexity, and started pulling the rope. The bell, abruptly breaking the evening silence, slowly and protractedly rang ten.
“Anyhow it’s already ten o’clock,” said Dmitri Petrovich. “Time for us to go. Yes, my dear friend,” he sighed, “if you only knew how afraid I am of my humdrum, everyday thoughts, in which it seems there should be nothing frightening. So as not to think, I divert myself with work and try to wear myself out, so as to sleep soundly at night. Children, wife—for others it’s ordinary, but how hard it is for me, my dear friend!”
He rubbed his face with his hands, grunted, and laughed.
“If I could tell you what a fool I’ve played in my life!” he said. “Everybody says to me: you have a nice wife, lovely children, and you’re an excellent family man. They think I’m very happy, and they envy me. Well, since we’re at it, I’ll tell you in secret: my happy family life is nothing but a sad misunderstanding, and I’m afraid of it.”
A strained smile made his pale face unsightly. He put his arm around my waist and went on in a low voice:
“You’re my true friend, I trust you and I deeply respect you. Friendship is sent to us by heaven so that we can speak ourselves out and be saved from the secrets that oppress us. Allow me to take advantage of your friendly disposition and tell you the whole truth. My family life, which seems so delightful to you, is my main misfortune and my main fear. I married strangely and stupidly. I must tell you that before the wedding I loved Masha madly, and I courted her for two years. I proposed to her five times and she rejected me, because she was totally indifferent to me. The sixth time, when I crawled on my knees before her, stupefied by love, begging for her hand as if for alms, she accepted…This is what she said to me: ‘I don’t love you, but I will be faithful to you…’ I accepted that condition rapturously. I understood then what it meant, but now, I swear to God, I don’t. ‘I don’t love you, but I will be faithful to you’—what does that mean? It’s fog, darkness…I love her now just as deeply as on the first day of our marriage, and she, it seems to me, is as indifferent as before and must be glad when I leave the house. I don’t know for certain whether she loves me or not, I don’t know, I don’t know, but we live under the same roof, we talk intimately, we sleep together, we have children, our property is held in common…What does it mean? What for? Do you understand any of it, my dear friend? A cruel torture! Because I understand nothing in our relationship, I hate now her, now myself, now both of us, everything is mixed up in my head, I torment myself and turn stupid, and she, as if on purpose, gets prettier every day, she becomes astonishing…I think she has wonderful hair, and she smiles like no other woman. I love her and I know that I love her hopelessly. A hopeless love for a woman with whom you already have two children! Can that be understood and not be frightening? Isn’t it more frightening than ghosts?”