"Life in Kolomna is terribly solitary: there is rarely a carriage, except maybe the kind actors go around in, which with its rumbling, jingling, and clanking is all that disturbs the universal silence. There everybody goes on foot; a cabby with no passengers quite often plods along, bringing hay to his bearded little nag. You can find lodgings for five roubles a month, even with morning coffee. Widows living on pensions are the aristocrats of the place-they behave themselves well, sweep their room frequently, discuss the high price of beef and cabbage with their lady friends; there's often a young daughter with them, a silent, speechless, sometimes comely being, a vile little dog, and a wall clock with a sadly ticking pendulum. Then come actors, whose earnings do not allow them to move out of Kolomna-free folk who, like all artists, live for pleasure. Sitting in their dressing gowns, they repair a pistol, glue up various useful household objects from cardboard, play checkers or cards with a visiting friend, spend the morning that way, and do almost the same thing in the evening, with the addition of an occasional glass of punch. After these aces and the aristocracy of Kolomna come the extraordinarily puny and piddling. It's as difficult to name them as it is to count the multitude of insects that generate in stale vinegar. There are old women who pray, old women who drink, old women who both pray and drink, old women who get along by incomprehensible means, like ants- they drag old rags and linens from the Kalinkin Bridge to the flea market and sell them there for fifteen kopecks; in short, often the most wretched sediment of mankind, whose condition no philanthropic political economist could find the means to improve.
"I mention them in order to show you how often these people have the need to seek one-time, sudden, temporary assistance, to resort to borrowing; and then there settle among them a special sort of moneylenders, who provide them with small sums on a pledge and at high interest. These small moneylenders are oftentimes more unfeeling than any of the big ones, because they emerge in the midst of poverty and the most manifest beggarly rags, something not seen by the wealthy moneylender, who deals only with those who come to him in carriages. And therefore human feeling dies all too early in their souls. Among these moneylenders there was one… but it will do no harm to inform you that the event I've begun to tell you about took place in the last century-namely, during the reign of the late empress Catherine II. You can understand yourselves that the very appearance and inner life of Kolomna must have changed significantly And so, among the moneylenders there was one-an extraordinary being in all respects-who had long since settled in that part of the city. He went about in loose Asian attire; the dark color of his face pointed to his southern origin, but precisely what his nationality was-Indian, Greek, Persian-no one could say for certain. Tall, almost extraordinary stature, a swarthy, lean, burnt face, its color somehow inconceivably terrible, large eyes of an extraordinary fire, and thick, beetling brows, distinguished him greatly and sharply from all the ashen inhabitants of the capital. His dwelling itself was unlike all the other little wooden houses. It was a stone building, like those once built in great numbers by Genoese merchants-with irregular, unequal-sized windows, iron shutters, and iron bars. This moneylender differed from other moneylenders in that he was able to supply any sum to anyone, from a destitute old woman to an extravagant courtier. The most brilliant carriages often turned up in front of his house, in the windows of which the heads of magnificent society ladies often appeared. The rumor spread, as usual, that his iron coffers were filled with an inestimable fortune in money, jewelry, diamonds, and various pledges, but that nonetheless he was not mercenary in the same way other moneylenders were. He gave money out willingly, fixing seemingly advantageous terms of payment; but through certain strange mathematical calculations, he somehow made the interest increase enormously. So, at least, rumor said. But strangest of all, and what could not fail to strike many, was the strange fate that befell all those who took money from him: they all ended their lives in some unfortunate way. Whether this was simply people's opinion, absurd superstitious talk, or a deliberately spread rumor, remained unknown. But within a short period of time several vivid and spectacular examples occurred before everyone's eyes.
"Among the aristocracy of the time, a young man from one of the best families soon drew everyone's eyes, who distinguished himself in the government service while still young-an ardent admirer of everything genuine and lofty, a zealot of everything produced by human art and intellect, a promising Maecenas. He soon deserved to be distinguished by the empress herself, who entrusted him with an important post that agreed perfectly with his own expectations, a post in which he could do much for learning and for the good in general. The young courtier surrounded himself with painters, poets, scholars. He wanted to give work to all, to encourage all. He undertook at his own expense a great many useful publications, commissioned a great many things, announced encouraging awards, spent heaps of money on it, and in the end was ruined. Yet, full of magnanimous impulse, he did not want to abandon his cause, sought to borrow everywhere, and turned at last to the famous moneylender. Having taken a considerable loan from him, in a short period of time the man changed completely: he became an enemy, a persecutor of developing minds and talents. In all writings he began to see the bad side, he twisted the meaning of every phrase. As luck would have it, the French Revolution occurred just then. This suddenly served him as a tool for every possible nastiness. He began to see some sort of revolutionary trend in everything, he imagined allusions everywhere. He became suspicious to such a degree that he finally began to suspect his own self, started writing terrible, unjust denunciations, made innumerable people miserable. It goes without saying that such behavior could not fail in the end to reach the throne. The magnanimous empress was horrified and, filled with that nobility of soul which is the adornment of crowned heads, spoke words which, though they could not have been conveyed to us exactly, yet imprinted their deep meaning in the hearts of many. The empress observed that it is not under monarchy that the lofty, noble impulses of the soul are suppressed, it is not there that works of intellect, poetry, and art are scorned and persecuted; that, on the contrary, only monarchs patronize them; that the Shakespeares and Molieres flourished under their magnanimous rule, while Dante could not find himself a corner in his republican fatherland; that true geniuses emerge in times of the splendor and power of sovereigns and states, and not at times of outrageous political phenomena and republican terrors, which up to now have never presented the world with a single poet; that poets and artists ought to be held in distinction, for they bring only peace and a beautiful quiet to the soul, not agitation and murmuring; that scholars, poets, and all those who produce art are pearls and diamonds in the imperial crown: by them the epoch of a great sovereign is adorned and acquires still greater splendor. In short, the empress, at the moment of speaking these words, was divinely beautiful. I remember that old people couldn't speak of it without tears. Everyone became concerned with the affair. To the credit of our national pride, it must be noted that there always dwells in the Russian heart a beautiful impulse to take the side of the oppressed. The courtier who had betrayed his trust was duly punished and dismissed from his post. But in the faces of his compatriots he read a much greater punishment. This was a decided and universal scorn. It is impossible to describe how the vain soul suffered; pride, disap- pointed ambition, ruined hopes all joined together, and in fits of terrible madness and rage his life broke off.