There is no point in telling how the ball ended. A few dozen carousers, and with them even a few ladies, remained in the rooms. No police. They would not let the music go, and beat up the musicians who wanted to leave. By morning "Prokhorych's kiosk" had been all pulled down, they were drinking to distraction, dancing the "komarinsky" uncensored,[183] the rooms were filthy, and only at dawn did part of this rabble, totally drunk, arrive at the scene of the dying-down fire for new disorders... The other half simply spent the night in the rooms, dead drunk, with all the consequences, on velvet sofas or on the floor. In the morning, at the first opportunity, they were dragged outside by the feet. Thus ended the fête for the benefit of the governesses of our province.
IV
The fire frightened our public from across the river precisely because the arson was so obvious. Remarkably, at the first cry of "fire," there came at once the cry that it was "the work of the Shpigulin men." It is known only too well now that three Shpigulin men did in fact participate in the arson, but—that was all; the rest of the factory hands were entirely vindicated both in general opinion and officially. Aside from those three scoundrels (one of whom has been caught and has confessed, while two are still in hiding), Fedka the Convict undoubtedly participated in the arson. That is all that is so far known with certainty about the origin of the fire; surmises are quite a different matter. What led these three scoundrels, were they guided by someone, or not? It is very difficult to answer all this even now.
The fire, owing to a strong wind, to the predominantly wooden buildings of Zarechye, and, finally, to its having been set at three different points, spread quickly and covered the whole area with incredible force (incidentally, the fire should be reckoned as having been set at two points: the third was caught and extinguished almost the moment it flared up—of that later). But, even so, the reporting of our disaster in the metropolitan newspapers was exaggerated: approximately speaking, no more (and perhaps less) than a quarter of the whole of Zarechye burned down. Our fire brigade, though weak in comparison with the extent and population of the town, acted quite correctly and selflessly. But it would not have done much, even with the concerted assistance of the populace, were it not that the wind changed towards morning, ceasing just before dawn. When, just an hour after fleeing from the ball, I made my way to Zarechye, the fire was already at full force. The entire street parallel to the river was in flames. It was as bright as day. I will not describe the picture of the fire in detaiclass="underline" who in Russia does not know it? The lanes nearest the blazing street were bustling and crowded beyond measure. Here the fire was definitely expected, and the inhabitants were dragging out their possessions, yet still would not leave their homes, but sat expectantly on dragged-out chests and feather beds, each under his own windows. Part of the male population was working hard, ruthlessly chopping down fences and even knocking apart entire shanties that stood closer to the fire and to windward. There was only the crying of awakened children and the wailing lamentations of women who had already successfully dragged their junk out. The unsuccessful were silently and energetically dragging theirs out. Sparks and grit flew far away; they were extinguished as well as possible. At the fire itself there was a crowd of spectators who had come running from every end of town. Some helped to put it out, others gazed like admirers. A big fire at night always produces a stirring and exhilarating impression; fireworks are based on that, but there the fire is disposed along graceful, regular lines and, with all its safety, produces a playful and light impression, as after a glass of champagne. A real fire is another matter: here horror and, after all, some sense of personal danger, as it were— combined with the well-known exhilarating impression of a fire at night—produce in the spectator (not, of course, in the burnt-out inhabitant) a sort of brain concussion and a challenge, as it were, to his own destructive instincts, which, alas! lie hidden in every soul, even that of the most humble and familial titular councillor[184]... This gloomy sensation is almost always intoxicating. "I really do not know whether it is possible to watch a fire without a certain pleasure." This was said to me, word for word, by Stepan Trofimovich, on returning from a night fire he had chanced to witness, and still under the first impression of the spectacle. Of course, that same admirer of night fires will also rush into the fire to save a burning child or an old woman; but that is an altogether different matter.
Plodding after the curious crowd, I made my way, without any inquiries, to the most important and dangerous spot, where I finally caught sight of Lembke, whom I was looking for on instructions from Yulia Mikhailovna herself. His position was astonishing and extraordinary. He was standing on the debris of a fence; to the left of him, about thirty steps away, towered the black skeleton of a nearly burnt-down two-story wooden house, with holes instead of windows on both floors, its roof fallen in, and flames still snaking here and there over the charred beams. At the back of the courtyard, about twenty steps away from the burnt-down house, a cottage, also two-storied, was beginning to blaze, and the firemen were working on it as hard as they could. To the right, the firemen and the people were fighting for a rather large wooden building which was not yet burning, but had already caught fire several times, and was inevitably fated to burn down. Lembke was shouting and gesticulating, his face turned towards the cottage, and issuing orders which no one obeyed. I almost thought he had simply been left there and completely abandoned. At least no one in the dense and extremely diverse crowd that surrounded him, in which, along with all kinds of people, there were also some gentlemen and even the cathedral priest, though they all listened to him with curiosity and astonishment, either spoke to him or tried to lead him away. Lembke, pale, his eyes flashing, was uttering the most astonishing things; to top it off, he was without his hat, and had lost it long ago.
"It's all arson! It's nihilism! If anything's ablaze, it's nihilism!" I heard all but with horror, and though there was no longer anything to be astonished at, still manifest reality always has something shocking about it.
"Your Excellency," a policeman turned up beside him, "if you'd be so good as to try domestic repose, sir... the way it is, it's even dangerous for Your Excellency to be standing here."
This policeman, as I learned later, was purposely left with Andrei Antonovich by the police chief, to watch over him and try as hard as he could to take him home, and in case of danger even to act with force—a charge obviously beyond the powers of its executor.
"The tears of the burnt-out people will be wiped away, but the town will be burned. It's all four blackguards, four and a half. Arrest the blackguard! He's in it alone, and has slandered the four and a half. He worms himself into the honor of families. Governesses have been used to set houses on fire. This is mean, mean! Aie, what is he doing?" he cried, suddenly noticing a fireman on the roof of the blazing cottage, the roof already burned through under him and fire flaring up all around. "Pull him down, pull him down, he'll fall through, he'll catch fire, put him out... What is he doing up there?"
"Putting it out, Your Excellency."
"Unbelievable. The fire is in people's minds, not on the rooftops. Pull him down and drop it all! Better drop it, drop it! Leave it to itself somehow! Aie, who is that still crying? An old woman! An old woman is shouting, why did you forget the old woman?"