The Book
of Renunciation
But Arseny had not melted away. On the day they were searching for him at Christofer’s home, he was already a dozen versts away. Two days earlier, he had tossed a canvas bag on his back and left the hamlet.
He had placed a scant number of remedies and medical instruments in the bag. Christofer’s manuscripts took up the rest of the space. This was an insignificant part of the deceased’s writings—his written legacy was so extensive it would not even have fit into a large bag. And Arseny’s bag was not large. He felt regret, forced as he was to leave behind many wonderful manuscripts.
Arseny walked out of the house and headed for Koshcheevo. From Koshcheevo to Pavlovo and from Pavlovo to Pankovo. His feet slid along wet clay, he fell into deep puddles, and his boots quickly took on water. Arseny’s route was not direct, for he had no clearly defined geographical goal. And it was unhurried. When entering yet another village, Arseny would ask if there was pestilence. There was no pestilence in the first villages he saw. They still knew Arseny there and so let him into their houses and even fed him.
In light of the early darkness, Arseny had to spend the night in Pankovo. When he set out again in the morning and came to Nikolskoe, he was not allowed in. They were not letting anyone into Nikolskoe, in order that no one carry the pestilence scourge into the village. Arseny was also not let into Kuznetsovoe, which lay one verst from Nikolskoe. Arseny headed for Maloe Zakoze but it turned out that logs blocked the entry into Maloe Zakoze. He went in the direction of Bolshoe Zakoze but the very same sort of logs lay there, too.
Velikoe Selo was next on Arseny’s route. The entry was open but it was immediately obvious to Arseny that an air of ill-being hovered over the place.
It smells of trouble here, Arseny told Ustina. Our help is needed in this village.
This was the first time he had addressed Ustina since her death, and he felt trepidation. Arseny did not ask her forgiveness because he did not consider himself eligible to be forgiven. He simply asked for her participation in an important matter and hoped she would not refuse. But Ustina remained silent. He sensed doubt in her silence.
Believe me, my love, I do not seek death, said Arseny. To the contrary, actually: my life is our mutual hope. Could I really seek death now?
They did not open the first house to him. They said the pestilence had come to the village. Arseny asked where, exactly, there were sick people, and they indicated Yegor Blacksmith’s house. Arseny knocked at that house. There was no answer. Arseny took a linen rag from his bag, covered his mouth with it, and tied the ends on the back of his head. He crossed himself and entered.
Yegor Blacksmith was lying on a bench. His huge arm was hanging down. His hand clenched into a fist from time to time, showing that he was still alive. Arseny took Yegor by the wrist so he could check how strongly his blood was moving. Hardly any movement was apparent, though. Yegor unexpectedly opened his eyes at Arseny’s touch.
Drink.
There was no water in the house. An overturned dipper lay on the floor, right by Yegor’s hand; under it glistened the last drops of moisture. It was obvious Yegor had knocked over the dipper but lacked the strength to fetch more water from the well.
Arseny went outside and headed toward the well sweep. The crane-like sweep had a dead appearance. Its wooden neck, which had been secured to the log that formed its torso with a clamp, creakily danced in the wind. Arseny lowered a wooden bucket into the well. The underground water stood high, unbound by ice. Arseny saw his reflection in the water and did not recognize it. His face had become different.
My face has become different, he told Ustina. These differences are difficult to define but they are obvious, my love.
He went back inside and gave water to Yegor Blacksmith. Arseny supported Yegor’s head with his hand and Yegor drank, seeing nothing. He choked as he swallowed. The water flowed along his beard and streamed under his shirt. He could not get enough to drink. He held onto Arseny’s hand with his own hand, and Arseny could barely hold its weight. This person had been very strong, thought Arseny, and, oh, he is so weak now. Just several days of illness had transformed him into a powerless heap of meat. Which would begin to decompose in several days. He sensed there was already no life in that body.
Yegor unexpectedly opened his eyes.
Art thou my angel of death?
I am not, said Arseny, denying it.
Do tell, O angel, how I shall be judged.
Arseny watched as Yegor’s eyelids slowly shut.
Thou shall soon die, Arseny quietly said, but Yegor could no longer hear him.
He breathed heavily and drops of sweat rolled from his forehead, disappearing in his thick hair. Sitting alongside him, Arseny remembered how he had sometimes looked at the sleeping Ustina. Her chest had moved, barely noticeably, under the bedspread. Sometimes Ustina would loudly inhale air through her nostrils and turn onto her other side. Rub her cheek. Move her lips. Arseny moved his lips, too. He was reciting the prayer for the dying. His glance gradually took on sharpness and he saw Yegor behind Ustina’s features. Yegor was dead.
Arseny went to the neighboring houses. There lay the living and the dead. He dragged the dead outside and covered them with pieces of canvas and brushwood. Arseny felt signs of life in one of the bodies as he was dragging it outside. He noticed there was still a soul clinging to the body. It was a young woman’s body.
Something is telling me, he told Ustina, that this is not a hopeless case.
He carried the woman back into the house. It was warm there because the owners had still been on their feet that morning and stoked the stove. Arseny laid the sick woman on her stomach and examined her neck. Swollen glands—buboes—had spread along her neck like huge, minium-red beads. Arseny blew on the embers in the stove and threw in more wood. He took his instruments from his bag and laid them out on the bench. He thought for a bit. He chose a small lance and brought it to the fire. When the lance had been cleansed in the flame, he went over to the patient. He felt the buboes with his free hand. After choosing the largest and softest bubo, he stuck the point into it and squeezed it with two fingers. A thick, cloudy fluid with an unpleasant smell flowed from the bubo. Arseny felt its viscous flow with his fingers but he did not find it repulsive. For him, the pus running along the woman’s neck was the disease’s visible departure from the body. Arseny experienced joy. Feeling node after node with the pads of his fingers, he squeezed the plague from the patient.
After the neck, Arseny moved to the underarms, and then from the underarms to the groin. He sensed other smells there, too, besides the smell of the pus, and that agitated him. So much of me is brutish, thought Arseny. So much. After finishing the treatment, he let her blood in the places with the most buboes. The blood was foul there and had to be drained. The woman came to and began moaning when Arseny pierced the first blood vessel.