'Thunder, good old thunder,' whispered Layevsky, fceling an urge to pray to someone or something—if only to lightning or clouds.
When he was a boy, he remembered, a storm would send him rushing into the garden, his head uncovered, with two fair-haired, bluc-eyed little girls pelting after him. Soaked by rain, they laughed in sheer ccstasy. But thcn a loud thunder-clap scnt the girls huddling trustfuliy against the little boy, while he crossed himself and quickly rccited a 'Holy, holy, holy'.
Where, oh where have you vanished, you intimations of splendid innocence? What sea has drowned you ? No longcr did he fcar thunder. He disliked naturc, he had no God. He and his fcllows had iong ago debauched all the trustful girls of his acquaintancc, and not once in his life had hc planted a trce in the garden of his home, or grown a single bladc of grass. Never in all his born days had he rcscued so much as a fly, he had dealt solely in destruction, ruin and lics, iics, lies.
'Is thcre anything in my past but shecr depravity?' he asked himself, trying to cling to some bright memory as one falling over a precipice may clutch at bushes.
What of his high school days? The university? All sham. He had studied badly, forgetting what he had becn taught. What ofhis servicc to society? That was bogus too, for he had served without working— he had been paid a salary for doing nothing, his 'service' being only an odious form of cmbezzlement from public funds in a manner not liable to prosecution.
He had failed to cultivate integrity, having no need for it. His con- science, mesmerized by depravity and pretcnce, had slept or remained silent. Like some stranger or hireling—like one from another planet— he had shirked collective social life, caring nothing for the sufferings of others, nothing for their ideas and religions, nothing for what they knew, nothing for their quests and struggles. He had never uttered a single kind word, every line he had written was cheap and useless. He had not done a thing for his fellows but cat their bread, drink their wine, steal thcir wivcs and borrow thcir ideas, while seeking tojustify his despicable, parasitical existence in the world's eyes and his own by passing himself off as a higher form of life. It was all lies, lies, lies.
He clearly remcmbered what he had seen at Myuridov's earlier that night, and the .anguish of nauseated revulsion overwhelmed him. Foul as Kirilin and Achrnianov were, they were only carrying on where he had left off, after all—they were his accompliccs and pupils. A weak young woman, who had trusted him more than her own brother—he had taken her from her husband, her circle of friends and her home- land. He had carried her off to this sweltering, fever-ridden dump, and day after day she had inevitably come to mirror his own idleness, depravity and spuriousness, the whole of her feeble, listless, wretched existence being utterly abandoned to these things. Then he had wearied of her and come to hate her. But not having the guts to leave her, he had tried to enmesh her ever more tightly in the web ofhis lies.
Achmianov and Kirilin had completed the job.
Layevsky now sat at his desk, now moved to his window, some- times putting out his candle, sometimes lighting it again. He cursed himself aloud, wept, lamented, begged forgiveness. Several times he rushed to the desk in his despair, and wrote: 'Dear Mother '
His mother apart, he had no near and dear ones. But how could his mother help him ? And where was she ? He wanted to run to Nadezhda, fall do^ before her, kiss her hands and feet, beg her to forgive him. But she was his victim, and he feared her as if she were dead.
'My life is in ruins,' he muttered, rubbing his hands. 'Ye gods, why do I still go on?'
He had cast his own dim star from the skies and it had plummeted do^, its trace lost in the mists of night. Never would it reappear in the heavens, for life is given only once—it never comes round a second time. Were it possible to relive past days and years, Layevsky would exchange his lies for truth, his idleness for industry, his boredom for joy, he would restore innocence to those whose innocence he had stolen, he would find God, discover righteousness. But these things were no more possible than putting that fallen star back in the sky, and the sheer hopelessness of it filled him with despair.
When the storm had blown over, he sat by the open window calmly surveying his future. Probably Von Koren would kill him. The man's clear, cold view-point permitted the liquidation of weaklings and good-for-nothings. And if his philosophy should waver at the last moment, there was always his hatred and disgust with Layevsky to help him out. But were Von Koren to miss, were he to mock his hated opponent by just wounding him, or shooting into the air—what then? Where could Layevsky go?
'To St. Petersburg?' he wondered. 'But that would mean resuming my old life which I so execrate. To seek redemption in changes of scenery, like a migrating bird—that means fmding nothing because one part of the world's the same as any other to someone like that. Should I seek salvation in people? But with whom? How? Samoylenko's kindness and generosity are of no more avail than the deacon's ready laugh or Von Koren's hatred. Seek deliverance in yourself alone. If you can't find it, why waste your time ? Kill yourself and have done with it.'
Day wasbreaking anda carriage whirred past, turned and stopped near the house, its wheels grating on wet sand. There were two people in it.
Tll just be a moment,' Laycvsky told them through the window. .'I wasn't asleep. Can it be time already?'
'Yes, it's four o'clock. By the time we arrive '
Laycvsky donned overcoat and cap, put cigarettes in lis pocket and pauscd for thought. There must be something else that needed doing, he felt. His seconds were talking quietly in the strect, the horses snorted. In the damp of early morning, when everyone w.as still asleep and barely a streak of light marked the sky, these sounds fillcd Layevsky's heart with dcspondency akin to a premonition of evil. He stood for a moment in thought, then went into the bedroom.
Nadezhda was stretched out in bed with a rug round her head. She lay motionJess, and her head in particular reiinded him of an Egyptian mummy. Looking at her without a word, Layevsky mentally implored her to forgive him. If the heavens arc not void, he thought, if there really is a God up there, He will protect her. But if there is no God, she may as well go to her doom, there's no point in her living.
She suddenly started and sat up in bed, lifting her pale face and gazing horrorstruck at Layevsky.
'Is it you?' she said. 'Is the storm over?'
'Yes.'
Then memory retumed and she put both hands. on her head, shuddering in every limb.
'I feel so awful,' she said. 'So awful, if you did but know.'
'I thought you'd k:ll me,' she went on, fro^mng, 'or thruw me out in the rain and storm. But you don't do anything, you just '
On an impulse he clutched her tightly to him, covering her knees and hands with kisses. Then, when she muttered something, shuddering at her memories, he stroked her hair, gazing into her face—and knew that this unhappy, immoral woman was the one person in his life. She was ncar to him, dear to him. She was the only one.
He left the house and took his seat in the carriage. Now he wanted to come home alive.
XVIII
The deacon rose, dressed, took his thick, knobbly walking-stick and went quietly out of doors. It was so dark that during the first few minutes of his walk along the street hc could not even see the white stick. No star shone in the sky, and it looked like rain again. There was a smeU of wet sand and sea.
'Let's hope there won't be a Chechen raid,' thought the deacon, listening to the thump of his stick on the road and to the resonance of that lonely sound in the silent darkness.