be

an object of pity? And Tyeglev, on his side, was well-disposed to me;

with me he felt at ease, with me he used to talk—in my presence he

ventured to leave the strange pedestal on which he had been placed

either by his own efforts or by chance. Agonisingly, morbidly vain as

he was, yet he was probably aware in the depths of his soul that there

was nothing to justify his vanity, and that others might perhaps look

down on him … but I, a boy of nineteen, put no constraint on him;

the dread of saying something stupid, inappropriate, did not oppress

his ever-apprehensive heart in my presence. He sometimes even

chattered freely; and well it was for him that no one heard his

chatter except me! His reputation would not have lasted long. He not

only knew very little, but read hardly anything and confined himself

to picking up stories and anecdotes of a certain kind. He believed in

presentiments, predictions, omens, meetings, lucky and unlucky days,

in the persecution and benevolence of destiny, in the mysterious

significance of life, in fact. He even believed in certain

«climacteric» years which someone had mentioned in his presence and

the meaning of which he did not himself very well understand. «Fatal»

men of the true stamp ought not to betray such beliefs: they ought to

inspire them in others…. But I was the only one who knew Tyeglev on

that side.

V

One day—I remember it was St. Elijah’s day, July 20th—I came to stay

with my brother and did not find him at home: he had been ordered off

for a whole week somewhere. I did not want to go back to Petersburg; I

sauntered about the neighbouring marshes, killed a brace of snipe and

spent the evening with Tyeglev under the shelter of an empty barn

where he had, as he expressed it, set up his summer residence. We had

a little conversation but for the most part drank tea, smoked pipes

and talked sometimes to our host, a Russianised Finn or to the pedlar

who used to hang about the battery selling «fi-ine oranges and

lemons,» a charming and lively person who in addition to other talents

could play the guitar and used to tell us of the unhappy love which he

cherished in his young days for the daughter of a policeman. Now that

he was older, this Don Juan in a gay cotton shirt had no experience of

unsuccessful love affairs. Before the doors of our barn stretched a

wide plain gradually sloping away in the distance; a little river

gleamed here and there in the winding hollows; low growing woods could

be seen further on the horizon. Night was coming on and we were left

alone. As night fell a fine damp mist descended upon the earth, and,

growing thicker and thicker, passed into a dense fog. The moon rose up

into the sky; the fog was soaked through and through and, as it were,

shimmering with golden light. Everything was strangely shifting,

veiled and confused; the faraway looked near, the near looked far

away, what was big looked small and what was small looked big …

everything became dim and full of light. We seemed to be in fairyland,

in a world of whitish-golden mist, deep stillness, delicate sleep….

And how mysteriously, like sparks of silver, the stars filtered

through the mist! We were both silent. The fantastic beauty of the

night worked upon us: it put us into the mood for the fantastic.

VI

Tyeglev was the first to speak and talked with his usual hesitating

incompleted sentences and repetitions about presentiments … about

ghosts. On exactly such a night, according to him, one of his friends,

a student who had just taken the place of tutor to two orphans and was

sleeping with them in a lodge in the garden, saw a woman’s figure

bending over their beds and next day recognised the figure in a

portrait of the mother of the orphans which he had not previously

noticed. Then Tyeglev told me that his parents had heard for several

days before their death the sound of rushing water; that his

grandfather had been saved from death in the battle of Borodino

through suddenly stooping down to pick up a simple grey pebble at the

very instant when a volley of grape-shot flew over his head and broke

his long black plume. Tyeglev even promised to show me the very pebble

which had saved his grandfather and which he had mounted into a

medallion. Then he talked of the lofty destination of every man and of

his own in particular and added that he still believed in it and that

if he ever had any doubts on that subject he would know how to be rid

of them and of his life, as life would then lose all significance for

him. «You imagine perhaps,» he brought out, glancing askance at me,

«that I shouldn’t have the spirit to do it? You don’t know me … I

have a will of iron.»

«Well said,» I thought to myself.

Tyeglev pondered, heaved a deep sigh and dropping his chibouk out of

his hand, informed me that that day was a very important one for him.

«This is the prophet Elijah’s day—my name day…. It is … it is

always for me a difficult time.»

I made no answer and only looked at him as he sat facing me, bent,

round-shouldered, and clumsy, with his drowsy, lustreless eyes fixed

on the ground.

«An old beggar woman» (Tyeglev never let a single beggar pass without

giving alms) «told me to-day,» he went on, «that she would pray for my

soul…. Isn’t that strange?»

«Why does the man want to be always bothering about himself!» I

thought again. I must add, however, that of late I had begun noticing

an unusual expression of anxiety and uneasiness on Tyeglev’s face, and

it was not a «fatal» melancholy: something really was fretting and

worrying him. On this occasion, too, I was struck by the dejected

expression of his face. Were not those very doubts of which he had

spoken to me beginning to assail him? Tyeglev’s comrades had told me

that not long before he had sent to the authorities a project for some

reforms in the artillery department and that the project had been

returned to him «with a comment,» that is, a reprimand. Knowing his

character, I had no doubt that such contemptuous treatment by his

superior officers had deeply mortified him. But the change that I

fancied I saw in Tyeglev was more like sadness and there was a more

personal note about it.

«It’s getting damp, though,» he brought out at last and he shrugged

his shoulders. «Let us go into the hut—and it’s bed-time, too.» He

had the habit of shrugging his shoulders and turning his head from

side to side, putting his right hand to his throat as he did so, as

though his cravat were constricting it. Tyeglev’s character was

expressed, so at least it seemed to me, in this uneasy and nervous

movement. He, too, felt constricted in the world.

We went back into the hut, and both lay down on benches, he in the

corner facing the door and I on the opposite side.

VII

Tyeglev was for a long time turning from side to side on his bench and

I could not get to sleep, either. Whether his stories had excited my

nerves or the strange night had fevered my blood—anyway, I could not

go to sleep. All inclination for sleep disappeared at last and I lay

with my eyes open and thought, thought intensely, goodness knows of

what; of most senseless trifles—as always happens when one is

sleepless. Turning from side to side I stretched out my hands…. My

finger hit one of the beams of the wall. It emitted a faint but

resounding, and as it were, prolonged note…. I must have struck a

hollow place.

I tapped again … this time on purpose. The same sound was repeated.

I knocked again…. All at once Tyeglev raised his head.

«Ridel!» he said, «do you hear? Someone is knocking under the window.»

I pretended to be asleep. The fancy suddenly took me to play a trick

at the expense of my «fatal» friend. I could not sleep, anyway.

He let his head sink on the pillow. I waited for a little and again

knocked three times in succession.

Tyeglev sat up again and listened. I tapped again. I was lying facing

him but he could not see my hand…. I put it behind me under the

bedclothes.

«Ridel!» cried Tyeglev.

I did not answer.

«Ridel!» he repeated loudly. «Ridel!»

«Eh? What is it?» I said as though just waking up.

«Don’t you hear, someone keeps knocking under the window, wants to

come in, I suppose.»

«Some passer-by,» I muttered.

«Then we must let him in or find out who it is.»

But I made no answer, pretending to be asleep.

Several minutes passed…. I tapped again. Tyeglev sat up at once and

listened.

«Knock … knock … knock! Knock … knock … knock!»

Through my half-closed eyelids in the whitish light of the night I

could distinctly see every movement he made. He turned his face first

to the window then to the door. It certainly was difficult to make out

where the sound came from: it seemed to float round the room, to glide

along the walls. I had accidentally hit upon a kind of sounding board.

«Ridel!» cried Tyeglev at last, «Ridel! Ridel!»

«Why, what is it?» I asked, yawning.

«Do you mean to say you don’t hear anything? There is someone

knocking.»

«Well, what if there is?» I answered and again pretended to be asleep

and even snored.

Tyeglev subsided.

«Knock … knock … knock!»

«Who is there?» Tyeglev shouted. «Come in!»

No one answered, of course.

«Knock … knock … knock!»

Tyeglev jumped out of bed, opened the window and thrusting out his

head, cried wildly, «Who is there? Who is knocking?» Then he

opened the door and repeated his question. A horse neighed in the

distance—that was all.

He went back towards his bed.

«Knock … knock … knock!»

Tyeglev instantly turned round and sat down.

«Knock … knock … knock!»

He rapidly put on his boots, threw his overcoat over his shoulders and

unhooking his sword from the wall, went out of the hut. I heard him

walk round it twice, asking all the time,