The Abyss and Other Stories (Alma Classics) Page 6
“I-diot!”
Then he would gaze at the sleeping student, who during the day had been kissed by the young woman, and correct himself with even more malicious glee:
“Idi-ots!”
But in the daytime his soul would become still, and his body carried out everything that was ordered, took medicine and moved to and fro. Yet with every day it was getting weaker and was soon left in almost complete peace, motionless, enormous, and seeming, in that deceptive enormous size, healthy and strong.
Fr. Deacon was getting weaker too: he walked around the wards less and laughed more rarely, but whenever the sun looked into the ward, he started chattering cheerfully and profusely, thanked everyone – the sun and the doctors – and recalled more and more often the White Transparent apple tree. Then he sang ‘Our Lady of Peace’ and his dark, pinched face became brighter, but more self-important too: it was immediately evident that it was a deacon singing, not a psalm reader. Having finished the song, he went up to Lavrenty Petrovich and told him what sort of document he had been given at his ordination:
“A gigantic thing like this,” he showed him with his hands, “and letters – letters all over it. Some black, some with golden colouring. A rarity, honest to God!”
He crossed himself before the icon and added with self-respect:
“And at the bottom the archbishop’s seal. Ginormous, honest to God, an absolute cheesecake. One word for it, upon my soul! Right, Father?”
And he let out a peal of laughter, concealing his brightening eyes in a network of fine little wrinkles. But the sun hid behind a grey snow cloud, the ward grew dull and, sighing, Fr. Deacon got into bed.
III
Snow still lay in the fields and gardens, but the streets had long been clear of it, were dry and, in places of heavy traffic, even dusty. Only from front gardens bounded by iron railings and from courtyards did fine little streams of water run and spread out in puddles over the even asphalt; and in both directions from every such puddle stretched the prints of wet feet – dark and frequent to begin with, but sparse and barely visible farther on, as though the crowd that had passed here had all at once been snatched up into the air and set down only by the next puddle. The sun poured whole streams of light into the ward, and was so warming that it had to be hidden from – like in summer – and it was hard to believe that beyond the thin panes of the windows the air was cold, fresh and damp. In this light the ward itself, with its high ceilings, seemed a narrow and stifling cranny in which it was impossible to stretch out a hand without hitting a wall. The voice of the street did not penetrate into the clinic through the double windows, but when the big-hinged transom window was opened in the ward in the mornings, bursting into it all of a sudden, without any transition, would come the drunkenly cheerful and noisy cry of the sparrows. Shy and as though hurt, all other sounds fell quiet before it, while the cry carried triumphantly down the corridors, went up the stairs and burst impertinently into the laboratory, running resonantly over the glass retorts. The patients, who had been sent out into the corridor, smiled at the naive, boyishly impertinent cry, and Fr. Deacon closed his eyes, stretched his arms out in front of him and whispered:
“A sparrow! Upon my soul, a sparrow!”
The transom was closed, the sparrows’ resonant cry died just as suddenly as it had been born, but it was as if the patients still hoped to find hidden echoes of it, and they entered the ward hurriedly, looked it over uneasily and greedily inhaled the unrolling waves of fresh air.
Now the patients would go up to the windows more often and stand at them for a long time, wiping the panes, clean as it was, with their fingers; reluctantly, with grumbles, they inserted their thermometers and talked only about the future. And that future appeared light and good for all of them, even the boy from ward eleven, who was carried to a private room one morning by the watchmen, and afterwards disappeared who knows where – “was discharged”, as the nurses said. Many of the patients saw him being carried, along with his bedding, into the private room: he was carried head first, and he was motionless – only his dark, sunken eyes moved from one object to another, and there was something so uncomplainingly sad and terrifying in those eyes that none of the patients could hold their gaze, so they turned away. And everyone guessed later on that the boy had died, but no one was agitated or frightened by this death: here it was that ordinary and simple thing that it must seem in war. Another patient, also from ward eleven, died during this period, too. He was a short and, to look at, still quite lively little old man who had suffered a stroke; he walked with a rolling gait, leading with one shoulder, and told all the patients one and the same story about the baptism of Rus under St Vladimir.* What it was about this story that touched him always remained unknown, for he spoke very quietly and incomprehensibly, rounding words off and swallowing their endings, but he himself was evidently enraptured, waving his right arm about and rolling his right eye – the left side of his body was paralysed. If his mood was good, he would end the story with an unexpectedly loud and triumphant exclamation – “God is with us!” – after which he would hurriedly move away, laughing in embarrassment and naively hiding his face with his hands. But more often he was sad and complained that he was not given a warm bath, which would be sure to make him get better. A few days before he died, he was prescribed a warm bath in the evening, and all that day he was exclaiming: “God is with us!” and laughing; when he was already sitting in the bath, patients passing by could hear his hurried, blissful cooing: it was the old man recounting for the last time to the watchman looking after him the story of the baptism of Rus under St Vladimir. No perceptible changes occurred in the situation of the patients of ward eight: the student Torbetsky was getting better, while Lavrenty Petrovich and Fr. Deacon were getting weaker with every day – life and strength were leaving them with such ominous noiselessness that even they themselves hardly guessed at it, and it seemed as if they had never actually walked around the ward, but had always lain in just the same calm way in their beds.
And the doctors in their white gowns and the students came just as regularly, listened and tapped, and talked among themselves.
On the Friday of the fifth week of Lent, Fr. Deacon was taken to a lecture and returned from the auditorium excited and talkative. He let out peals of laughter, as he had in the early days, crossed himself and thanked people, and at times he
lifted a handkerchief to his eyes, after which his eyes became red.
“What is it you’re crying for, Fr. Deacon?” asked the student.
“Oh, Father, you might well ask,” responded the deacon with emotion, “it’s just so good, upon my soul! Semyon Nikolayevich sat me down in an armchair, stood next to me and says to the students: ‘Here,’ he says, ‘is a deacon…’”
At this point Fr. Deacon pulled a self-important face and knitted his brows, but tears welled up in his eyes again and, bashfully turning away, he elucidated:
“Semyon Nikolayevich’s reading really is very touching! So touching your entire soul turns upside down. ‘Once upon a time,’ he says, ‘there lived a deacon…’”
Fr. Deacon let out a sob.
“Once upon a time there lived a deacon…”
Fr. Deacon could not go on any more for his tears, but when he was already lying down in bed, he whispered from under the blanket in a constrained voice:
“He told my whole life story. How I’d been a psalm reader, gone hungry. Mentioned my wife too, my thanks to him. So touchingly, so touchingly, as though you’d died, and he’s reading over you. ‘Once upon a time,’ he says… ‘there lived,’ he says… ‘a deacon…’”
And while Fr. Deacon was talking, it became evident to all that this man was going to die. It became evident with such indisputable and terrible clarity that it was as though death itself were standing there amongst them. There was a breath of invisible, terrible cold and darkness coming from the cheerful deacon, and when, with fresh sobbing, he disappeared under the blanket, Torbetsky rubbed his chilled hands nervously and Lavrenty Petrovich burst into rude laughter and started coughing.
In recent days Lavrenty Petrovich had been highly agitated and incessantly turning his head in the direction of the blue sky that shone through the window; untrue to his immobility, he shifted about spasmodically on the bed, grunted and got angry with the nurses. It was with the same agitation that he greeted the doctor at his daily examination, and the latter finally noticed it. He was a good, kind man and asked sympathetically:
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m bored,” said Lavrenty Petrovich. And he said it in the kind of voice that suffering children speak in, and he closed his eyes to conceal his tears. And in his “journal”, amid the remarks about what the patient’s pulse and breathing were like and how many times he had had diarrhoea, there appeared a new note: “Patient complaining of boredom.”
The student was visited, as before, by the young woman he loved, and the fresh air made her cheeks burn with such a vivid and delicate colour that it was pleasant, and for some reason a little sad, to look at them. Bending right down to Torbetsky’s face, she said:
“Look how hot my cheeks are.”
And he did look – not with his eyes, though, but with his lips – and he looked for a long time and very hard, for he had started to recover and had grown in strength. They were not shy in front of the other patients now, and kissed openly; at this the deacon would tactfully turn away, but Lavrenty Petrovich no longer pretended to be asleep, and looked at them in a challenging, mocking manner. And they liked Fr. Deacon and disliked Lavrenty Petrovich.
On the Saturday, Fr. Deacon received a letter from home. He had already been expecting it for a whole week, and everyone in the clinic knew that Fr. Deacon was expecting a letter, and they joined him in being anxious. Perking up and cheerful, he rose from his bed and wandered slowly through the wards, everywhere showing people the letter, accepting congratulations, bowing and saying thank you. Everyone was already long aware of the very great height of his wife, but now he imparted a new detail about her:
“Really snores, she does. When she’s gone to bed, you can hit her with a carriage shaft if you want, you won’t wake her up. Snores, and that’s all there is to it. She’s marvellous – honest to God!”
Then Fr. Deacon gave a roguish wink and exclaimed:
“And have you ever seen such a thing as this? Father, hey, Father?”
And he showed the fourth page of the letter, on which, with unskilled, trembling strokes, the contour of a child’s outspread hand was outlined, and in the middle, just on the palm, was written: “Tosik set his hand here”. Before setting his hand there, Tosik had evidently been doing something or other involving the use of water and dirt, for in the spots that had been under the bulges of the palm and fingers, the paper retained distinct traces of stains.
“The grandson, isn’t he good? Only four, but clever – so clever I can’t tell you. Set his hand to it, eh?” In raptures at the witty joke, Fr. Deacon slapped his hand on his knee and bent over in a fit of irrepressible quiet laughter. And his pale, yellowish face, which had not seen fresh air in a long time, became for a minute the face of a healthy man whose days were not yet numbered. And his voice became strong and resonant, and there was a breath of good spirits in the sounds of the touching song:
“Our Lady of Peace, most high of the heavens, purest brightness of the sun, who delivers us from our curse, we honour thee with song!…”
That same day Lavrenty Petrovich was taken to a lecture. He came back from it agitated, with trembling hands and a crooked grin, angrily pushed away the nurse who was helping him get into bed, and immediately closed his eyes. But Fr. Deacon, who had himself been through a lecture, waited for the moment when Lavrenty Petrovich’s eyes opened a little, and then started questioning him with sympathetic curiosity about the details of the examination.
“Well, Father, touching, eh? I suppose he said it about you too: ‘Once upon a time,’ he says, ‘there lived a merchant…’”
Lavrenty Petrovich’s face contorted in rage; after giving the deacon a scorching look, he turned his back to him and closed his eyes decisively once more.
“It’s all right, Father, don’t you worry: you’ll get better… and what pranks you’ll get up to – heavenly!” Fr. Deacon continued. He lay on his back and gazed dreamily at the ceiling, on which a ray of sun was playing, reflected from who knows where. The student went off for a smoke, and all that was to be heard in minutes of silence was Lavrenty Petrovich’s heavy and rapid breathing.
“Yes, Father,” said Fr. Deacon slowly, with calm joy, “if you’re in our parts, pay me a visit. Five versts* from the station – any of the peasants will bring you. Honest to God, do come – I’ll offer you hospitality, upon my soul. My kvas* – why, I can’t tell you how sweet it is!”
Fr. Deacon sighed, and after a pause continued:
“Me, I’ll make the trip to the Holy Trinity. And I’ll take out a prosphoron in your name.* Then I’ll look over the cathedrals. I’ll go to a bathhouse. What’s the name they give them, Father: the trading rows, is it?”
Lavrenty Petrovich did not answer, and Fr. Deacon decided for himself:
“The trading rows. And then, upon my soul – home!”
The deacon fell blissfully silent, and in the ensuing quietness Lavrenty Petrovich’s rapid and fitful breathing was reminiscent of the wrathful puffing of a steam engine being held back on a siding. And the picture of imminent happiness the deacon had conjured up had yet to clear from before his eyes when into his ear came incomprehensible and horrific words. There was horror in the sound of them alone; there was horror in the coarse and malicious voice letting fall, one after another, the senseless and cruel words:
“You’ll be going to the Vagankovo Cemetery, that’s where!”
“What are you saying, Father?” asked the deacon, failing to understand.
“It’s time, I’m saying, to go to the Vagankovo, the Vagankovo,” replied Lavrenty Petrovich. He had turned to face Fr. Deacon, and even dropped his head down from the pillow so that not one word should escape the man it was directed at. “Or else they’ll drag you off to the dissecting room, and the way they’ll cut you up there – upon my soul!”
Lavrenty Petrovich burst out laugh
ing.
“What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with you, good Lord!” mumbled Fr. Deacon.
“There’s nothing the matter with me, but the way they bury the dead here – now that is amusing. First they cut off an arm and bury the arm. Then they cut off a leg and bury the leg. The odd unlucky dead man gets carted around for a whole year – there’s no end to it.”
The deacon was silent and looked at Lavrenty Petrovich with a fixed gaze, while the latter continued to talk. And there was something repulsive and wretched in the shameless directness of his speech.
“I look at you, Father Deacon, and I think: you’re an old man, but stupid – to put it bluntly – to the point of saintliness. Well, and what are you bristling about? ‘I’ll go to the Holy Trinity, I’ll go to a bathhouse.’ Or about the White Transparent apple tree too. You’ve got just a week to live, but you…”
“A week?”
“Why, yes, a week. It’s not me saying it – it’s the doctors. I was lying here the other day as though asleep, and you were out of the ward, and the students are talking, and ‘our deacon’ll soon be gone’, they say. ‘He’ll last about a week.’”
“A-bou-t a wee-k?”
“So do you think it’s going to spare you?” Lavrenty Petrovich uttered the word “it” with terrible expressiveness. Then he lifted up his huge, lumpy fist and, after sadly admiring its massive outlines, continued: “Here, look! I clout someone, and he’ll be topsy-durvy right away. But at the same time… Well, yes, at the same time… Oh dear, you empty-headed deacon: ‘I’ll go to the Holy Trinity, I’ll go to a bathhouse.’ There’ve been better people than you, but they’ve died too.”
Fr. Deacon’s face was as yellow as saffron – he could not speak or cry, or even groan. Silently and slowly he lowered himself onto his pillow, and diligently, escaping from the light and Lavrenty Petrovich’s words, wrapped himself up in his blanket and fell quiet. But Lavrenty Petrovich could not stop speaking: with every word with which he struck the deacon, he brought himself comfort and relief. And with feigned good-heartedness he repeated: