often occurred to me sincethat if he had not succeeded in the trick with the cards, there is noknowing what turn it would have taken and how he would have looked athimself; but this unexpected success clinched the matter.
IV
It may well be understood that Tyeglev clutched at this reputation. Itgave him a special significance, a special colour ... "_Cela leposait_," as the French express it--and with his limitedintelligence, scanty education and immense vanity, such a reputationjust suited him. It was difficult to acquire it but to keep it up costnothing: he had only to remain silent and hold himself aloof. But itwas not owing to this reputation that I made friends with Tyeglev and,I may say, grew fond of him. I liked him in the first place because Iwas rather an unsociable creature myself--and saw in him one of my ownsort, and secondly, because he was a very good-natured fellow and inreality, very simple-hearted. He aroused in me a feeling of somethinglike compassion; it seemed to me that apart from his affected"fatality," he really was weighed down by a tragic fate which he didnot himself suspect. I need hardly say I did not express this feelingto him: could anything be more insulting to a "fatal" hero than to bean 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 heventured to leave the strange pedestal on which he had been placedeither by his own efforts or by chance. Agonisingly, morbidly vain ashe was, yet he was probably aware in the depths of his soul that therewas nothing to justify his vanity, and that others might perhaps lookdown on him ... but I, a boy of nineteen, put no constraint on him;the dread of saying something stupid, inappropriate, did not oppresshis ever-apprehensive heart in my presence. He sometimes evenchattered freely; and well it was for him that no one heard hischatter except me! His reputation would not have lasted long. He notonly knew very little, but read hardly anything and confined himselfto picking up stories and anecdotes of a certain kind. He believed inpresentiments, predictions, omens, meetings, lucky and unlucky days,in the persecution and benevolence of destiny, in the mysterioussignificance of life, in fact. He even believed in certain"climacteric" years which someone had mentioned in his presence andthe meaning of which he did not himself very well understand. "Fatal"men of the true stamp ought not to betray such beliefs: they ought toinspire them in others.... But I was the only one who knew Tyeglev onthat side.
V
One day--I remember it was St. Elijah's day, July 20th--I came to staywith my brother and did not find him at home: he had been ordered offfor a whole week somewhere. I did not want to go back to Petersburg; Isauntered about the neighbouring marshes, killed a brace of snipe andspent the evening with Tyeglev under the shelter of an empty barnwhere he had, as he expressed it, set up his summer residence. We hada little conversation but for the most part drank tea, smoked pipesand talked sometimes to our host, a Russianised Finn or to the pedlarwho used to hang about the battery selling "fi-ine oranges andlemons," a charming and lively person who in addition to other talentscould play the guitar and used to tell us of the unhappy love which hecherished in his young days for the daughter of a policeman. Now thathe was older, this Don Juan in a gay cotton shirt had no experience ofunsuccessful love affairs. Before the doors of our barn stretched awide plain gradually sloping away in the distance; a little rivergleamed here and there in the winding hollows; low growing woods couldbe seen further on the horizon. Night was coming on and we were leftalone. As night fell a fine damp mist descended upon the earth, and,growing thicker and thicker, passed into a dense fog. The moon rose upinto 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 faraway, 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 filteredthrough the mist! We were both silent. The fantastic beauty of thenight worked upon us: it put us into the mood for the fantastic.
VI
Tyeglev was the first to speak and talked with his usual hesitatingincompleted sentences and repetitions about presentiments ... aboutghosts. 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 wassleeping with them in a lodge in the garden, saw a woman's figurebending over their beds and next day recognised the figure in aportrait of the mother of the orphans which he had not previouslynoticed. Then Tyeglev told me that his parents had heard for severaldays before their death the sound of rushing water; that hisgrandfather had been saved from death in the battle of Borodinothrough suddenly stooping down to pick up a simple grey pebble at thevery instant when a volley of grape-shot flew over his head and brokehis long black plume. Tyeglev even promised to show me the very pebblewhich had saved his grandfather and which he had mounted into amedallion. Then he talked of the lofty destination of every man and ofhis own in particular and added that he still believed in it and thatif he ever had any doubts on that subject he would know how to be ridof them and of his life, as life would then lose all significance forhim. "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 ... Ihave a will of iron."
"Well said," I thought to myself.
Tyeglev pondered, heaved a deep sigh and dropping his chibouk out ofhis 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 isalways 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 fixedon the ground.
"An old beggar woman" (Tyeglev never let a single beggar pass withoutgiving alms) "told me to-day," he went on, "that she would pray for mysoul.... Isn't that strange?"
"Why does the man want to be always bothering about himself!" Ithought again. I must add, however, that of late I had begun noticingan unusual expression of anxiety and uneasiness on Tyeglev's face, andit was not a "fatal" melancholy: something really was fretting andworrying him. On this occasion, too, I was struck by the dejectedexpression of his face. Were not those very doubts of which he hadspoken to me beginning to assail him? Tyeglev's comrades had told methat not long before he had sent to the authorities a project for somereforms in the artillery department and that the project had beenreturned to him "with a comment," that is, a reprimand. Knowing hischaracter, I had no doubt that such contemptuous treatment by hissuperior officers had deeply mortified him. But the change that Ifancied I saw in Tyeglev was more like sadness and there was a morepersonal note about it.
"It's getting damp, though," he brought out at last and he shruggedhis shoulders. "Let us go into the hut--and it's bed-time, too." Hehad the habit of shrugging his shoulders and turning his head fromside to side, putting his right hand to his throat as he did so, asthough his cravat were constricting it. Tyeglev's character wasexpressed, so at least it seemed to me, in this uneasy and nervousmovement. He, too, felt constricted in the world.
We went back into the hut, and both lay down on benches, he in thecorner facing the door and I on the opposite side.
VII
Tyeglev was for a long time turning from side to side on his bench andI could not get to sleep, either. Whether his stories had excited mynerves or the strange night had fevered my blood--anyway, I could notgo to sleep. All inclination for sleep disappeared at last and I laywith my eyes open and thought, thought intensely, goodness knows ofwhat; of most senseless trifles--as always happens when one issleepless. Turning from side to side I stretched out my hands.... Myfinger hit one of the beams of the wall. It emitted a faint butresounding, and as it were, prolonged note.... I must have struck ahollow 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 knock
ing under the window."
I pretended to be asleep. The fancy suddenly took me to play a trickat 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 againknocked three times in succession.
Tyeglev sat up again and listened. I tapped again. I was lying facinghim but he could not see my hand.... I put it behind me under thebedclothes.
"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 tocome 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 andlistened.
"Knock ... knock ... knock! Knock ... knock ... knock!"
Through my half-closed eyelids in the whitish light of the night Icould distinctly see every movement he made. He turned his face firstto the window then to the door. It certainly was difficult to make outwhere the sound came from: it seemed to float round the room, to glidealong 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 someoneknocking."
"Well, what if there is?" I answered and again pretended to be asleepand 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 hishead, cried wildly, "Who is there? Who is knocking?" Then heopened the door and repeated his question. A horse neighed in thedistance--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 andunhooking his sword from the wall, went out of the hut. I heard himwalk round it twice, asking all the time, "Who is there? Who goesthere? Who is knocking?" Then he was suddenly silent, stood stilloutside near the corner where I was lying and without uttering anotherword, came back into the hut and lay down without taking off his bootsand overcoat.
"Knock ... knock ... knock!" I began again. "Knock ... knock ...knock!"
But Tyeglev did not stir, did not ask who was knocking, and merelypropped his head on his hand.
Seeing that this no longer acted, after an interval I pretended towake up and, looking at Tyeglev, assumed an air of astonishment.
"Have you been out?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered unconcernedly.
"Did you still hear the knocking?"
"Yes."
"And you met no one?"
"No."
"And did the knocking stop?"
"I don't know. I don't care now."
"Now? Why now?"
Tyeglev did not answer.
I felt a little ashamed and a little vexed with him. I could not bringmyself to acknowledge my prank, however.
"Do you know what?" I began, "I am convinced that it was all yourimagination."
Tyeglev frowned. "Ah, you think so!"
"You say you heard a knocking?"
"It was not only knocking I heard."
"Why, what else?"
Tyeglev bent forward and bit his lips. He was evidently hesitating.
"I was called!" he brought out at last in a low voice and turned awayhis face.
"You were called? Who called you?"
"Someone...." Tyeglev still looked away. "A woman whom I had hithertoonly believed to be dead ... but now I know it for certain."
"I swear, Ilya Stepanitch," I cried, "this is all your imagination!"
"Imagination?" he repeated. "Would you like to hear it for yourself?"
"Yes."
"Then come outside."
VIII
I hurriedly dressed and went out of the hut with Tyeglev. On the sideopposite to it there were no houses, nothing but a low hurdle fencebroken down in places, beyond which there was a rather sharp slopedown to the plain. Everything was still shrouded in mist and one couldscarcely see anything twenty paces away. Tyeglev and I went up to thehurdle and stood still.
"Here," he said and bowed his head. "Stand still, keep quiet andlisten!"
Like him I strained my ears, and I heard nothing except the ordinary,extremely faint but universal murmur, the breathing of the night.Looking at each other in silence from time to time we stood motionlessfor several minutes and were just on the point of going on.
"Ilyusha ..." I fancied I heard a whisper from behind the hurdle.
I glanced at Tyeglev but he seemed to have heard nothing--and stillheld his head bowed.
"Ilyusha ... ah, Ilyusha," sounded more distinctly than before--sodistinctly that one could tell that the words were uttered by a woman.
We both started and stared at each other.
"Well?" Tyeglev asked me in a whisper. "You won't doubt it now, willyou?"
"Wait a minute," I answered as quietly. "It proves nothing. We mustlook whether there isn't anyone. Some practical joker...."
I jumped over the fence--and went in the direction from which, as faras I could judge, the voice came.
I felt the earth soft and crumbling under my feet; long ridgesstretched before me vanishing into the mist. I was in the kitchengarden. But nothing was stirring around me or before me. Everythingseemed spellbound in the numbness of sleep. I went a few stepsfurther.
"Who is there?" I cried as wildly as Tyeglev had.
"Prrr-r-r!" a startled corn-crake flew up almost under my feet andflew away as straight as a bullet. Involuntarily I started.... Whatfoolishness!
I looked back. Tyeglev was in sight at the spot where I left him. Iwent towards him.
"You will call in vain," he said. "That voice has come to us--tome--from far away."
He passed his hand over his face and with slow steps crossed the roadtowards the hut. But I did not want to give in so quickly and wentback into the kitchen garden. That someone really had three timescalled "Ilyusha" I could not doubt; that there was something plaintiveand mysterious in the call, I was forced to own to myself.... But whoknows, perhaps all this only appeared to be unaccountable and inreality could be explained as simply as the knocking which hadagitated Tyeglev so much.
I walked along beside the fence, stopping from time to time andlooking about me. Close to the fence, at no great distance from ourhut, there stood an old leafy willow tree; it stood out, a big darkpatch, against the whiteness of the mist all round, that dim whitenesswhich perplexes and deadens the sight more than darkness itself. Allat once it seemed to me that something alive, fairly big, stirred onthe ground near the willow. Exclaiming "Stop! Who is there?" I rushedforward. I heard scurrying footsteps, like a hare's; a crouchingfigure whisked by me, whether man or woman I could not tell.... Itried to clutch at it but did not succeed; I stumbled, fell down andstung my face against a nettle. As I was getting up, leaning on theground, I felt something rough under my hand: it was a chased brasscomb on a cord, such as peasants wear on their belt.
Further search led to nothing--and I went back to the hut with thecomb in my hand, and my cheeks tingling.
IX
I found Tyeglev sitting on the bench. A candle was burning on thetable before him and he was writing something in a little album whichhe always had with him. Seeing me, he quickly put the album in hispocket and began filling his pipe.
"Look here, my friend," I began, "what a trophy I have brought backfrom my expedition!" I showed him the comb and told him what hadhappen
ed to me near the willow. "I must have startled a thief," Iadded. "You heard a horse was stolen from our neighbour yesterday?"
Tyeglev smiled frigidly and lighted his pipe. I sat down beside him.
"And do you still believe, Ilya Stepanitch," I said, "that the voicewe heard came from those unknown realms...."
He stopped me with a peremptory gesture.
"Ridel," he began, "I am in no mood for jesting, and so I beg you notto jest."
He certainly was in no mood for jesting. His face was changed. Itlooked paler, longer and more expressive. His strange, "different"eyes kept shifting from one object to another.
"I never thought," he began again, "that I should reveal toanother ... another man what you are about to hear and what oughtto have died ... yes, died, hidden in my breast; but it seems it isto be--and indeed I have no choice. It is destiny! Listen."
And he told me a long story.
I have mentioned already that he was a poor hand at telling stories,but it was not only his lack of skill in describing events that hadhappened to him that impressed me that night; the very sound of hisvoice, his glances, the movements which he made with his fingers andhis hands--everything about him, indeed, seemed unnatural,unnecessary, false, in fact. I was very young and inexperienced inthose days and did not know that the habit of high-flown language andfalsity of intonation and manner may become so ingrained in a man thathe is incapable