The Possessed

He raised his eyes and saw Anisim again, but this time in the most menacing surroundings. The whole cottage was full of peasants, and it was evidently Anisim who had brought them all in. Among them were the master of the house, and the peasant with the cow, two other peasants (they turned out to be cab-drivers), another little man, half drunk, dressed like a peasant but clean-shaven, who seemed like a townsman ruined by drink and talked more than any of them. And they were all discussing him, Stepan Trofimovitch. The peasant with the cow insisted on his point that to go round by the lake would be thirty-five miles out of the way, and that he certainly must go by steamer. The half-drunken man and the man of the house warmly retorted:

“Seeing that, though of course it will be nearer for his honour on the steamer over the lake; that's true enough, but maybe according to present arrangements the steamer doesn't go there, brother.”

“It does go, it does, it will go for another week,” cried Anisim, more excited than any of them.

“That's true enough, but it doesn't arrive punctually, seeing it's late in the season, and sometimes it'll stay three days together at Ustyevo.”

“It'll be there to-morrow at two o'clock punctually. You'll be at Spasov punctually by the evening,” cried Anisim, eager to do his best for Stepan Trofimovitch.

“Mais qu'est-ce qu'il a, cet homme, ” thought Stepan Trofimovitch, trembling and waiting in terror for what was in store for him.

The cab-drivers, too, came forward and began bargaining with him; they asked three roubles to Ustyevo. The others shouted that that was not too much, that that was the fare, and that they had been driving from here to Ustyevo all the summer for that fare.

“But . . . it's nice here too. . . . And I don't want . . .” Stepan Trofimovitch mumbled in protest.

“Nice it is, sir, you are right there, it's wonderfully nice at Spasov now and Fyodor Matveyevitch will be so pleased to see you.”

“Man Dieu, mes amis, all this is such a surprise to me.”

At last Sofya Matveyevna came back. But she sat down on the bench looking dejected and mournful.

“I can't get to Spasov!” she said to the woman of the cottage.

“Why, you are bound to Spasov, too, then?” cried Stepan Trofimovitch, starting.

It appeared that a lady had the day before told her to wait at Hatovo and had promised to take her to Spasov, and now this lady had not turned up after all.

“What am I to do now?” repeated Sofya Matveyevna.

“Mais, ma chere et nouvelle amie, I can take you just as well as the lady to that village, whatever it is, to which I've hired horses, and to-morrow — well, to-morrow, we'll go on together to Spasov.”

“Why, are you going to Spasov too?”

“Mais que faire, et je suis enchante! I shall take you with the greatest pleasure; you see they want to take me, I've engaged them already. Which of you did I engage?” Stepan Trofimovitch suddenly felt an intense desire to go to Spasov.

Within a quarter of an hour they were getting into a covered trap, he very lively and quite satisfied, she with her pack beside him, with a grateful smile on her face. Anisim helped them in.

“A good journey to you, sir,” said he, bustling officiously round the trap, “it has been a treat to see you.”

“Good-bye, good-bye, my friend, good-bye.”

“You'll see Fyodor Matveyevitch, sir . . .”

“Yes, my friend, yes . . . Fyodor Petrovitch . . . only good-bye.”

II

“You see, my friend . . . you'll allow me to call myself your friend, n'est-ce pas? ” Stepan Trofimovitch began hurriedly as soon as the trap started. “You see I ... J'aime le peuple, c'est indispensable, mais il me semble que je ne m'avais jamais vu de pres. Stasie . . . cela va sans dire qu'elle est aussi du peuple, mais le vrai peuple, that is, the real ones, who are on the high road, it seems to me they care for nothing, but where exactly I am going . . . But let bygones be bygones. I fancy I am talking at , random, but I believe it's from being flustered.”

“You don't seem quite well.” Sofya Matveyevna watched him' keenly though respectfully.

“No, no, I must only wrap myself up, besides there's a fresh wind, very fresh in fact, but ... let us forget that. That's not what I really meant to say. Chere et incomparable amie, I feel that I am almost happy, and it's your doing. Happiness is not good for me for it makes me rush to forgive all my enemies at once. . . .”

“Why, that's a very good thing, sir.”

“Not always, chere innocente. L'Evangile . . . voyez-vous, desormais nous precherons ensemble and I will gladly sell your beautiful little books. Yes, I feel that that perhaps is an idea, quelque chose de tres nouveau dans ce genre. The peasants are religious, c'est admis, but they don't yet know the gospel. I will expound it to them. . . . By verbal explanation one might correct the mistakes in that remarkable book, which I am of course prepared to treat with the utmost respect. I will be of service even on the high road. I've always been of use, I always told them so et d, cette chere ingrate. . . . Oh, we will forgive, we will forgive, first of all we will forgive all and always. . . . We will hope that we too shall be forgiven. Yes, for all, every one of us, have wronged one another, all are guilty!”

“That's a very good saying, I think, sir.”

“Yes, yes. ... I feel that I am speaking well. I shall speak to them very well, but what was the chief thing I meant to say? I keep losing the thread and forgetting. . . . Will you allow me to remain with you? I feel that the look in your eyes and . . . I am surprised in fact at your manners. You are simple-hearted, you call me 'sir,' and turn your cup upside down on your saucer . . . and that horrid lump of sugar; but there's something charming about you, and I see from your features.. . . Oh, don't blush and don't be afraid of me as a man. Chere et incomparable, pour moi une femme c'est tout. I can't live without a woman, but only at her side, only at her side; ... I am awfully muddled, awfully. I can't remember what I meant to say. Oh, blessed is he to whom God always sends a woman and . . . and I fancy, indeed, that I am in a sort of ecstasy. There's a lofty idea in the open road too! That's what I meant to say, that's it — about the idea. Now I've remembered it, but I kept losing it before. And why have they taken us farther. It was nice there too, but here — cela dement trop froid. A propos, j'ai en tout quarante roubles et voila cet argent, take it, take it, I can't take care of it, I shall lose it or it will be taken away from me. ... I seem to be sleepy, I've a giddiness in my head. Yes, I am giddy, I am giddy, I am giddy. Oh, how kind you are, what's that you are wrapping me up in?”

“You are certainly in a regular fever and I've covered you with my rug; only about the money, I'd rather.”

“Oh, for God's sake, n'en parlous plus parce que cela me fait mal. Oh, how kind you are!”

He ceased speaking, and with strange suddenness dropped into a feverish shivery sleep. The road by which they drove the twelve miles was not a smooth one, and their carriage jolted cruelly. Stepan Trofimovitch woke up frequently, quickly raised his head from the little pillow which Sofya Matveyevna had slipped under it, clutched her by the hand and asked “Are you here?” as though he were afraid she had left him. He told her, too, that he had dreamed of gaping jaws full of teeth, and that he had very much disliked it. Sofya Matveyevna was in great anxiety about him.

They were driven straight up to a large cottage with a frontage of four windows and other rooms in the yard. Stepan Trofimovitch waked up, hurriedly went in and walked straight into the second room, which was the largest and best in the house. An expression of fussiness came into his sleepy face. He spoke at once to the landlady, a tall, thick-set woman of forty with very dark hair and a slight moustache, and explained that he required the whole room for himself, and that the door was to be shut and no one else was to be admitted, “parce que nous avons a parler. Oui, fai beaucoup a vous dire, chere amie. I'll pay you, I'll pay you,” he said with a wave of dismissal to the landlady.

Though he was in a hurry, he seemed to articulate with difficulty. The landlady listened grimly, and was silent in token of consent, but there was a feeling of something menacing about her silence. He did not notice this, and hurriedly (he was in a terrible hurry) insisted on her going away and bringing them their dinner as quickly as possible, without a moment's delay.