On a far journey I am starting,
From Moscow I am departing,
From my dear ones I am parting.
And with post-horses flying South.
They are enshrined in my memory!
I made up my mind that I had made a mess of it; if there ever was anything no one could possibly want it was this.
“Never mind,” I decided, “one’s bound to lose the first card; it’s a good omen, in fact.”
I felt thoroughly light-hearted.
“Ach, I’m too late; is it yours? You have bought it?” I suddenly heard beside me the voice of a well-dressed, presentable-looking gentleman in a blue coat. He had come in late.
“I am too late. Ach, what a pity! How much was it?”
“Two roubles, five kopecks.”
“Ach, what a pity! Would you give it up?”
“Come outside,” I whispered to him, in a tremor.
We went out on the staircase.
“I’ll let you have it for ten roubles,” I said, feeling a shiver run down my back.
“Ten roubles! Upon my word!”
“As you like.”
He stared at me open-eyed. I was well dressed, not in the least like a Jew or a second-hand dealer.
“Mercy on us — why it’s a wretched old album, what use is it to anyone? The case isn’t worth anything certainly. You certainly won’t sell it to anyone.”
“I see you will buy it.”
“But that’s for a special reason. I only found out yesterday. I’m the only one who would. Upon my word, what are you thinking about!”
“I ought to have asked twenty-five roubles, but as there was, after all, a risk you might draw back, I only asked for ten to make sure of it. I won’t take a farthing less.”
I turned and walked away.
“Well, take four roubles,” he said, overtaking me in the yard, “come, five!”
I strode on without speaking.
“Well, take it then!”
He took out ten roubles. I gave him the album.
“But you must own it’s not honest! Two roubles — and then ten, eh?”
“Why not honest? It’s a question of market.”
“What do you mean by market!” He grew angry.
“When there’s a demand one has a market — if you hadn’t asked for it I shouldn’t have sold it for forty kopecks.”
Though I was serious and didn’t burst out laughing I was laughing inwardly — not from delight — I don’t know why myself, I was almost breathless.
“Listen,” I muttered, utterly unable to restrain myself, but speaking in a friendly way and feeling quite fond of him. “Listen, when as a young man the late James Rothschild, the Parisian one, who left seventeen hundred million francs (he nodded), heard of the murder of the Duc de Berri some hours before anybody else he sent the news to the proper quarter, and by that one stroke in an instant made several millions — that’s how people get on!”
“So you’re a Rothschild, are you?” he cried as though indignant with me for being such a fool.
I walked quickly out of the house. One step, and I had made seven roubles ninety-five kopecks. It was a senseless step, a piece of child’s play I admit, but it chimed in with my theories, and I could not help being deeply stirred by it. But it is no good describing one’s feelings. My ten roubles were in my waistcoat pocket, I thrust in two fingers to feel it — and walked along without taking my hand out. After walking a hundred yards along the street I took the note out to look at it, I looked at it and felt like kissing it. A carriage rumbled up to the steps of a house. The house porter opened the door and a lady came out to get into the carriage. She was young, handsome and wealthy-looking, gorgeously dressed in silk and velvet, with a train more than two yards long. Suddenly a pretty little portfolio dropped out of her hand and fell on the ground; she got into the carriage. The footman stooped down to pick the thing up, but I flew up quickly, picked it up and handed it to the lady, taking off my hat. (The hat was a silk one, I was suitably dressed for a young man.) With a very pleasant smile, though with an air of reserve, the lady said to me: “Merci, m’sieu!” The carriage rolled away. I kissed the ten-rouble note.
3
That same day I was to go and see Efim Zvyerev, one of my old schoolfellows at the grammar school, who had gone to a special college in Petersburg. He is not worth describing, and I was not on particularly friendly terms with him; but I looked him up in Petersburg. He might (through various circumstances which again are not worth relating) be able to give me the address of a man called Kraft, whom it was very important for me to see as soon as he returned from Vilna. Efim was expecting him that day or the next, as he had let me know two days before. I had to go to the Petersburg Side, but I did not feel tired.
I found Efim (who was also nineteen) in the yard of his aunt’s house, where he was staying for the time. He had just had dinner and was walking about the yard on stilts. He told me at once that Kraft had arrived the day before, and was staying at his old lodgings close by, and that he was anxious to see me as soon as possible, as he had something important to tell me.
“He’s going off somewhere again,” added Efim.
As in the present circumstances it was of great importance to see Kraft I asked Efim to take me round at once to his lodging, which it appeared was in a back street only a few steps away. But Efim told me that he had met him an hour ago and that he was on his way to Dergatchev’s.
“But come along to Dergatchev’s. Why do you always cry off? Are you afraid?”
Kraft might as a fact stay on at Dergatchev’s, and in that case where could I wait for him? I was not afraid of going to Dergatchev’s, but I did not want to go to his house, though Efim had tried to get me there three times already. And on each occasion had asked “Are you afraid?” with a very nasty smile at my expense. It was not a case of fear I must state at once; if I was afraid it was of something quite different. This time I made up my mind to go. Dergatchev’s, too, was only a few steps away. On the way I asked Efim if he still meant to run away to America.
“Maybe I shall wait a bit,” he answered with a faint smile.
I was not particularly fond of him; in fact I did not like him at all. He had fair hair, and a full face of an excessive fairness, an almost unseemly childish fairness, yet he was taller than I was, but he would never have been taken for more than seventeen. I had nothing to talk to him about.
“What’s going on there? Is there always a crowd?” I asked.
“But why are you always so frightened?” he laughed again.
“Go to hell!” I said, getting angry.
“There won’t be a crowd at all. Only friends come, and they’re all his own set. Don’t worry yourself.”
“But what the devil is it to me whether they’re his set or not! I’m not one of his set. How can they be sure of me?”
“I am bringing you and that’s enough. They’ve heard of you already. Kraft can answer for you, too.”
“I say, will Vassin be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he is, give me a poke and point him out as soon as we go in. As soon as we go in. Do you hear?”
I had heard a good deal about Vassin already, and had long been interested in him.
Dergatchev lived in a little lodge in the courtyard of a wooden house belonging to a merchant’s wife, but he occupied the whole of it. There were only three living rooms. All the four windows had the blinds drawn down. He was a mechanical engineer, and did work in Petersburg. I had heard casually that he had got a good private berth in the provinces, and that he was just going away to it.
