Chapter 5 insanity

insanity one One evening, Mayer, a medical student, and Rybnikov, a student of the Moscow Academy of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture, went to see their friend, Vasilyev, a law student, and invited him to go shopping with them on C Street.Vasiliev refused for a long time at first, but then put on his overcoat and went with them. Vasilyev knew very little about the fallen women, he had only heard about them or seen them in books, and as for the houses where they lived, he had never been there once in his life.He knows that there are some immoral women in the world who have to sell their reputations for money under the pressure of unfortunate circumstances, such as environment, poor education, poverty, etc.They have not experienced pure love, they have no children, they have no rights of citizenship.Their mothers and sisters wept for them as if they were dead.Science despises them, regards them as bad people, and men call them "you".But despite this, they have not lost the image of God.They all realized their sins and wanted to be saved, and they always tried their best to do whatever could lead to their salvation.Of course, society will not forgive people's past, but in the eyes of God, the Egyptian saint Mary ② is not inferior to other saints.Whenever Vasiliev recognized a depraved woman in the street by her dress or manner, or saw a description of such a woman in a humorous magazine, he always remembered a story he had read in a book before: A young man, pure in heart and full of self-sacrificing zeal, fell in love with a depraved woman and asked her to be his wife, but she, feeling unworthy of such happiness, took poison and killed herself.

Vasilyev lived in an alley on Tverskoy Street.It was nearly eleven o'clock when he left the house with his two friends.Not long ago, the first snow of the year fell, and everything in nature was covered by this new snow.The air was filled with the smell of snow, and the snow creaked slightly under my feet.The grounds, the roofs, the trees, the benches along the avenue, were so soft, white, and fresh that the houses looked different from yesterday.The streetlights shone brighter, the air clearer, and the rumble of carriages louder.In the fresh, relaxed, and cold air, one's soul can't help bursting out with an emotion similar to that of the white and soft new snow.

"An unknown power," sang the medical student in his sweet baritone voice, "lead me against my will to this desolate bank. . . . " "Look at that mill, . . . ’ the artist continued his singing. "It's fallen..." "Look at that mill...it's fallen..." repeated the medical student, wrinkling his eyebrows and shaking his head sadly. He stopped singing, wiped his forehead with his hand, thought about the words that followed, and then sang aloud again, in a voice so sweet that everyone on the street turned to look at him: Once upon a time I was free, here I am Had free love. ...The three of them walked into a restaurant, leaned against the counter without taking off their coats, and drank two glasses of white wine each.Before taking his second glass, Vasilyev noticed a crumb of the cork in his glass, raised the glass to his eyes, and squinted his short-sighted eyes for a long time.The medical student didn't understand his expression, so he said, "Hey, what are you looking at? Excuse me, don't think too much about it. Baijiu is for us to drink, sturgeon is for us to eat, women are for us to play with, and snow is for us." Step on us. At least let us live like ordinary people for an evening!"

"But I didn't say anything..." Vasiliev said with a smile. "Am I not going?" After drinking liquor, his chest became hot.He looked at his friends with tenderness, admired them, envied them.How calm were these two healthy, strong, happy beings, how whole and free were their minds and souls!They love to sing, like to watch plays, can draw, talkative, drink a lot, and don't have a headache the next day after drinking.They are elegant and dissolute, gentle and bold.They can work, they can be angry, and they can laugh and talk nonsense for no reason.They were warm, honest, self-sacrificing, and in every respect as human beings they were no worse than Vasilyev.But he himself is full of worries, suspicious, and cautious with every step he takes and every word he speaks, and he always regards small things as big problems.For at least one evening he wished he could be as free as his friend, free from his own shackles.Do you need to drink liquor?He wants to drink it, even if he gets a splitting headache the next day.Did they drag him to women?Then he will go.He would be laughing and joking, playing and jokingly greeting passers-by. ... He walked out of the restaurant with a smile.He liked his friend in a crumpled fedora hat, giving him the slovenly air of an artist; the other in a porpoise-skin cap, and he was not poor, but deliberately pretended to be a learned celebrity. .He liked snow, the pale light of street lamps, and the clear black footprints of passers-by's soles on fresh snow.He likes that kind of air, especially the clear, gentle, simple, and virginal atmosphere in the air, which can only be seen twice a year in nature, when everything is covered by heavy snow. and the clear days of spring or moonlit nights when the ice breaks in the river.

"An unknowable power," he sang in a low voice, "led me against my will to this desolate bank..." For some reason, these words never left him and his friend along the way. Tongue, the three of them sang casually, but each other's singing was out of time. Vasiliev's mind was imagining how he and his friends would knock on the door about ten minutes later, how they would sneak into small dark passages and rooms, go quietly to the woman, and how he himself would use the darkness to strike a match. , So suddenly his eyes lit up, and he saw a suffering face and a shameful smile.The unknown woman may have blond hair or black hair, but her hair must be loose, and she is probably wearing a white nightgown.She was startled by the light, and terribly embarrassed, and said, "My God! What are you doing? Blow it out!" It was a horrible sight, but it was a novelty.

two A few friends turned the corner from Trubnoy Square, walked onto Grachevka Street, and soon walked into an alley that Vasilyev knew only by name, but had never been to.He saw two long rows of houses, brightly lit in the windows, with wide open doors, and heard the cheerful music of pianos and fiddles floating from the doors, making a strange noise, as if in the darkness an invisible orchestra was playing in the rooms. It's like tuning a string on top.Vasilyev couldn't help being taken aback and said, "There are so many brothels!" "What's that!" said the medical student, "ten times more in London than here.

There are always a hundred thousand of these women out there. " The coachman sat quietly and indifferently on the seat, like all the coachmen in the alley.The pedestrians on the sidewalks on both sides are the same as the pedestrians in other alleys.No one panicked, no one turned up their collars to hide their faces, and no one shook their heads reproachfully. ... This indifference, the clutter of pianos and violins, the bright windows, the open doors, gave one an air of undisguised, unscrupulous, impudent, daring.Perhaps the ancient slave market was also so cheerful and noisy, and people's faces and gait were also so indifferent.

"Let's start where we started," the artist said. A few friends walked into a narrow aisle, and a reflector light was lit in the aisle, which was very bright.They opened the door, and there was a man in a black suit who lazily stood up from a yellow couch in the front hall. He was sleepy and his face was unshaven, like a servant.The place smells of laundry, and also of sour vinegar.A door in the hall led into a brightly lit room.The medical student and the artist stopped at the door, stretched out their necks, and looked into the room together. "Buona s era, signori, rigolleto -hugenotti -t raviata!" the artist spoke, taking off his hat and saluting as he did on stage.

"Havanna -t arakano -p istoleto!" said the medical student, pressing his hat to his chest and bowing deeply. Vasiliev stood behind them.He was about to take off his hat and say some nonsense as he did in a play, but he could only smile and feel a kind of embarrassment that was almost ashamed, and waited anxiously to see what would happen after this.A blond girl of seventeen or eighteen years old appeared at the door, her hair was cut short, she was wearing a short light blue dress with a bow tied with a white ribbon on her chest. "Why are you standing at the door?" she said. "Take off your coat and come into the living room."

The medical students and the artist, still speaking Italian, entered the living room.Vasilyev followed them in hesitantly. "Gentlemen, take off your coats!" snapped the servant. "You can't go in with your coats on." In the living room besides Goldilocks was a tall, fat woman with bare arms and a face that was not Russian.She was sitting by the piano with cards spread out on her knees, arranging them.She ignored the guests. "Where are the other girls?" asked the medical student. "They're drinking tea," said Goldilocks. "Stepan," she called, "tell the ladies that some students are coming!"

After a while, another girl came into the drawing room.She wore a bright red dress with blue stripes, her face was smugly smeared with powder, her forehead was hidden by her hair, and her eyes were staring blankly and frightened.As soon as she came in, she immediately sang a song in a rough, vigorous low voice.Then another girl came, and then another. ... Vasilyev saw nothing new and interesting in all this.It seemed to him that he had seen this living room, this piano, this mirror with a cheap gilt frame, this bow knot, this dress with blue stripes, these dull and indifferent faces before, and more than once. like once.As for the darkness, the silence, the mystery, the ashamed smile, there was not even a shadow of what he had expected to see here and frighten him. Everything is ordinary, dull, tasteless.Only one thing aroused his curiosity slightly, and that was the deliberately vulgarity that could be seen on the cornices, on the ridiculous pictures, on the clothes, on the bows.This kind of tackiness has its own characteristics and is different from others. "How impoverished and stupid all this is!" thought Vasiliev. "What power is there in all this nonsense before my eyes to tempt a normal man into committing such a terrible crime for a ruble?" What about buying a living person? I can understand crimes for splendor, beauty, elegance, passion, inclinations, but what is there? What are people committing crimes for here? But... I needn't think about it any further. !" "Big Beard, buy me a stout!" Goldilocks said to him. Vasiliev was immediately embarrassed. "Yes, . . . " he said, bowing politely. "But, please excuse me, miss, I... I can't keep company. I don't drink." After about five minutes, some friends walked out and went to another house. "Hey, why did you ask for dark beer just now?" the medical scientist said angrily. "What a rich man! You threw away six rubles for nothing!" "Since she wants to drink, why can't you obey her heart?" Vasilyev argued. "You didn't follow her heart, but the old bustard's. It was the old bustard who ordered them to invite guests to treat them. "Look at that mill..." sang the artist. "It has collapsed. ..." Walking into the door of the second house, several friends only stood in the front hall for a while, and did not enter the living room.Here, as in the first house, a sleepy-eyed man in black, like a servant, got up from the couch in the front hall.Vasilyev looked at the servant, at his face and his old coat, and thought to himself: "How much must an ordinary Russian citizen have tasted before fate threw him here as a servant? Poor! Where did he live and what did he do? What will become of him? Has he ever been married? Where is his mother? Does she know that he is a servant here?" A brothel involuntarily pays attention to the servants first.In one brothel (it was probably the fourth one by count) there was a small, wizened, emaciated servant with a watch-chain on his waistcoat.He was reading a "tape paper" and he ignored them when they walked in the door.For some reason, Vasilyev looked at his face and felt that a man with such a face would steal, kill, and bear false witness.It was an interesting face, too: broad forehead, gray eyes, flat nose, thin, tightly shut lips, with the expression of a rigid and imperious expression, like that of a beagle chasing a hare.Vasilyev thought to himself: It would be better to touch the servant's hair to see whether it is hard or soft.It must be as hard as dog hair. three The artist drank two glasses of dark beer, and suddenly became a little drunk, and was abnormally lively. "Let's go one more time!" he ordered, waving his hands back and forth. "I'm going to take you to the best brothel." After he took his friends into what he considered to be the best brothel, he insisted on dancing the quadrille.The medical student muttered that he would have to give the musician a ruble for that, but at last he agreed to dance with him.And they danced. The best brothels are as bad as the worst.There are mirrors and pictures like that, and hairstyles and dresses like that.Looking at the layout of the room and the clothes on the woman, Vasiliev finally understood: this is not tacky, but a taste and even a fashion that can be said to be unique to C Street and can never be found anywhere else. Not by accident, but something that has been cultivated over the years and is very complete in terms of ugliness.After walking through the eight houses, he no longer found it strange when he saw the colors of the clothes, the long skirts, the bright knots, the sailor's dress, and the rouge on his face that was so thick and purple.He knew that everything had to be this way, that if a woman dressed like a normal person, or if there were an elegant picture on the wall, the general mood of the street would be spoiled. "How bad they are at laughing!" thought he. "Don't they understand that evil is charming only when it looks beautiful, when it hides what it is, when it is clothed with virtue? A plain black dress, a pale face, a sad smile, a dark room, Much better than this vulgar richness. Stupid! Even if they don't understand it themselves, their guests must teach them. ..." A girl in a Polish dress trimmed with white fur came up to him and sat down beside him. "Sweet brunette, why don't you dance?" she asked. "Why are you so bored?" "It's because of boredom." "Give me some Lafayette. Then you won't be bored." Vasilyev made no reply.He was silent for a while, and then asked, "What time do you go to bed?" "Six o'clock in the morning." "So when do you wake up?" "Sometimes it's two o'clock, sometimes it's three o'clock." "What did you do when you got up?" "Drink coffee and have dinner after six o'clock." "What to eat?" "Usually. . . . It's always broth, cabbage soup, steaks, desserts. Our landlady is nice to the girls. But what do you ask for these things?" "Oh, just ask. . . . " Vasilyev wanted to talk to the girl about many things.He had a strong desire to know where she was from, whether her parents were alive, whether they knew she was here, how she got into this brothel, whether she was happy and content, or dark-headed. Thoughts are sad and depressed.Does she plan to jump out of her current situation in the future. ... But he couldn't figure out where to start, and he couldn't figure out how to ask the question so as not to offend her.He thought for a long time before asking, "How old are you?" "Eighty," the girl joked, laughing at the quirks the artist made with his hands and feet while dancing. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, she laughed and uttered a long, frivolous speech so loudly that everyone could hear it.Vasilyev was taken aback, not knowing what expression to make on his face, he forced a smile.He alone smiled, and the others, his friends, the musicians, and the women, did not even look at the girl sitting next to him, as if they had not heard her at all. "Give me some Lafayette!" added his neighbor. Vasilyev found her white fur and her voice annoying, and walked away from her.He felt hot and stuffy, and his heart began beating very slowly, but hard, like the beating of a hammer: One!two!three! "Let's go!" he said, tugging at the artist's sleeve. "Wait a minute until I'm done dancing." Artists and medical students were about to finish dancing the quadrille, and Vasiliev, in order not to look at the women, observed the musicians.An old man with elegant appearance, glasses and a face resembling Marshal Bazin⑦ was playing the piano.A young man with a hazel beard, dressed in the latest fashion, was playing the violin.The young man's face was not stupid or thin, but on the contrary, intelligent, young and fresh.His attire was elegant and elegant, and he played the violin with emotion.And that begs the question: how did he and that elegant old man get here? How could they not be ashamed sitting here?How would they feel looking at those women? If the piano and the violin had been played by two ragged, hungry, morose, drunken, stupid-faced or emaciated men, it might have been easy to understand their presence here.In the present state of affairs, Vasiliev could not understand.He thought of the stories he had read about fallen women, and now he saw that the image of the man with the shameful smile had nothing in common with the man he saw before him.It seemed to him that what he saw was not a fallen woman, but a person who belonged to another completely unique world, which was foreign and incomprehensible to him. If he had seen this world on the stage of the theater before, Or if he read about this world in a book, he would never believe it. ... The woman with the white fur in her dress laughed again and said something nasty aloud.A feeling of disgust seized him.He blushed and walked out of the room. "Wait a minute, let's go together!" the artist shouted to him. Four "While we were dancing," said the medical student, the three of them had come out into the street. "I chatted with my partner for a while. We were talking about her first love. He, the hero, was an accountant in Smolensk, with a wife and five children. She was only seventeen at the time. , lives with my father and mother, who sells soap and candles." "What did he use to conquer her heart?" asked Vasilyev. "He bought her underwear for fifty rubles. God knows how!" "In that case, he would have found out about her love history from his partner," Vasilyev thought of the medical student. "But I won't. . . . " "Gentlemen, I'm going home!" he said. "why?" "Because I don't know what to do in a place like this. And I'm bored and disgusted. What's there to be happy about here? If they were people, that's all right, but they're savages, animals. I I'm leaving. As for you, do as you please." "Don't be like this, Grisha, Grigory, good man . . . " the artist begged, entwining Vasilyev. "Come on! Let's go to another one, and then it's gone! . . . Please, Grisha!" They persuaded Vasilyev to change his mind and led him up the stairs.The rugs, the gilded railings, the gatekeepers who opened the doors, the painted walls adorning the vestibule, all had the style of C Street, only more complete and more spectacular. "Really, I'm going home!" said Vasilyev, taking off his overcoat. "Come on, come on, man, . . . " said the artist, kissing his neck. "Don't be mad. . . . Grigory, be a good friend! We came together, and we'll go together. You're so unreasonable." "I could wait for you in the street. Really! I find such places disgusting!" "Come on, come on, Grisha. . . . Since this kind of place is annoying, you should observe from the side! Do you understand? Observe!" "One has to look at everything objectively," said the medical student gravely. Vasiliev went into the living room and sat down.Besides himself and his friends, there were many guests in the room: two infantry officers, a bald, white-haired gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles, two beardless young students of the surveying college, a drunken man with an actor A man with a face.All the girls went to the company of the guests, and Vasilyev was ignored.Only a girl dressed in a la Aida looked at him sideways, smiled for some reason, yawned and said: "Here comes a black-haired man. . . . " Vasilyev's heart beat, his face fever.On the one hand he felt ashamed before these guests, and on the other he felt bored and distressed.He was always haunted by the notion that he, a decent, warm man (as he considered himself to this day), hated these women and felt nothing but disgust for them.He has no pity for these women, nor for the musicians, nor for the servants. "It's because I've made no effort to understand them," he thought. "It's better to say that they look like animals than people, but after all, they are still people, and they have souls. You have to understand them first, and then you can judge..." "Grisha, don't go, wait for us!" The artist yelled this sentence at him, but he didn't know where to go. The medical students were soon gone too. "By the way, I have to try my best to understand it. This will not work..." Vasilyev went on thinking. He began to watch each woman's face nervously, looking for a guilty smile.But either he was not good at examining their faces, or none of these women felt ashamed, and in short, all he saw on every face was that dull expression: that ordinary vulgar boredom and contentment.Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, stupid harsh voices, outrageous gestures, and nothing else.Probably they both had an affair in the past, with an accountant, for fifty rubles underwear, and at the moment they had no other pleasure in life than coffee, a three-course lunch, and wine. , have a quadrille, be able to sleep until two o'clock in the afternoon... that's it. Since there was no shameful smile to be seen, Vasilyev looked for a sober face.His attention fell on a pale, somewhat sleepy, listless face. ...It was a dark-haired woman, not too young, wearing shiny clothes.She was sitting in an easy chair, looking at the floor, thinking.Vasilyev walked from one end of the room to the other, and sat down beside her as if by accident. "I've got to say something corny first," he thought, "and then move on to serious matters. ..." "You're beautiful in that dress!" he said, running his fingers over the gold tassels of her triangular kerchief. "Oh, really..." the brunette said listlessly. "Where are you from?" "Me? Far away. . . . from Chernihiv province." "Good place. It's a very good place." "No matter where, as long as we are not there, we will feel that it is good." "It's a pity I can't describe nature," Vasilyev thought. "If I could describe the scenery of Chernihiv, maybe it would touch her heart. No problem, since it is her hometown, she must love it." "Are you bored here?" "Of course, it's boring." "Since you're bored, why don't you leave here?" "Where am I going? To beg for food?" "It's much easier to just beg for food than to live here." "How do you know that? Do you want dinner?" "By the way, when I had no money to pay my tuition fees, I went around asking for help. Even though I haven't begged for food, the truth is very clear. A beggar is a free man anyway, but you are a slave." The dark-haired woman stretched, turned her sleepy eyes to look at the servant, who was holding a plate with glasses and mineral water on it. "Bring me a stout," she said, yawning again. "Stout..." thought Vasilyev, "what would happen to you if your brother or mother came in at this moment? What would you say? What would they say? In my opinion, a glass of stout should be ordered then. ..." Suddenly there was the sound of crying. From the next room where the servant entered with the mineral water, a blond man walked out quickly, his face flushed and his eyes staring angrily. Behind him was a tall and fat bawd , shouted in a sharp voice: "No one will allow you to hit the girl's mouth!We have entertained guests of much higher status than you, and they didn't hit anyone!fraud! " There was a lot of noise.Vasilyev turned pale with fear.Someone in the next room was crying, crying so hard, that's how bullied people cry.Only then did he realize that the people living here are indeed human beings, real human beings, who feel wronged, sad, cry, and beg for help just like people elsewhere. . . . the heavy feeling of hatred and disgust turned into deep pity and anger at the assailant.He ran into the crying room.Across a table, across rows of wine bottles on a marble top, he saw a pained, tear-stained face, and he stretched his hand toward it, and took a step toward the table, but immediately Backed away in fear.It turned out that the weeping woman was drunk. People gathered around the blond man, but Vasiliev pushed his way through the tumultuous crowd, disheartened, trembling, like a child, and he felt as if people in this strange, incomprehensible world were chasing him and beating him. He, as if scolding him with gossip. . . . He took his coat off the hook and ran downstairs. Fives He stood near the brothel, leaning against a fence, waiting for his friends to come out.The sounds of the piano and the violin were cheerful, indulgent, wild, and sad, forming a cacophony in the air. This chaotic sound was the same as before, as if an invisible orchestra was tuning on the roof in the dark.If one looked up into the darkness, the whole dark background was covered with moving white spots: it was snowing.The flakes fell where the light fell, and floated lazily in the air like feathers, and fell even more lazily to the ground.Around Vasiliev, fine snow swirled in clumps and fell on his beard, eyebrows, and eyelashes. ... The coachman, horses, and pedestrians all turned white. "How can snow fall into this alley!" Vasilyev thought. "These damn brothels!" His legs were weak from running down the stairs.He was panting, as if climbing a mountain.His heart was beating so loudly that he could hear it himself.He was tormented by a desire to get out of the alley and go home as soon as possible, but another desire was stronger than this desire, and that was to wait for his friends to come out, so that he could convey his heaviness to them. Let off steam. There were many things in these brothels that he did not understand, and the souls of the fallen women were still as mysterious to him as ever, but he realized now that things were much worse here than might have been imagined.If the guilty woman who poisoned herself was called a depraved woman, it would be difficult to give a proper name to these women who danced to the music and uttered obscenities.They are not being destroyed, but have been destroyed. "Something bad is going on here," he thought, "but there's no sense of guilt, no hope of help. People sell 'em, buy 'em, soak 'em in wine, give 'em all sorts of vices, and they, with Goofy like a sheep, don't care, don't understand anything, my God! my God!" He also understood that everything that is called human dignity, personality, and the image of God is completely defiled here, and, in the words of the drunk, "the whole thing is broken." Numb woman in charge. A group of college students walked past him, all covered in snow, talking and laughing happily.One of them, a tall and thin student, stopped, glanced at Vasiliev's face, and said in a drunken voice: "We're going together! Drunk, man? Isn't it, man? It's nothing, go and have fun! Go! Don't be downcast, my boy!" He grabbed Vasilyev by the shoulders, brought his cold, wet moustache to his face, then slipped, staggered, and shook his hands, saying: "Stand still, don't stumble!" !" He laughed, and ran after his companion. From the noisy voice came the artist's voice: "You are not allowed to hit women! I am not allowed, damn it! You rascals!" A medical student appeared at the door.He looked around, caught sight of Vasilyev, and said in an excited voice: "So there you are! Listen to me, really, it's impossible to hang out with Yegor! What the hell is he, I'll tell you." I don't understand! He's making trouble again! Do you hear that, Yegor!" he called through the door. "Yegor!" "I forbid you to hit women!" The artist's high-pitched voice came from above. Something clumsy and heavy rolled down the stairs.It turned out that the artist fell from upstairs.He was clearly pushed downstairs. He got up from the ground, waved his hat, showed a vicious and indignant face, and waved his fist towards the upstairs, shouting: "Rogue! Cruel guy! Vampire! I forbid you to beat women! How dare you hit and drink?" Drunken weak woman! Hmph, you..." "Yegor... come on, Yegor..." The medical student began to beg him, "I promise you with my personality, I will never be with you again Son came out to play. I guarantee it with my personality, definitely! " The artist gradually calmed down, and several friends walked on the way home. "An unknowable force," sang the medical student, "led me against my will to this desolate bank. . . . " "'Look at that mill, . . . '" a moment later the artist , "'Now it's collapsed...'So much snow, Mother! Grisha, why did you go just now? You're a coward, bitch, that's all." Vasilyev walked behind his friends, looked at their backs, and thought to himself: "There must be one of two things: either we only think that prostitution is bad, but we exaggerate it; or prostitution is really bad for everyone. I think that is a big bad thing, then my good friends have become slave owners, thugs, and murderers like the residents of Syria and Cairo painted in "The Field"⑩. Now they are singing, everyone Laughing, you are right, but just now, didn’t they use other people’s hunger, ignorance, and numbness to satisfy their own selfish desires? They are indeed like that, and I am a witness. Their humanity, their medicine, their paintings, there are For what use? The science, art, and noble sentiments of these murderers remind me of lard in a story. Two bandits, who killed a beggar in the woods, and began to carve up his clothes, found in his begging bag A piece of lard.' Coincidentally,' said one of the bandits, 'let us eat it.' 'What are you talking about? How can you do such a thing?' cried another in alarm, 'do you Forget it's Wednesday?' They didn't eat. They killed people and walked out of the woods, believing they were strict fasters. Likewise, these two men bought women and walked away, and they still think they are right now. Where are the artists and scientists..." "Listen, you!" he said sharply and angrily. “你们为什么上这种地方来？难道，难道你们就不明白这种事有多么可怕？你们的医学说：这些女人个个都会害肺痨病或者什么别的病而提早死亡。艺术说：在精神方面她们死得更早些。她们每个人都因为一生中平均要接五百个嫖客而死，……姑且就算五百吧。她们每个人都是给五百个男人害死的。你们就在那五百个当中！那么，要是你们每个人一生当中在这儿或者别的同类地方逛过二百五十次，那就是你们两个人共同害死一个女人！难道你们不懂吗？难道这不可怕？你们两个、三个、五个，合起来害死一个愚蠢而饥饿的女人！啊，难道这不可怕？ my Lord! " “我早就知道会有这样的结局，”艺术家皱着眉说。“我们真不该同这傻瓜和蠢材一块儿来！你当是这会儿你的脑子里生出了伟大的思想，伟大的观念吗？不对，鬼才知道你在想些什么，而决不是思想！这会儿你带着仇恨和憎恶瞧着我，可是依我看来，你与其这么瞧着我，还不如多开二十家妓院的好。你眼光里包含的恶比整个这条巷子里的恶还要多！走，沃洛嘉，去他的！他是个傻瓜，蠢材，就是这么的。……”“我们人类总是自相残杀，”医科学生说。“当然，这是不道德的，可是你唱高调也还是没用啊。再会！” 在特鲁勃诺依广场上，这几个朋友告别，分手了。只剩下瓦西里耶夫一个人了，他就迅速地顺着林荫道走去。他害怕黑暗，害怕那大片大片地落下来、好象要盖没全世界的雪，害怕在雪雾中闪烁着微光的街灯。他的灵魂给一种没来由的、战战兢兢的恐怖占据了。偶尔有行人迎面走过来，而他却惊恐地躲开他们。他觉得仿佛有许多女人，光是女人，从四面八方走拢来，瞧着他。……“现在开头儿了，”他想，“我马上就要精神错乱了。 ..." six 在家里，他躺在床上，周身打抖，说道：“活人！活人！我的上帝，她们是活人啊！” 他千方百计刺激他的想象，一会儿幻想自己是堕落的女人的弟兄，一会儿是她的父亲，一会儿又成了涂脂抹粉的堕落女人本身。这一切都使他满心害怕。 不知为什么，他觉得，不管怎样，他得立刻解决这个问题才行，他觉得这问题似乎不是别人的问题，而是他自己的问题。他费了不小的劲，克制绝望的情绪，在床上坐起来，双手捧着头，开始思索怎样才能拯救今天看到的那类女人。他是受过教育的人，解决各种问题的方法在他是很熟悉的。他虽然异常激动，却严格地遵守那种方法。他回想这个问题的历史和有关的文献，从房间的这一头走到那一头，走了这么一刻钟，极力回想现代为了拯救这类女人而进行过的种种实验。他有很多好心的朋友和熟人住在法尔茨费因公寓、加里亚希金公寓、涅恰耶夫公寓、叶奇金公寓里。……他们当中有不少诚实、无私的人。其中有些人尝试过拯救这类女人的工作。……“这些为数不多的尝试，”瓦西里耶夫想，“可以分成三组。 有些人从卖淫窟里把女人赎出来以后，替她租一个房间，给她买一架缝纫机，她便做起女裁缝来。而且，不管他有心还是无意，总之，他化钱赎出她以后，就使她成了他的情妇，然后，等到大学毕业，他就走了，把她转交给另一个上流男子，仿佛她是一件东西似的。于是那堕落的女人仍旧是堕落的女人。还有些人呢，替她赎身以后，也给她租一个单独的房间，少不得也买上一架缝纫机，极力教她念书，对她讲宗教教义，给她买书看。这女人就住下来，觉得这事儿挺新鲜，乘一时的兴致踏起缝纫机来，可是随后就厌倦了，瞒着那个宣教士偷偷地接客，或者索性跑回可以睡到下午三点钟、喝到咖啡、吃到饱饭的地方去了。最后还有一种顶热心肠、顶肯自我牺牲的人，他们采取勇敢而又坚决的步骤。他们跟那些女人正式结婚。等到那厚颜无耻、娇生惯养或者愚蠢而受尽痛苦的动物做了妻子，主妇，后来又成了母亲，她的生活和她的人生观就整个儿翻了一个身，到后来在这妻子和母亲身上就很难认出原先那个堕落的女人了。对，结婚是最好的办法，也许还是唯一的办法。 " “可是不行！”瓦西里耶夫大声说，倒在床上。“首先我没法跟这样的女人结婚！要做那种事，人得是圣徒，不会憎恨，不懂什么叫厌恶才行。不过，姑且假定我、医科学生、艺术家能够克制自己，娶了她们，假定她们都给人娶去了，可是结果会怎样呢？结果会怎样呢？结果就会这样：一方面，在这儿，在莫斯科，她们给人娶去了，另一方面，在斯摩棱斯克，一个会计什么的又会糟蹋另一个姑娘，于是那姑娘会同从萨拉托夫、下诺夫戈罗德、华沙……等地来的姑娘一齐涌到这儿来补那些空缺。而且你拿伦敦那些成千成万的女人怎么办呢？你拿汉堡那些女人怎么办呢？” 煤油灯开始冒烟。瓦西里耶夫却没注意到。他又走来走去，还是在想心事。现在他换了一个方式提出问题：必须怎么办才能使得堕落的女人不再被人需要？为要达到这个目的，就得使那些买她们、害死她们的男人充分感到他们所扮的奴隶主角色是多么不道德，使他们不由得害怕才行。先得救男人。 “在这方面，艺术和科学显然没有什么用处，……”瓦西里耶夫想。“唯一的办法就是传播教义。” 他就开始想象明天晚上他站在那条巷子的拐角，对每一个行人说：“您上哪儿去？您去干什么？要存着敬畏上帝的心才行啊！” 他转过身去对那些冷漠的车夫说： “你们为什么把车子停在这儿？你们怎么会不生气？你们怎么会不愤慨？你们总该信奉上帝，知道这种事有罪，人干了这种事会下地狱吧，那你们怎么一声不响呢？不错，你们跟她们无亲无故，不过要知道，她们也有父亲，有弟兄，跟你们一模一样啊……”瓦西里耶夫的一个朋友曾经谈论瓦西里耶夫，说他是个有才能的人。有的人有写作的才能、演戏的才能、绘画的才能，可是他有一种特别的才能——博爱的才能。他对一切痛苦有敏锐的感觉。如同好演员总是在自己身上演出别人的动作和声音一样，瓦西里耶夫也善于在自己的灵魂里体会别人的痛苦。他看见别人哭泣，自己就流泪。他在病人身旁，就觉得自己也有病，呻吟起来。要是看到暴力，他就觉得暴力正在摧残自己，害怕得跟小孩似的，而且等到害怕过后总要跑过去搭救。别人的痛苦刺激他，使他激动，弄得他放不下，摆不开，等等。 这个朋友的话究竟对不对，我不知道，不过，当他以为他这个问题已经解决的时候，他的感觉却有点近似着魔。他又哭又笑，嘴里念出明天他要说的话，对那些肯听他的话、跟他一块儿站在街角上说教的人生出热爱来。他坐下来写信，暗自立下种种誓言。……这一切所以很象着魔，是因为这情形没维持很久瓦西里耶夫不久就疲乏了。伦敦、汉堡、华沙那儿的无数女人压在他身上，就跟一座大山压着土地似的。他面对那许多女人不由得胆怯，心慌。他想起自己不善于言谈，想起自己又胆怯又腼腆，想起那些冷漠的人不见得愿意听他的话，了解他的话，因为他不过是个法律系三年级的学生，一个胆怯的小人物罢了，又想起真正的传教工作不仅在于用嘴说话，还在于动手实干。……天已经大亮，马车已经在街道上辘辘地响起来，瓦西里耶夫却一动也不动地躺在长沙发上，直着眼睛发呆。他不再想到女人，也不再想到男人，不再想到传教工作。他整个注意力已经转到折磨他的那种精神痛苦上去了。那是一种麻木的、空洞的、说不清楚的痛苦，既象是哀伤，又象是极端的恐怖，又象是绝望。他指得出来哪儿发痛：就在胸口，他的心底下。可是他又没法拿别样的痛苦与之相比。过去，他害过很厉害的牙痛，害过胸膜炎和神经痛，可是拿那些来跟这种精神痛苦相比，简直算不得什么。有了这种痛苦，生活也好象可惜了。学位论文、他已经写好的那篇出色的文章、他所热爱的那些人、对堕落的女人的拯救，总之昨天他还热爱或对之冷淡的一切，现在一想起来却跟车声、仆役的匆忙脚步声、白昼的阳光……一样刺激他。要是这时候有谁在他眼前做出一件天大的好事或者可恶的暴行，他会觉得那两种行为同样讨厌。在他的脑海里缓慢地游荡的种种思想里，只有两个思想不刺激他：一个是他随时有弄死自己的力量，还有一个是这痛苦不会超过三天。这后一个，他是凭经验知道的。 他躺了一会儿，站起来，绞着手，又在房间里走动，然而不是照往常那样从这个房角走到那个房角，却是顺着墙边兜圈子。他走过镜子，偶尔在镜子里照一照。他的脸苍白而消瘦，他的两个鬓角凹下去，他的眼睛又大又黑，一动也不动，仿佛是别人的眼睛似的，流露出不能忍受的精神痛苦的表情。 中午时分，艺术家来敲门。 “格利果利，你在家吗？”他问。 他听不到答话，站了一会儿，沉吟一下，用乌克兰土话回答自己：“不在。这个可恶的家伙必是上大学去了。” 他就走了。瓦西里耶夫在床上躺下来，把头塞在枕头底下，痛苦得哭起来，眼泪越流得畅，他的精神痛苦也变得越厉害。等到天黑下来，他想到在前面等着他的痛苦的夜晚，就满心是恐怖的绝望。他连忙穿好衣服，跑出房间，让房门敞开着，上街去了，没有必要，而且也没有目的。他没有问一问自己要上哪儿去，就顺着萨多甫大街很快地走下去。 雪跟昨天那样下得紧，那是解冻的时令。他把手拢在袖管里，周身发抖，听见车轮声、公共马车的铃声、行人的脚步声就害怕。瓦西里耶夫顺着萨多甫大街一直走到苏哈列夫塔，然后又走到红门，从那儿拐弯走到巴斯曼大街。他走进一家小酒馆，喝下一大杯白酒，可是那也没使他觉得畅快些。 他走到拉兹古里亚，往右拐弯，走进一条以前从没来过的小巷子。他走到一座古老的桥边，桥下是水声喧哗的雅乌扎河，他站在桥头。可以看见红营房一长排窗子里的灯光。瓦西里耶夫一心想用新的感觉或者别的痛苦来摆脱他眼前的精神痛苦，可又不知道该怎么办才好，他哭泣着，颤抖着，解开大衣和上衣，露出赤裸的胸膛，迎着潮湿的雪和风。可是这也没减轻他的痛苦。随后，他凑着桥上的栏杆弯下腰，低头瞧着雅乌扎河漆黑的、滚滚的流水，很想一头栽下去，倒不是因为厌恶生活，也不是想自杀，却是打算至少叫自己受点伤，用这种痛苦来摆脱那种痛苦。可是漆黑的河水、黑暗的空间、铺着白雪的荒凉河岸，都可怕得很。他打了个冷战，往前走去。他沿着红营房走了一个来回，然后下坡，进了一个矮林，又从矮林回到桥上。……“不行，回家，回家去！”他想。“在家里似乎会好过点。 ..." 他就往回走。他回到家，脱掉湿大衣和帽子，在房间里沿着墙边兜圈子，就这么不知疲倦地一直走到天亮。 seven 第二天早晨艺术家和医科学生来看他，他正痛苦地呻吟着，在房间里跑个不停，衬衫已经撕碎，手也咬破了。 “看在上帝面上！”他一看见他的朋友就哭着说。“随你们爱上哪儿就带我上哪儿，你们认为该怎么办，就怎么办吧！只是看在帝面上，快点救救我才好！我要弄死我自己了！” 艺术家脸色变白，慌了手脚。医科学生也差点哭起来，可是想到做医生的在生活里不论遇到什么事都应该冷静严肃，就冷冷地说：“这是你神经出了毛病。可是不要紧。马上到大夫那儿去。” “随你们怎么办好了，只是看在上帝面上，快点才好！” “你不用发急，你得尽力控制自己才成。” 医科学生和艺术家伸出发抖的手替瓦西里耶夫穿好衣服，带他出去，到了街上。 “米哈依尔·谢尔盖伊奇早就想跟你认识了，”在路上医科学生说。“他是个很可爱的人，医道也高明得很。他是一八八二年毕业的，可是经验已经很丰富。他对待大学生就象对待同学那样。” “赶快，赶快……”瓦西里耶夫催促道。 米哈依尔·谢尔盖伊奇是一个胖胖的金发医师，他接待这几位朋友时，半边脸微笑着，态度又客气，又庄严，又冷静。 “艺术家和玛耶耳已经跟我讲到过您的病，”他说。“很愿意为您效劳。怎么样？请坐吧。……”他让瓦西里耶夫在书桌旁边一把大圈椅上坐下，把一个烟盒送到他跟前。 “怎么样？”他开口说，摸着他的膝头。“我们来谈正事吧。 ……您多大岁数？ " 他提问题，医科学生回答那些问题。他问瓦西里耶夫的父亲害过什么特别的病没有，是不是常喝醉酒，有没有什么残酷的行为或者古怪的脾气。他又用同样的问题问到他祖父、母亲、姐妹、弟兄。他听到瓦西里耶夫的母亲有很好听的歌喉，有时候还上台演戏，就忽然活泼起来，问：“对不起，您可记得您母亲对舞台的兴趣浓不浓？” 大约二十分钟过去了。瓦西里耶夫讨厌那位医师一个劲儿摸他的膝头，老是讲那一套话。 “大夫，您那些问题，依我看来，”他说，“是想弄明白我的病有没有遗传性。” 医师又问瓦西里耶夫年轻时候干过什么秘密的坏事没有，脑袋受过伤没有，有没有什么爱好、怪癖、特别的嗜好。 凡是勤恳的医师通常问到病人的种种问题，即使有一半不回答，也丝毫无损于病人的健康，可是米哈依尔·谢尔盖伊奇、医科学生、艺术家，全都现出一本正经的脸色，仿佛只要瓦西里耶夫有一个问题答不上来，就会前功尽弃似的。医师听到答话以后，不知为什么，总在一片纸上记下来。听说瓦西里耶夫学过自然科学，眼前在学法律，医师便深思起来。……“去年他写过一篇精采的文章，……”医科学生说。 “对不起，别搅扰我，您妨碍我集中思想，”医师说，用半边脸笑了笑。“是的，当然，这对病的形成也不无关系。紧张的脑力劳动，疲劳过度。……对了，对了。您常喝酒吗？” 他对瓦西里耶夫说。 “很少喝。” 又过了二十分钟。医科学生开始压低声音述说自己对这次犯病的直接原因的看法，说到前天艺术家、瓦西里耶夫和他怎样去逛Ｃ巷。 瓦西里耶夫听他的朋友们和那位医师讲到那些女人和那条悲惨的巷子的时候用那么淡漠的、镇静的、冷冰冰的口吻，觉得奇怪极了。……“大夫，请您只回答我一个问题，”他说，按捺自己的火气，免得说话粗鲁，“卖淫是不是坏事？” “好朋友，这还有问题吗？”医师说，表现出这个问题他早已解决了的神情。“这还有问题吗？” “您是精神病医师吧？”瓦西里耶夫粗鲁地问。 “对了，精神病医师。” “也许你们大家都对！”瓦西里耶夫说着，站起来，开始从房间的这一头走到那一头。“也许吧！可是我却觉得奇怪！ 我学了两门学问，你们就看作了不起的成就，又因为我写过一篇论文，而那篇论文不出三年就会给人丢到一边，忘得精光，我却被你们捧上了天。可是由于我讲到那些堕落女人的时候不能象讲到这些椅子的时候那样冷冰冰，我却要受医师的诊治，被人叫做疯子，受到怜悯！ " 不知因为什么缘故，瓦西里耶夫忽然心中充满难忍难熬的怜悯，他可怜自己，可怜他的同学，可怜前天见过的那些人，也可怜医师。他哭起来，倒在那把圈椅上。 他的朋友们探问地瞧着医师。那个医师现出完全了解这种眼泪和这种绝望的神情，现出自认为在这方面是专家的神情，走到瓦西里耶夫跟前，一句话也没说，给他喝下一种药水，然后，等到他平静点，就脱掉他的衣服，开始检查他皮肤的敏感程度、膝头的反射作用，等等。 瓦西里耶夫觉得舒畅一点了。等到他从医师家里走出来，他已经觉得难为情，马车的辘辘声不再刺激他，心脏底下那块重负也越来越轻，仿佛在溶化似的。他手上有两个方子：一个是溴化钾，一个是吗啡。……这些药他从前也吃过！ 在街上，他站定一忽儿，想了想，就向两个朋友告辞，懒洋洋地往大学走去。 "Notes" ①《旧约·创世记》载：“我们要照着我们的形象，按着我们的样式造人，……”这句话的意思是：她们仍旧是人。 ②指耶稣所宽恕的一个荡妇，见《新约·路加福音》第七章. ③达尔戈梅斯基的歌剧《美人鱼》中公爵的咏叹调。 ④意大利语，开头几个词的意思是：晚安，先生们。其余的词是含糊地摹仿歌剧台词开玩笑。 ⑤意大利语，是对歌剧台词的含糊的摹仿。 ⑥法国拉斐特地方产的一种红葡萄酒。 ⑦巴赞（１８１１—１８８８），法国元帅。 ——Russian text editor's note ⑧格利沙是格利果利的小名。 ⑨法语：阿依达式。阿依达是歌剧《阿依达》的女主人公，原是埃塞俄比亚公主，后被埃及所俘。 ⑩旧俄时代一种风行的画报。