Chapter 17 Chapter 8 Ivanov (1)

He fell asleep as he did every night, with the intention of trying to reach Pavel.But as soon as he fell asleep, he seemed to be awakened by a voice——the voice came from the street downstairs, it was very weak, and he could only hear the voice but not the person. The voice repeated patiently: Isaev!Isayev! It's just the sound of the wind blowing the reeds, he thought, continuing to sleep with peace of mind.In summer, the wind blows the reeds, and the blue sky is dotted with high-altitude clouds. He wanders along the creek, whistling, and intentionally or unconsciously whips the reeds with the thorns in his hand.Several weaving birds flew up with a whoosh.He stopped and stood listening.The grasshopper's cry also ceased; only his own breathing and the rustling of the reeds in the wind were heard.Isayev!The wind is calling.

He jumped with a start and was instantly wide awake.It was the quietest hour of the night, and the house was silent.He went to the window, peered out at the moonlight and shadows, and waited for the shouting to resume.finally come.It was the same pitch, the same length, the same cadence as the shout that still echoed in his ears, but it was not a human cry at all.It was the howling of a dog. It wasn't Pavel that was yelling to come in—it was something that had nothing to do with him, a dog that was yelling Papa.Well, let that dog daddy, or whoever it is, go outside in the cold dark and pick up his rough, stinky kid.Let him soothe it, sing it a lullaby, and lull it to sleep.

The dog howled again.No sign of the field and the silvery moonlight: a dog, not a wolf; a dog, not his son.So what?So he must pull himself together!Since it is not his son, he should not go back to sleep, but must get dressed and go out to answer the summons.If he expected his son to come back at night like a thief, and only listened to the thief's call, he would never see his son.If he had expected his son to speak in an unexpected voice, he would never have heard it.As long as he expects what he does not expect, what he does not expect will not happen.And so—contradictions of contradictions, darkness of darkness—he must promise the unexpected.

While on the third floor, it seemed easy to spot the dog.When he went downstairs to the street, he was confused.Did the shouting come from the left or the right?From a house across the street, or from the back of this house?Or from the courtyard of a house?Which house?As for the cry itself, it seemed to be getting shorter and lighter now, and the tone was completely different—it was hardly the original cry. What was going on? He searched back and forth, and found the back street where the excrement workers went in and out.In an alley in a back street, he finally saw the dog, tied to the drainpipe with a thin chain; the chain wrapped around one of the dog's front legs;The dog wailed and backed away as far as he could go.It drooped its ears and rolled over on the ground.a bitch.He bent down and untied the tangled chains.Dogs can smell people's fear, but he can smell the dog's extreme fear even in the cold air.He scratches behind the dog's ears.The dog, still lying on its back, licked his wrist timidly.

Am I going to do something like this from now on, he wondered: just staring into the eyes of dogs and beggars? The dog bowed and got up.Although he didn't like dogs normally, he didn't flinch from the dog, but squatted down and let it lick the salt grains on his face, ears and beard with its warm, wet tongue. He petted the dog one last time and stood up.In the moonlight, he couldn't see the hour on the watch clearly.The dog howled and tugged eagerly on the chain.Who leashes a dog outside on such a cold night?In spite of this, he did not try to untie the dog from its chains.He turned around abruptly and walked away, ignoring the begging barking of the dog behind him.

why me?he thought as he hurried away.Why should all the troubles in the world be my responsibility?As for Pavel, if he was reduced to nothing, at least let him keep his death, at least not take death from him as a chance for his father to reform himself. Useless.His reasoning is specious and unworthy of attention, even he himself does not believe it.Pavel's death did not belong to Pavel—that was a play on words.Pavel's death was his death as long as he was here.Wherever he went, he took Pavel with him like a frozen baby ("Who will save this blue baby?" he seemed to hear the monotonous voice of a peasant pleading voice).

Pavel would not speak, would not tell him what to do. "Raise that little one and love him well": if he had known that Pavel had said those words, he would have obeyed them.But no.That little one: Is that little one the dog that was abandoned in the cold?Was that dog something he had to get rid of, bring home, feed and love, or was that beggar curled up under a bridge, disheveled and drunk?A terrible sense of hopelessness came over him, and connected with that feeling (how, he didn't know) was that he didn't know what time it was, but the core part of the fact was that he was getting more and more Firmly convinced that he would never again come out at night to answer a dog's call, and he was convinced that the chance to leave himself behind as he was, to be what he still had a chance to be, was gone forever.I am what I am, he thought desperately, bound by himself until the day of his death.Whatever opportunity beckoned to me, I wasn't qualified to take it, and now it's gone.

However, even at the moment he closed the door, he realized that there was still a chance to go back into the alley, unchain the dog, take him to the doorway of No. 63, and help him sit under the stairs. A nest--though he knew that if he got it this far it would follow him, and if he chained him up again it would howl and bark and drive the whole house down. wake up.It's not my son, it's just a dog, he declared.What does it have to do with me?He affirmed, but he knew the answer in his heart: Pavel would not be saved unless he unleashed the dog and led it to his bed, bringing the little one too, and the beggar and the beggar, And many others that he didn't know yet; even then, it wasn't certain.

He moaned loudly in despair.What should I do?he thought.As long as I can keep in touch with my heart, can I know?But it is not his heart that he has lost touch with, but the truth.Or—from another aspect of the same thought—it is not truth at all with which he is out of touch: on the contrary, truth is pouring down upon him like a cataract, almost drowning him.Then he thought (over and over, over and over again: one has to think with such sophistry these days!): Drowning under a waterfall, what exactly do I need?More water, gushing, drowning deeper. He stood in the middle of the snow-covered street, raised his cold hands to his face, smelled the dog, touched the cold tears on his cheek, tasted it.Salt, salt for those who need it.He figured he wasn't going to rescue the dog tonight, not even tomorrow night, if there was one.He was waiting for signs, and he was sure (he dared not use a more conceited word than sure) that the dog was no sign at all, but one of many dogs that barked in the night.But he also knows that as long as he uses cunning to distinguish things that are things from things that are signs, he will not be saved.That was the logic by which he would be thwarted; he felt that its indestructible hardness had run out of wits like a dog snapping a tooth on a chain.Beware, beware, he reminded himself: the dog on the chain, the second dog, is nothing at all, not an inspiration, but a dog-like animal!

He clenched his fists, put his hands in his pockets, drooped his head, and his legs were as stiff as sticks. Standing in the middle of the street, he felt the dog's spittle freeze on his beard. At this moment, is there someone secretly watching him in the dark doorway of No. 63?He wasn't sure if that dark figure was the Watcher's body; but even the lighter shadow that he thought was the Watcher's face might just be a smudge on the wall.The longer he stared, the more he felt a face staring back at him.Is it a real face?All he imagined were bearded, gleaming-eyed people hiding in dark passages.However, when he walked into the dark doorway, he felt the presence of another person very keenly, and a chill came down his spine.He stopped, held his breath, and listened.Then he struck a match.