Chapter 18 Chapter 8 Ivanov (2)

A man crouched in a corner, blinking in the matchlight.Although the man had his head and mouth wrapped in a woolen scarf, and a blanket was thrown over his shoulders, he recognized at once the beggar he had met in the colonnade of the church. "Who are you?" he said, his voice hoarse with anger. "Can you stop pestering me?" The match went out.He struck again. The man shook his head firmly.He reached out a hand from under the blanket and pushed the scarf away. "You have no right to order me," he said.There was a smell of fish in the air. The match went out again.He started upstairs.But the paradox resurfaces annoyingly: expect people you don't expect.Well; shall we treat every beggar like a prodigal son, embrace him, take him home, and entertain him?Yes, that's what Pascal would have said: Bet on everyone, every beggar, every mangy dog; that's the only way to make sure that one, that real son, the thief of the night, doesn't slip through the net.Herod would agree too: be sure to kill all the children.

Betting on all the numbers—is that even gambling?What god is there without taking risks and listening to a voice from somewhere when the dice are thrown?God sure knows, and God has mercy on that essentially gambler!When a husband kneels before his wife and confesses that he has lost the last ruble in the family by gambling, then beats his chest and kisses her skirts—the wife lifts him up and wipes away his tears, without saying a word Quietly go out and pawn her wedding ring, get the money back ("Here's the money!"), send him to the casino, play one last time, and get it all back—such a woman must be Someone who is connected with God, dares to bet on a penniless man, even if he loses the money pledged as a wedding ring, he will still go out again in the middle of the night, get the money back, and let the man gamble again!

Did the woman upstairs (he seemed to forget her name for a moment, and even confused her with his good landlady in Dresden) have this communion with the divine?He doesn't know her earliest circumstances, only her latest, most secret: how she committed herself.Based on the woman's commitment, can a man figure out how she entrusted herself to the god of fate?Is this kind of woman characterized by indulgence, regardless of the joy or pain that indulgence will bring, and only uses the sensual body as a vehicle, simply because we cannot live the life of the soul without the body?Is there a form of lovemaking that she represents: flesh clinging to each other, communicating with each other, passing through each other into a darkness that hears nothing but the flapping of the sheets like bird's wings?

The nights he had spent with her came back suddenly in one after another, and everything that had been tangled in his mind became like an arrow pointing straight at her.All sorts of coquettish desires overwhelmed him.He thought: She, she is that person, the person I want.therefore…… So, smiling to himself, he hurried downstairs and groped his way to the corner where the hired spy was staying. "Come on," he said to himself, "I've prepared a bed for you." "This is my post, and I must stay here," said the man slyly. Now nothing can hinder his good mood. "I assure you, the man you're waiting for will come, even up to the third floor. He'll knock on the door, wait patiently, and won't go away."

There was a long period of bustle and rustling of papers. "Do you still have fire?" asked the man. He struck a match.The man stuffed something hastily into a pocket and stood up. They bumped up the stairs like two drunks in the dark.When he reached the door of his room, he whispered to the man to keep quiet, then took his hand and led him in.That hand was chubby and tiresome. Entering the room, he lit the lamp.The stranger's age was difficult to estimate.His eyes were youthful; but the thinning ginger hair and freckled scalp made him look tired and aged, and his bearing was morose.

"Ivanov, Pyotr Alexandrovitch," said the man, putting his heels together, bowing slightly, introducing himself, "a retired civil servant." He gestured towards the bed. "You sleep in that bed." "You must be wondering," said the man, pressing the bed, "how a man with my experience could act as a watchman (what we call a watchman in our line of work)." He lay down and stretched his arms and legs. He had an unpleasant foreboding that he was entangled with a nagging beggar who couldn't juggle or play the violin, and thought he must repay alms by telling his story. "Be quieter," he said. "Take off your shoes."

"You're the one whose son was killed, aren't you? I sympathize. I kind of feel what you feel. Not all, but some. I've lost two myself. All at once. Meningeal fever disease, the name of medicine. My wife never recovered from that blow. If we had had money and good doctors, they wouldn't have died. A tragedy; but who cares? All around us today Tragedy is everywhere. Tragedy is the fashion of the world." He sat up. "If you would take my advice, Fyodor Mikhailovich (you don't mind me calling you that?), if you would take the advice of a man who has suffered so much, you would be mourning Concede in front. Cry like a woman! That's women's great secret, it's their advantage over people like us. They know when to cry. You and I can't. We hide it In the heart, until we can't take it anymore! Then we do stupid things just to get an hour or two of relief. Yeah, we do some stupid things and then regret it for the rest of our lives. Women aren't like that, because women have tears as a secret weapon. We We should learn from women, Fyodor Mikhailovich, we should learn to cry! You see, I am not ashamed to cry: next month it will be three years since I was hit, and I am not ashamed cry!"

True enough, tears streamed down his cheeks.He wiped it with his cuff, but more tears flowed.His crying didn't seem to interfere with speaking.In fact, he seemed quite happy. "I believe I will grieve for my dead baby all my life," he said. While Ivanov was chatting about his "baby," his mind wandered.Was it because he was a writer that people told him their troubles?Did they think he had no troubles himself?He was extremely tired and his headache hadn't gone away.The birds outside had begun to chirp, and he was sitting in the only chair in the room, very sleepy--very sleepy, in fact, on the bed he had given up. "We can talk later," he interrupted impatiently. "Go to bed now, don't sleep if you have a bed, no..." He hesitated for a moment.

"For nothing?" Ivanov said knowingly for him. "Is that what you mean to say?" He didn't answer. "Let me tell you, you don't have to be ashamed of being kind," the man went on graciously. "You don't have to. Just as you don't have to be ashamed of being sad. Both are generous impulses. At first glance, our generous The urges that seem to put us down actually lift us up. God sees, everything is on the record. God sees the cracks in our hearts." He strained to open his eyes.Ivanov sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed like an idol.If you don't understand, pretend to understand!he thought, closing his eyes again.When he awoke, Ivanov was still there, lying on the bed with his chin resting on his hands, fast asleep.He opened his mouth, and there was a slight snoring sound from his baby-like pink lips.