Chapters 5-6

V

Nikolai Levin is arrested

It had been nearly two hours since Nikolai Mikhailovich Levin was arrested and detained outside the cream-colored, dilapidated building of the offices of the ministry of justice. I remember that he was a short man with auburn hair, dirtied by mud in this instance of course. He trembled as he sat with his rather long neck, outstretched towards the sky. The contour of conspicuously bulging veins adorned his neck. He gazed into the sky, waiting and waiting. Many of the few homeless men surrounding him had awoken. Some had begun to frantically knock on the entrance door of the building, which was glass with a blackish, rusty metallic frame. These men had perhaps made it a matter of habit to wake up and complain at something, whatever it was that was available. If there was not some bureaucrat exiting the building headed for some important business elsewhere, and if there was not some fatigued policeman dawdling about the building entrance bearing a hearty expression of sincere and morose idleness, the homeless men would simply take up their complaints directly with the building itself and knock at it. And knock and knock. This was of course, only for a brief while, until their stomachs began rumbling even if only slightly.

Nikolai closed his eyes and heard some grunting. He opened his eyes. Several meters from the building entrance, two police officers were holding and forcefully escorting a bedraggled young man, no older than twenty. “My God,” Levin thought. “Such a young man. These policemen are really useless.” They dragged the man up a small flight of stairs and Nikolai sat on the ground by the building wall, watching the man as he was taken into the building. Inside, as Nikolai could see through the glass doors from the outside, the young man was taken to into a room not more than six meters from Levin. The latter, overtaken by curiosity about his own predicament, followed their movement and, luckily, he was able to see within the room from an undraped window held slightly ajar. It was a courtroom.

The courtroom was hardly such a thing; it was more of a shanty made to look grandiose and perhaps even official and not completely laughable. The judge, along with a few other officiants and bureaucrats, sat behind a small wooden table beside the jury of some six people. The man on trial was not outstanding in any way. He stood nervously, his hands cuffed, and eyes fixated upon the judge, while on occasion catching a quick glance at a young woman sitting at a corner. This woman, at the very end of the room, was sitting hunched over and weeping dreadfully.

“Boy, you are charged with so and so,” the judge’s voice was deep and commanding. “…And so and so and so…Defiling of this young miss…Such and such and such. How do you make of it, boy?”

This man on trial did not hesitate for even an instance to reply. “I deeply regret it, sir. I think I have spent no less than twenty consecutive days wallowing in the deepest regret and tears I can fish out from within me. The time I have spent in this little jail, I have taken advantage of; I learned about myself. I found things buried inside of my dreams, at night. Even when I close my eyes in the daytime, I see only the fleshy insides of my eyes, stained by the ugly red of regret.”

An elderly man from the jury grunted disgustedly, while a few of the others began to doze off.

“I must say then, boy,” the judge spoke. “That on the basis of your regret, we cannot in good conscience convict you and impose the usual capital punishment.”

“Indeed,” someone added.

“Agreed, agreed,” someone else added.

The judge continued. “Is there something you would like to add?”

“Yes, sir. I cannot say that I would not do it another time. I may even say, right now and before you all, that I would find it nearly impossible to contain myself, come another opportunity.”

“Understandable,” someone said.

“Yes, yes.”

The man on trial continued. “It is vital for the jury to know this. Upon seeing another enchantingly beautiful young miss, and upon examining everything as well as I have once already, I would not hesitate. But I will not be called a remorseless beast! It is simply unfair.”

The judge did not hesitate to speak. He hardly even looked at the man on trial as he spoke. “The jury understands this. On the basis of this, we cannot possibly pardon you and allow you to be freed. The court must then apply, as punishment, the capital punishment by hanging. Is there something you would like to say?”

“I understand, your honor. Yes, I would like to say something.”

“You may do so now while our executors and officiants prepare the gallows.”

He cleared his throat. “I have said to this jury that I regret, with the deepest sincerity, my actions, but that I would not hesitate to indulge again. But I ask you all: can you possibly pretend to convict me, the true victim? At least tell me, how can you pretend to be surprised by my actions? I see all of you gasping at my crime but this is completely senseless. My mother was, may she be in God’s grace, a useless whore. I could not have been given the tenderness and love of a mother because of this. And my father is a drunk! I could therefore not have been given the gentlemanly predisposition that one would call upright and godly. How could you expect me to be raised upright and with godliness? I accept my punishment and my execution, but I call on all of you to examine your decision closely.”

Levin turned away from the window, baffled and perhaps disgusted. What a curious sight it was! To be sure, I don’t have a doubt in my mind that at this point, Levin had not eaten a proper meal in days, and was perhaps also thoroughly dehydrated. I don’t know what sorts of effects this could have a man’s mind but it seems possible for it to induce apparitions within a diseased mind.

After a few minutes, a terribly idle police officer, casually swinging his hands from his belt, approached Levin. The officer smiled pompously. Levin had not taken notice of him until he spoke. “Why are you here?” the officer asked.

Levin spat at the ground and turned to the man. He spoke rustically, drained of nearly all energy. But he placed all the energy he had remaining, it seems, at formulating a terse reply. “Because you brought me here.”

“Funny man. I have that terrible habit as well.” The officer spat directly at Levin’s head and the latter did nothing in response but look up. “I only kid; I know exactly why you’re here: grave-robbing. How sickening.”

“You know why I was arrested. But I don’t think you know what compelled me to do such thing that you find so sickening.”

“That is certainly no secret,” the officer chuckled. “Sick bastards do sick things. It’s how the world works.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And if there were ever another reason, I doubt someone like yourself would even know about it. I bet all you can do is go around being a sick bastard while the truth is buried in your sick little mind, never to be seen by a living soul. You’d have to be dead.”

~~~

VI

The Kolmogorov Family

Lola Kolmogorovna was a very thin woman, born nine years before her brother, Casimir Kolmogorov. Lola had simple, green eyes and long brown hair. I don’t think I ever saw her around the Kolmogorov estate without wearing something that was not at the forefront of fashion and luxury for the sake of luxury. I sometimes commented to myself that she lived the opulent life that Casimir was also born with, but always naturally rejected, at least under his father of course. Although, I cannot say that she always surrounded herself with as much silk and fine linens as she did when I knew her. This character of hers is recent: I do not think that she has always been of exuberant fancies. But I think I shall have time to speak of the tragic Lola Kolmogorovna later. I can say now that while I saw quite a bit of her around the manner when Casimir and I were children, I never formally spoke or met her until one evening when I was fourteen. Monsieur Grigori had invited my parents and me for dinner on that evening. My father always worked very hard to never hint at the true reluctance with which he approached his friendship with Monsieur Grigori, so, even if he had other plans that evening, declining the Great Patriarch’s” invitation was out of the question. On many instances, it was so pathetic and I felt badly for my father; I could see that he sometimes forced himself to laugh at the Patriarch’s jokes or forced himself to pay attention while the man recounted a terribly long and boring anecdote.

Nonetheless, I was excited to have dinner with Casimir, though I had to go through the painstaking task of interacting with his family. I should, however, not be misunderstood here. They always seemed like a wonderful family and I cannot be more serious about this. Monsieur Kolmogorov was always a bit of an eccentric, but was also always friendly with my family and me. Above all, he very much condoned my friendship with his son, often taking the two of us on business trips of his. Lola, when I met her, seemed also very friendly. Polite, rather. Moreover, she seemed to use her sensuality, which I had recently discovered, alongside her natural charisma to produce an enchanting woman. Casimir, of course, my dear friend, was a character all of his own making. So yes, it was a wonderful family. But, whenever I went back to my home after spending a long day with my friend, I thought about the three of them, alone around a dinner table for instance, without any guests to entertain. This was a family that was so well-behaved to those from outside, that it is impossible to conceive of it as actually well-behaved. It was as if there was always a missing element to those pleasant encounters with Casimir’s father and sister, or those deceptively pleasant smiles I would see between any two of them. And it used to make me feel quite guilty that I felt this way about Casimir’s family, but I do not anymore.

Regardless, my father and mother sat beside me on the evening of this dinner and Casimir sat on the opposite side of the very long glass dinner table. The table had eight glass legs, each chiseled with a unique ornate pattern. My family and I were seated and being entertained by Monsieur Grigori before Casimir and his sister arrived. I kept myself entertained by on occasion casually swinging my gaze from the Patriarch to these glass legs. The light from the chandelier above us reflected quite splendidly within the microscopic chiseled valleys of the designs on the legs.

“Pick up the pace, Kazik,” I heard the robust and satirical voice of his sister. The siblings were walking down the foyer staircase, headed toward the dining chamber.

“Don’t call me Kazik. Call me by my name or don’t talk to me at all.”

“How rude, little brother. You could not be less like my dear Antonin.”

“And your fiancé could not be more like Papa.” Casimir sneered as only he could with Lola. I don’t think anyone else heard them speaking; Casimir’s father very much disliked when his son criticized Lola’s fiancé in any way.

As they entered the dining room, my father made a gesture at me. I got up from my seat, walked up to Lola, and kissed her hand in greeting. She was quite a bit taller than me then, not like recently. “How precious. Papa who is our guest?” she asked, regarding me intently. I simply stood there before her, politely. Casimir had sat down.

Monsieur Grigori got up and patted my head affectionately. “This is Monsieur Denisov and Madame Denisovna’s son, Sergei Maximovich. That is your name isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to confuse you with the dozens of other friends Kazik has.” Everyone laughed.

Lola leaned forward, facing me. She smelled heavily of perfume. “You, little Seryozhka, are by far the most handsome of them all.” She smiled heartily, and sat down beside me. The Great Patriarch called for the servants to bring out the food from the kitchen. We feasted.

“Papa,” Lola began, after a long silence while we all chewed. She glanced menacingly at her brother while she spoke. It was only Casimir who could discern, amidst all her falsity, the very subtle malicious smile. I could discern this from Casimir’s expression of utter annoyance. “You ought to warn Kazik about the way he treats my darling Antonin. My brother is such an intolerable nuisance sometimes, and, at times, one hardly notices this.”

“Casimir, boy!” roared the Great Patriarch. He stamped his fist on the table and all our plates trembled for an instant. My mother kept eating normally, but my father looked as if he was desperately trying not to incidentally fall under his friend’s wrath despite him having nothing to do with anything. “I have told you many times that I won’t have such wildly inappropriate behavior from you.” He turned to my parents and so his tone changed dramatically. “My son was gifted by God with such an intelligence,” his brown, crisp beard bounced back and forth as he spoke with fervor. “But he sinfully wastes it being a nuisance. And so is he perhaps a stupid boy after all? Monsieur Denisov, you’ve seen my daughter’s fiancé, the noble Antonin Francois de Cagale, I’m sure. He is a right godly man with his passions in check and ambitions bent bellow the Lord as good fortune would have it and—”

“Good fortune also, Papa!” interjected Lola with a dreamy laugh.

“Oh come now, Lola,” her father said, disappointedly yet not completely disapprovingly. “What does it matter whether he’s wealthy or poor? There are only those that are men of God and those wicked men that are not.”

My father finally found a place to interject at this point, even though he really didn’t have anything to say. “My friend,” he said, confidently. “You speak quite beautifully about these things.”

“I speak the truth, my friend. Now, what was I saying?”

“You were scolding Kazik, Papa” said Lola.

“Yes, yes.” He turn again to my parents. “You can certainly say that Casimir loves his sister; he seems to offend the good Antonin Francois out of protective duty. I commend him for it but at the same time am enraged by it.” He turned to my friend, who could not look more indifferent. “You ought to feel ashamed, boy!” he spoke softly and vituperatively. “You had better stop making such snide remarks about your sister’s fiancé or at least hope to God that Antonin can understand your perverse sense of protective duty. Have you no sense of what this good man offers your sister?”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” said my friend dryly, while staring fixedly at his food as he spooned it into his mouth.

That was that.

“Well, my friend,” said my father, with a nervous chuckle. “We should get down to business, yes?”

“Yes we should,” replied the Patriarch, while still eating zealously.

My father remained motionless for a moment, staring at Monsieur Grigori eat, wondering, indeed wondering in confusion, whether or not to push the matter further. A whole minute passed, and Monsieur Grigori simply ate, as did we all save my father. “Shall we go into your study?” he finally asked.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. You are my oldest and, so, my truest friend,” he licked his fat thumb and continued. That is, he continued eating and speaking. “You are my truest friend and I mean that with deep sincerity and pleasure, but I have always felt that all business is best conducted at the dinner table. And so, I wait for you to begin talking.”

“How kind, old friend, and I must say you are a friend to me as well. But this is a sensitive matter.”

“Nonsense. What is a sensitive matter on the other hand, is my hunger.” He gestured at the servant standing quietly at the corner of the room. “Je veux avoir les dents du fond qui baignent!” The servant proceeded into the kitchen to fetch another serving.

“Well, I simply wanted to talk to you about the pending discussion we have deferred until now.”

“Right then. What was it?”

“It is difficult to speak of these things, my friend.”

“Speak man, speak!” the bearded Patriarch bellowed.

My father trembled once only, very quickly and very subtly. “The Kolmogorov estate has always been very prestigious; it has been the keystone of much of the federal enterprises in the district. And for a very long time.”

“Nearly a hundred years,” the man interrupted, proudly.

“Yes it is quite old and still is quite powerful. But, I must say, as we have discussed in the past, and as the Committee has come to consensus in the past, your estate has been lagging, so to speak, for the past two decades or so and we think that you, with all due respect, should begin to make certain changes to the management of certain areas in your control as this would alleviate the amount of stress that your estate has accumulated over the decades.”

Monsieur Grigori frowned dramatically. “How do you mean? You mean to imply that the estate has gone decades with poor management?” His face bulged red with anger.

“Please, I do not mean to offend. Consider this my relaying of the Committee’s message to you. I know this is difficult to hear, considering the current political climate but we think it is in everyone’s best interest if you took action, immediately.”

“I don’t think so, my friend.” Monsieur Grigori put his spoon down aggressively, but with not too much force, and looked directly at my father. It was not an aggressive expression, since, after all, the Patriarch had much experience in politics and knew how to intimidate without being intimidating, but it was enough to exploit my father’s cowardice. But this proved to be woefully useless for him. “You have many connections in the Committee, first and foremost, and I don’t think that it would want to force me to do anything at this point. Besides, I don’t think there is much of a problem concerning the way I manage the estate.”

“Please, think about all this in the scope of some ten years,” my father began to implore. “Considering the situation with the peasants and the sympathy our Tsar has towards them, you really must reconsider, for your own sake.”

“I cannot, my friend. My mind is made up: I will not consider, even for a moment, the prospect of changing any management at all. I refuse and I reject this.”

There were a few minutes of silence. We ate.

Suddenly, my father’s tone changed. It became confident and tinged with a tad bit of vengeful righteousness. “Then I am truly sorry to present to you the bad news. The Committee has already decided, considering the eminent collapse of the estate within a decade or so, in favor of bringing some new blood into the management of the Kolmogorov estate. It is surely for the best. I wish I could do something, but my hands are tied. ”

There was a brief silence. Casimir, my mother, and I seemed not to pay attention whatsoever. Lola was eating in her characteristic fashion, that is, very slowly and absentmindedly. My father did not acquiesce to the silence, and so remained perfectly still, head held high and firmly staring at his friend directly, as the latter seemed to taste in his mind, very carefully, what my father had just said to him. My father had said this with the plain confidence and solemn sympathy that a true friend could possibly have for his friend. Monsieur Grigori carefully chewed this up in his mind, surely searching for anything to retort. Soon, he had found the utter bitterness in it, and he furrowed his brows and contorted his mouth into an ugly frown accordingly.

“Goddammit!” Casimir’s father shrieked. “Damn it to hell!” If it had not been for my father’s reassuringly calm demeanor at this point, I would have been quite intimidated. Casimir was certainly not at all stirred. He kept eating. I did however, at the corner of my eye, see the two servants standing like statues at the end of the dining room. One of them shuddered slightly at his master’s cry as if not yet accustomed to his temper, as was the case with the other servant who did not move at all. If there was ever a thing that I admired in Kolmogorov, it was his boldness. He did not sit quietly after my father presented the bad news. He was enraged and he did not keep the anger to himself. He exploded. And rightly so; my parents and I, and Casimir and Lola, we all sat quietly for a moment after my father presented. But one should not be fooled! We did not hold some secret, hidden respect for the man. We did not look at each other as think “How terrible, that such a thing happen to such a man.” No, no! We sat quietly, judging him! The looks exchanged between us in that brief silent moment were not those of some deeply held respect for the man. Let’s not kid ourselves here. This is the absurdity of it all! Ah and, certainly, on the surface, on the very deceptive surface, we all played the masquerade game and looked sympathetic, but what I would have liked to say was “That bastard deserved it!” And so Kolmogorov did right in exploding and not perpetuating the perverse, silent game. “What do you mean to say exactly? Do not speak in riddles with me.” He was furiously shaking his fist as he spoke. He seemed to even struggle to speak.

My father remained calm, yet slightly apologetic. I could tell that he was in some sense enjoying this very much, but not too much; he is a man without too much malice. “You will no longer be permitted to oversee the volosts as a whole. A bureaucrat from Moscow will handle nearly all administrative affairs now. I do not remember his name, but I was told he is highly competent.”

Monsieur Grigori had been clenching his fists the whole time. He blushed ever so slightly, and spoke more calmly now. “I cannot believe that the Committee would do something to me, its most faithful adherent. It has stripped me down!” He shot a scathing look at my father after Casimir had attentively looked up from his plate upon hearing his father, the great indestructible Patriarch, pronounce his embarrassing predicament. He spoke with my father without speaking. How could you force me to speak of this in front of my children? Have you no sense?

“The Committee has not stripped you down, my friend. You are still the Great Patriarch. You are the man who has, for the past forty years, kept the blood of this district pumping through economic investment and sheer determination of spirit! The Committee owes much to you. But, come now, do not pretend that you are not even a little delighted. You now have the freedom to travel or finally relax.”

“A man does not delight in such things. He is to delight only in the enterprises that God has given him.”

“You will have more time to spend with the Almighty. You mustn’t lie and tell me that you will not enjoy your sabbatical.”

“You dare call it a mere sabbatical,” he said bitterly.

“Who knows,” my father mused. “Perhaps this new blood will not prove very useful after all.” He was lying. He knew perfectly well how this Moscow bureaucrat was praised.

“All I know is that I have nothing to do. What really matters at all if one cannot work? If one cannot build up one’s own fortune?”

“Don’t make me laugh, old friend. You have worked long enough. And your fortune is more than any I have ever known.

“We shall see what will become of me, now that I am left with nothing at all. We shall see what will become of everything. Hopefully, this will all end not very tragically, but I leave it all in the hands of God.

“You speak like a true man, Grigori Kolmogorov.”

“We shall see what will become of me, now that I am left with nothing at all. We shall see what will become of everything. Hopefully, this will all end not very tragically. I leave it all in the hands of God.