Young Writers Society

IV

A young man aboard a train

“We’ve stopped,” the young man awoke to this surprising discovery.

“Yes, we have,” replied the fat lady. She had been reading yet another article form the Gazeta with her eyes closely scanning the words. “We are halfway to Moscow. We’re in Vyshny Volochyok.”

“How do you know where we are?”

“There is a map in the little pamphlet we received before departing.”

The young man nodded, but did not remember ever receiving a pamphlet. The lady returned to her diligent reading. “Madame, what are you reading, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Moliére. The Misanthrope,” she responded tersely and without looking at him.

How rude, he thought. He looked around, but saw nothing. He looked around and noticed, as usual, the pervasive little chatter around him. People engaging in banal conversations which all summed up to produce an unintelligible collection of noises. A sea of noises, all individually lost to the ear. He looked up, and even the ornate lights began to softly melt into the overall scene and became themselves banalities, or nondescript lights, with all detail nearly gone, lost in the monotony of the scene. Lost at sea, lost by the tumultuous waves, the great tumultuous monotony and nothingness. It was as if his vision had suddenly become worse than it was before he left his glasses at the train station, or as if he had just woken from a long and perversely tiresome nap, from which he was having a particularly hard time completely pulling out from. He took out another piece of parchment paper and his pen and wrote.

Vera,

I have just awoken from another little nap. At first, the train seemed to me to be the most amusing thing in the world. But now it seems I cannot stop sleeping. Although it is very curious, since a while ago I couldn’t seem to fall asleep properly when I wanted to do so. A while back ago, a awoke with a very curious sensation. How curious! It seemed as though I could not recall what I was doing on this train. You’ll have to tell me when we are together again (which hopefully will be soon) if this strange thing has ever happened to you. But, of course, after a few moments of remembering carefully how it is that I boarded this train in the first remark, I remembered. The memory was slow at first, but then returned to me altogether. It was very disheartening to learn that one could say that I, as I write yet another annoying letter to you aboard this train, am marching towards a grave. It is not mine and even still, it is a resolute march to a grave. I can’t even be an optimist about it; my mother will die soon, if she has not already. And this is so disheartening, I cannot begin to explain it, so I won’t bother. It would only serve to dishearten you, my sweet creature. It seems that it’s only been a short while since I was a small boy, playing around with my little sketches while my mother prepared dinner. And, of course, she was not alone; she always had the good company of men, farmers, laborers, and even bureaucrats, who delighted in spending their few idle moments of rest with my charming mother, who could always entertain a crowd of tired folk with her witty and wise remarks about love and life. It was in this atmosphere that I learned about the concept of a school, and, soon enough, about the concept of an art school. How marvelous it seemed to me, that one could spend money to learn, to perfect one’s craft. And this is what I became determined to do, and this is what I have done. I am an artist. You know this, of course, but I can’t help but share these things with you, the person whom I love so dearly. Just as, when one is faced with one’s own impending demise, one can’t help but instantly and forcefully relive one’s entire life vividly. When faced with my own mother’s impending death, I simply can’t help but remember all these things all at once to cloud my mind, and I can speak of these things only with you. One should imagine that this is what love is. And so it is. It is no mystery. Free of any questions or introspection, for to ask is to know for certain that there is no love. This is what love is, plain for all to see.

He stopped writing for a moment. The fat lady was still reading her book. Good, he thought, turning back to his letter.

Among other things, I have told you in detail about how beautiful this train car is, but I have not done much to tell you about the people inside of it. In particular, there is this horrible woman seated to my left at the moment, whom I can’t stand. She is rude, not just to me, but to everyone she tries to engage with. And it’s not like she’s some wise old madam, who we must all have patience with because she holds deep and wise truths. She seems to think that she is. Ah but in truth she comes across as the most painfully kind of pompous noblewoman. Oh how I despise this. Well, I say to her, “ma dame!” But of course she is not at all wise. On the contrary, she’s more of a fool, like a spoiled upperclass child who never grew up. She is awful. And I should also begin to tell you, even as briefly as I can so you are not too sickened, the things that we have spoken about on this great journey. In the beginning, she enquired as to my situation. That seems perfectly normal to me, but then we started to discuss some serious matters. She asked me some questions, philosophical questions, about art. She took me for some great artist. And quite rightly so! But, as I badly wanted to tell her but could not for fear of getting into a more heated debate, there is not much philosophizing that should go on about art. There is simply art, and it is up to the individual observer, or appreciator of art, to determine whether it falls under his fancy. One could do this quite easily: go into an art gallery and observe all the art, and find, among them, those which inspire the most visceral emotions from you. You can then be on your merry way. This is what art is. It is about admiring Beauty, it is about being stunned and silenced by Beauty. But I did not say this to the old madame, and I would consider this to be common sense. What an idiot she is. If you were here and had heard the outrageous things that she had said, and if it were not completely improper of us, you would laugh with me. How I miss you! And of course I miss your beautiful hair. It seems that millennia could have easily gone by on board this place, and millennia without you is a torture far greater than any mind could ever possibly conceive.

He stopped and thought of Vera for a moment. And then, as if there could not be an odder way for the mind of an artist to operate, he recalled the dream he had, and its details.

There is something also strange that I have experience aboard this train that I would like to share with you, only because it is strange. I was asleep about an hour ago, properly asleep, as this was not a small nap that can be had aboard this rocking machine. While profoundly asleep, I had a nightmare. A terrible dream, and it is strange because I can’t remember the last time I had such a thing. In fact, I would probably go so far as to say that I’ve never in my childhood experienced them. My sister certainly did, and it was terrifying even for me to hear, as a child, about her night terrors. And, so you know clearly, my nightmare was not as you might think. I did not find myself in a dire situation. I was apparently not in any danger, nor were any of the people I would say that I am close to. This is of course, at the end of the day, only you. Here it was: I simply had very odd visions. Now, as you read this, try not to burst into laughter though you are perfectly free to. I saw hundreds of EYES. As if I was completely surrounded by people, and as if they were all turned, gazing at me. But I saw only their hideous eyes. It was monstrous and bizarre beyond belief! I felt deeply disturbed by this, by all the eyes. They were perfectly fixed upon me and fully wide, gazing, without blinking, for they did not possess eyelids. And, in my horrid dream, I began to panic while trying to make sense of any of it.Eyes? Why do they stare at me? What do they want? I began to think that these eyes held some terrible truths, but not truths at all! Lies! And I wouldn’t have it. Ah, I hope, as you read this letter, that I don’t sound mad at all. And don’t be under a false impression, my love; it takes a special cowardice to fear a mere dream. Ha! The last thing I want is for you, above anyone else, to start believing that I am a spineless coward. The dream was simply very startling in its peculiarity. Why should any of us be compelled in any way at all to such things? Dreams are not special in this regard. We should always be prepared to waft away the nonsense without being fearful of the truth. That’s what dreams are: nonsense. It is foolish to search our sleeping minds for meanings and ideas. It’s only when we are awake and in full use of our faculties that we should expect ourselves to think clearly. And, of course, you must be thinking me mad for going on and on about this peculiar dream, even while I, perhaps uselessly, affirmed that I am not disturbed by the dream now.

So, I think it appropriate to talk to you about something else. I think you remember the book I’ve been carrying with me since I arrived in Petersburg. I never told you this but it was given to me by my mother. I naturally expected the book to be very boring. Well I’ve been reading it as best as I can on board this train and I can say that it is even more boring than I thought it would be. The book is about two men, one who is reserved and hardly talks to anyone at all, and one who talks too much, routinely getting himself into trouble for what he says. But both have a certain charm about them. It’s interesting, since both are made out to be highly intelligent. And both die; one of boredom and the other of a broken heart. It’s funny: the one who died of a broken love never had anyone to love. But I regret the book very much. The writing itself is painfully drab and dry, and every time I attempt reading a passage with my weak eyes, it is only a strain. How could such books exist? How could such art exist? Such books have no artistry in them, no beauty or anything. It’s only a bunch of long, unintelligible sentences with nothing in between. I don’t feel myself unqualified to speak of this, since an appreciation and knowledge of one art form engenders an appreciation and knowledge of all art forms. Since I don’t feel myself unqualified, it bothers me not at all to say that the drab and tiring descriptions and expositions within the book are simply useless. It’s true, however, that there is more to a good story than this. But even in other more sophisticated areas, such as in the development of characters, this book proves disappointing. Of course, I can’t tell you everything about the story here, so you’ll have to take my word for it. The tale is heavily moralistic and unreal; one of the men is a bitter, antisocial idiot who fails to understand his unhappiness and, the other, an annoying, sanctimonious idiot who, failing to be happy in his philosophical endeavors, resolves to killing himself. Boring!

My love, I would not go on and on about this if I knew that you did not love some sort of entertainment. I know that you are quite bored living in your parents’ estate, and that my leaving is most unfortunate for the both of us, but I don’t know what to do. There is not much that can be done regarding your father. I hate to think that this trip will be more of a permanent close to our beautiful love, and that there are many unsettling things about our love that are undiscussed and ugly, but that is all nonsense and should simply be shoveled off.

For the remainder of the half-hour, the man contemplated a few things which perhaps bear no resemblance to each other. First, he noted, as diligently as always, that the door facing him just a few feet away, changed color quite quickly with the receding sunlight. It did not lose its beauty, he thought, since the new colors present were even more fascinating now that they had caught him by surprise. It must have been quite a strange sensation, for he had been seated for hours, casually looking at his surroundings and at this door, which had always seemed to him to be splendidly gilded and bronze. This seemed to be the case every single time the door passed through his field of vision, yet, he had been surprised by the sudden different tones present then, just a few minutes before sunset. Second, he thought for a brief while of the possibility which he had never properly entertained. What if his mother had died already, and had perhaps been dead for days? What would he do then? Surely, this whole trip would have been a waste. But this observation would come off as direly insensitive to his sister. So he resolved to stay for a few days regardless of the situation, to stay and mourn for a while, even if it had to be feigned. At last, a little tear began to form around his eye, before promptly wiping it away.