Young Writers Society

V

Levin in prison

Once more, he stood in the pit, where, above him, was the headstone. He looked at his gnarled hands, in surprise. He had dropped the shovel a few paces away. It had already begun raining. But this was not like the other times he dreamt like this. He recalled, somewhere in the trenches of his soul and mind, the exact same feeling as he was experiencing once again now. This was a fear that drained into his lungs with each breath and petrified him entirely, until the bloody figure rose once again from the filth of the muddy ground, washed with water. A terrible nauseating stench made him cringe as the figure rose from the ground, becoming clearer with each passing moment. It rose to full height, from the muddy putrescence, and seemed to stare directly at Levin. And Levin gazed at it, and gazed as the corpse of his grandfather steadily and unstoppably materialized before his eyes. And from the black, empty sockets where his grandfather’s eyes once were, there was a glint of gold. From the black empty sockets, two gold pieces emerged and fell right before Levin. He picked up the pieces and recognized them immediately. In horror, he screamed…

“Quiet! Quiet, now!” he was so graciously awoken by Kolya, who clutched his shoulder as he scrambled from his nightmare. He was brilliantly blond and straight-faced, and possessed clumsy eyes.

Levin jumped to his feet. In the blond man’s hand was a small, rusty knife. “What are you doing?”

The man looked at his knife, and quickly stowed it away. “Those two over there,” he carefully pointed at two large men walking away from them. Several paces away, they sat down on the stone ground and occasionally menacingly glanced over at the two of them from afar. “Those men are troublesome. You fell asleep.” There was a silence. The two of them stood there, silent and motionless.

Levin was frowning and facing the blond man directly. “Thank you.”

“No need.”.

Kolya sat down and motioned at Levin to join him, and so he did. The blond man pulled out a small slice of bread from a fold in his garment. He took a bite out of it.

“Have some,” Kolya carefully ripped the bread into two equal pieces and offered forth his arm. It was muscular, and adorned with marks, bruises, and old scars.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some cheese, would you?” Levin joked as he took the bread and immediately stuffed it into his mouth.

And then, as if enraptured by the perfection of this moment, and the perfection of the comedy, and as if eternally grateful to the gods of comedy and circumstance, the blond man pulled forth from his garment a very small slab of white cheese, and offered it to Levin. “Go on, as you so asked for it,” he said.

Levin laughed, but not aloud. Delighted, he took the cheese, but did not eat it immediately.

From the distance, Mitya and Krupin ran towards the two. “Kolya, Kolya!” Mitya exclaimed. He caught his breath. “Did you see those two men? I would keep a closer eye on them from now on. Ah and we have come back from speaking with some of Kuznetsov’s men. But,” he scratched his chin. “I can’t seem to remember what we talked about.”

“You great oaf!” Krupin hissed. “Can’t you do anything right? Kolya,” he turned to Levin’s friend. “There aren’t very many good things to be said.” He panted. “They did not want to settle this in any peaceful manner, I’m afraid. There was not much I could say to dissuade them.” From a pocket, he took out what seemed to be a cigarette wrapped in a cloth, and handed it to Kolya, who inspected it closely. First, he sniffed it lengthwise and then licked the ends. “They gave me this. Kuznetsov said it was to his old friend…”

“Me, in other words.”

“I am afraid so,” Mitya said.

“Well,” Kolya took out, again from the secret compartment on his garment, a little match and lit it with a quick flick of the thumb. “Let’s see,” he lit the cigarette and quickly threw it on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Levin exclaimed.

“Stand back! Look!”

Seconds after the cigarette hit the ground it began to hiss ominously. In an instant, the little thing exploded in a deafening crack, and a jet of smoke and crimson sparks flew from both ends, leaving nothing but a nasty scorch mark and puff of pitch-black smoke.

“Good God!”

A few inmates turned their befuddled heads in their direction.

“Did Kuznetsov’s men really expect to kill you with that little thing?” Mitya broke into wild laughter.

At last, Levin could not contain himself. “I’m sorry, but who is Kuznetsov? This man tried to kill you? I don’t understand anything.”

“Do you see that man over there?” Kolya pointed to a frail-looking old man hunched over by a corner, talking to another, some fifty yards away. But as soon as the old man saw Kolya, he snapped his fingers and five large men escorted him back inside the prison complex, two of whom had been the troublesome men from just before.

“Yes. What of him?”

“Ha! Look at him cower back inside, like the snake he is. His name is Pyotr M. Kuznetsov, and he is the most fearful man in this whole place. From all the petty scoundrels, thieves, murderers, violators of all sorts, and liars, this man, Mister M. Kuznetsov, trumps them all with frightening ease.”

“‘M.’?”

“The ‘M.’ is for Mephistopheles”

Levin laughed nervously. “Surely, that can’t be his name.”

“You are getting ahead of yourself. This most monstrous man was once just a shadowy figure who led small bands of men into the savage pillaging of tens and tens of little, defenseless towns and farms. Never caught, since no one ever knew his name. Whenever a poor fellow from his criminal band happened to fall into the hands of the police, the imbecile could only defend, with ardent conviction, that it was the devil himself who was behind the whole enterprise. What fear must have inspired the poor fool! One night, Kuznetsov’s daughter, who soon became tragically involved with her father’s grim affairs, suffered a grisly death under shady circumstances. This enraged Kuznetsov beyond belief, and we know that it is frightening when such powerful and temperamental men fall at the hands of desperation and vengeance. It is held as legend that upon hearing this news aboard a train, he went mad and single-handedly slew every man and woman aboard. Of course, this led to his speedy arrest and incarceration. He has been here in this prison ever since, and is seldom approached by any other man, except his own men, since it is common knowledge that he always carries at least one concealed knife on his person. This men of his must be the most courageous or the most cowardly men I have ever seen.”

“My God, what a man! Are the police all cowards then?”

“The police don’t know this of course. Every one in prison is too much of a coward.”

“Levin!” shouted a man from the distance. In the distance was the prison building itself. A tall guard, standing by a gate, called out for him.

Levin turned to find the guard, but did not move. “You’re Levin, aren’t you?” Kolya asked.

“Yes, yes,” Levin replied, still looking in the direction of the guard, confused and motionless.

“Go on. Go on, get up, go!” He pushed Levin and the latter once again jumped to his feet and began to mechanically walk forwards, towards the shouting guard, without know why. But, in the middle of his walk towards the guard, he remembered the slab of cheese in his hand which had before then seemed to not have registered by his senses. He suddenly felt the cheese in his hand, and he ate it before walking up to the guard.

“Come with me,” the guard said. Levin followed the guard past the gate and into the prison building. In the building, the two stepped into a small room. The guard closed the door behind them. Inside there was nothing but a table and two chairs. A man was seated in one of them. He was stout and his ginger hair was long, blond, and oily.

“Have a seat,” the stout man said, in nearly flawless Russian. “You’ll have to excuse any mistakes in my parlance; I am an Englishman, you see.” The man got up to his feet and walked towards Levin, after first glancing at a few documents in his hand. “Alright, take off your shirt.” Levin was hesitant and did not move, but only looked at the Englishman as if he had asked him something absurd. “Do you want to bleed to death?”

Nikolai Levin became aware of the man’s intention and promptly doffed his shirt. The Englishman carefully examined the bandages placed on Levin’s shoulder and back just after he was imprisoned. “My name is Dr. Bayland,” the man muttered from behind as he slid a finger down Levin’s back where his skin met the bandagings. “You did right to hesitate, just now. That’s going to keep you alive. Although, I don’t know if you’re stupid and simply a hesitant person, or if you are actually clever or, at least, aware of your situation.” He returned to face Levin, shaking his head. “This won’t do at all. You need new bandages. Your injuries are too great to leave those. God, the money you people spend on bandaging! Why can’t people either do it right or let the damn prisoners die. You must be the seventh or eighth damn idiot who needs new ones.” He returned to his seat and motioned at the guard. “I need new bandages, go on, he won’t do anything to me. And if he does, God knows he’d be doing me a favor.” He put his head down and the guard reluctantly left to fetch bandages. Bayland lifted his head.

“Why are you upset, doctor?” Levin asked.

Bayland lifted his head and looked at Levin. “I’ve treated dozens of inmates today, and no one has asked that, amongst the other stupidities these brutes say. Why the hell do you ask?”

“Well,” he started. He scratched his chin. “I’ve been treated by doctors many times in my youth. I developed the habit of thinking that I could only be made well, or treated well, if my doctor was well. It makes quite a bit of sense; what man would expect to be made well if his own doctor can’t be well?”

Bayland remained quiet. “I don’t quite know if you’re trying to establish a good relationship with out of desire to have something of an ‘ally’ in prison, or if you’re simply a buffoon.”

“I assure you, I’m no buffoon, and, at all the while, I’ve only been in prison since yesterday.”

Bayland knitted his brow and read from some papers on the desk. “‘Nikolai Mikhailovich Levin. Graverobbing.’ You are a buffoon. How interesting,” he disdainfully turned away from the paper, rustling his oily hair, and sighed heavily.

“I did it out of justice,” his voice precipitated slightly.

“You have a wicked sense of justice.”

“I did it because...”

“I don’t care why you did it. I just want to patch you up so I can move on to the next poor fool. And, after that, I want to soak in a chair in my quarters and have a bottle of your country’s finest vodka.”

Levin relaxed, and reclined on the chair. “So, then, you are upset. Why is that, doctor?”

“The way you speak is incredulous. I cannot make out any of it. You are not a damn idiot like all the other prisoners here that I’ve seen, but at the same time your tone is, as far as I can find the words for it, far too honest to not be stupid, but I simply don’t know.”

As a sudden reminder, Levin gasped and clutched his side, grinding his teeth and “I don’t want to die, doctor.”

There was a silence.

While Levin was reclined, he did not speak as if he were striking a casual conversation. He spoke solemnly, concerned as only a buffoon could be, and so concerned for the life of the man who was to save his own. He spoke softly, calmly, but gravely. Relaxed, but serious. Without agitation, but also without

“You don’t even look a little threatening, or powerful, or anything, really. My, how peculiar. You look,” he squinted his eyes. “You just look plain, without a facade of complexity. Do you want to know something very interesting?”

“Perhaps, but only if you’ve got a joke at the end. When I talked with friends, about anything seriously, they always said a joke at the end to lighten everyone’s mood so that we would all drink more.”

Dismissively, Bayland spoke, as to not be distracted from his thought. He sighed. “All other men that have walked through that door, that I have examined today and for the past month or so, have had terrible complexities. As I, the man responsible for their life, examined them, they seem to not care at all. They only cared about appearing foolishly impenetrable and invulnerable. Of course, they never think they are truly dying. They, because of their foolish impenetrability and invulnerability, oftentimes think they are suffering from a mere bruise. But some of them almost did die if I hadn’t been here. But you are different. When you talk, you drop all facades and masks. You don’t care about any of it. You just don’t want to die.”

There was a silence. “Believe me,” Levin leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. “I am alive, and I want to be alive.” They looked at each other. “But, you didn’t end on a joke.”

Bayland smiled and reclined on his chair while biting his thumb. “You marvelous buffoon.”

“Ah well. I don’t need a joke. But you haven’t told me why you are upset, doctor.”

“Alright, alright,” he stammered placing his fist on the table. “I came to Russia looking for an opera singer.” Levin raised his eyebrows. “I help organize opera performances in London. But, unfortunately, the stupid woman refused my offer. One of the worst things about talent is that it sometimes happens to rear its head in the stupidest of creatures, namely, the woman. Do you have any idea? I had to give the stupid woman a damn bow as a I left her company after she refused me. Ridiculous! Of course, I should be careful of calling Nature herself, who allows for talent to be present in women, a ridiculous thing. Reality is of course not ridiculous at all. I simply refuse to see any sense in how She operates, naturally, by virtue of being woman. So, in the end, I used my experience and expertise in medicine to work as a physician. Unfortunately, I was only able to find any work here, in this filthy place.”

“Why didn’t you return to London? Surely, it’s more comfortable than Russia, if you have no reason to stay.”

“I have hopes that the stupid woman will change her mind in the coming weeks. I also expected to get some sort of help from a friend I have here. He’s a landowning lord, lives quite a ways away though. Quite prestigious. In Zloyeserdtse Governorate. But he’s got his own problems.” Bayland glanced at Levin, who was meditatively observing the Englishman. “Ah but you have nothing to worry about; I could patch up your injuries with my eyes closed, if I only had new bandagings.” He took out his pocket watch and grunted.

“You speak Russian well,” Levin said, quite pointlessly.

Bayland said nothing for a moment, here simply observed Levin closely, as if attempting to extract from him a noble truth that had eluded him everywhere he went. Of course, I’d hardly say that my friend the grimy little Dr. Thomas Bayland is any noble character to be out searching for noble truths. He, most incidentally, is a traveling man who is accustomed to observing carefully, and enjoying the interesting.

“And,” Levin added. “You speak lowly of women. I myself haven’t met too many, and I’m sure you’re more qualified to say, but I would certainly not readily brand them all as idiots.”

“Is that so?” Bayland quipped, flicking his fat fingers in Levin’s direction. “I have met too many women in my life. Too many. And never have I met a sensible one. Not many people at all bother themselves with the interesting question, and so not many people at all are bothered to observe closely as woman reveals her true idiocy. I like to think it a talent of mine to be able to find these little truths everywhere I go. And, believe me, I have been everywhere, and have many interesting little truths.”

“This is an opinion which I’m sure is not very popular with your wife, and if women are all idiots, I don’t think I’d be talking too often of the matter with my own wife, if I had one,” he looked at his hands and Bayland heard the low, almost nostalgic inflection in his voice.

“Oh don’t be to quick to think that; I let my wife know how naturally insensible she is quite often. What’s the matter now, haven’t you got yourself a wife outside these walls?”

Levin refused to look at Bayland. “No,” he said languidly staring at the floor and circling his thumbs around each other close by his lap. His shoulder twitched. “But I did, once. Nearly twenty years ago. I was too young.”

“I am not a doctor to mend those kind of wounds, since all I can say is that you are probably better off.” Bayland chuckled.

“I am better off in prison?” and he raised his head to look at the doctor who remained silent. “I don’t regret leaving her, I just regret everything that has happened to me, everything that has amounted to this low.” He twitched again and his face contorted into a pained smirk. Instinctively, he reached for his shoulder.

“Don’t touch your wounds.” Bayland observed the man carefully.

“It hurts too bad!”

“Don’t touch the wound,” and the doctor’s eyes narrowed. “I think,” he began, “you do regret it.”

“No,” he reassured, and took a quick gasp for air, working to keep his hands still by his lap. He closed his eyes and his face became bright and adorned with bulging veins. “I don’t regret it, but, I would not do it had I another opportunity. I swear I wouldn’t! What a tragedy it all was for her. And for me, of course.”

“That is a contradiction in terms, I’m afraid.”

“We people, we individuals, should be free to feel a ‘contradiction in terms’ as you put it. In any case, you are just a physician.”

“I am more than just a physician. I am also a businessman, and a naturalist. It seems that I could not use my wits to excel in one particular area, so I chose many. Although, that might have been my ultimate downfall. So greedily did I take to learning all the different areas, but I am now only impressed that I could not build a proper industry for myself. So cowardly did I take to learning all these things, but at least it is little surprise to me that I am so miserable now, since it was neither greed nor the purest of scholarly integrity which compelled my eclectic studies, but only cowardice. And you are perfectly free to do so, to feel such a contradiction.” The guard entered the room once again, carrying a packet of bandagings and a bottle of clear liquid. He handed the materials to the doctor, who then tended to Levin. “But, you cannot be free from your contradiction. You can only be free with what’s true. What the hell do you expect otherwise?”

“To hell with your logic! ”

Bayland laughed heartily, and smiled. “Certainly, I am a remorseless pig with no regrets, but it is not me who is going to hell here.” He wetted a bandage with the clear liquid and began to treat Levin’s wounds, slowly dabbing his back with the cloth after first drying the area of any blood. “Do you want to die?”

“I don’t think I care very much if I am damned to hell, but I’ve already told you. I don’t want to die.”

The Englishman stopped his treatment for a moment, and turned to face the poor man. “I can assure you that, from these wounds, you will not die. You are a fit man, charged with only graverobbing, so you will not spend even a significant portion of your life in this prison. And I agree that damnation really shouldn’t be a bother to anyone at all, but only the wicked fruits of one’s own folly, for these are the things which create, to our surprise, hell on earth, while alive. When you leave this place, be not startled by your crimes, since they matter little to any God or Satan, but the torture you may endure while alive, the greatest crime of all. In fact, I see little point in living if, were it me in this infernal place, there were no other prospect for my life than unending misery. There is only one reconciliation, and that is to cower, but little does it do to assuage the misery itself, and more does it make one seem, day by day, like a lifeless corpse. And you know very well what should be done with corpses.”

After his treatment, Levin was escorted back to the courtyard by the guard. The blond man was gone, as were many other inmates, replaced by new faces. Soon thereafter, after becoming tired of the sunlight, or after using up his allotted time outdoors, Levin returned to his cell along with a small herd of inmates, escorted by some officers.

*

In the next few weeks, he contemplated suicide.

But I say “contemplate” as though it were a little notion, floating airily and almost innocently in his mind. It was just the opposite: on the day, several weeks after meeting the good Dr. Bayland, almost as if not simply by chance, Levin arranged for his own death. Not cleverly, but it would have certainly sufficed: he had used the rope tied to his waist, attached to his garments, removed it and hung it from a crook in a ceiling rafter after tying an impromptu noose. No man, however tired of his existence, however, can evade the call of hunger; when his cell door was knocked at by a guard, he jumped from a desk and onto his little bed. The slit at the bottom of the door was opened and the guard dropped a tray of food onto the floor. Of course, when Levin heard the slit open and the tray hit the ground, he thought it was indeed a guard. But he heard a familiar voice from the other side of the door, a familiar whisper. “I nicked this for you. I hope you are holding up fine.” It had been Kolya, who after closing the slit, ran off into the distance, no doubt being chased by a guard who had finally noticed the unruly dog wandering out and about.

Upon examining the contents of the tray with a cursory glance, Levin saw a morsel of the most extraordinary kind. Immediately catching his eye, was a slice of what appeared to be bread, not four centimeters in diameter. He prodded the soft center after taking a whiff, and as soon as the aroma reached his nose, and piqued his fancy with the peculiar sensation of both stimulation and the most base tranquility. From the darkest most abandoned corners of his mind, he became flooded, at first slowly and then quickly, with things past. Not only the precious little things of early childhood, and the more tumultuous moments of adolescence which had so inevitably thrown him into a life of buffoonery, but even those regretful times of marriage, of husbandry, and, if only for a brief while, of fatherhood, and the very moment nearly twenty years prior when he had made a decision. Not a good decision, but also not a bad decision. It was these things in their entirety, not one single thing, not because of the grandiosity of the presence of beautiful women, of drink, or of impish amusement. No; it was also those moments of simple repose and tranquil satisfaction, those little things, which had gathered all at once into his mind to create, in full, the man that he is. And all of this sensation, from just the whiff of a dainty and, as a closer examination would no doubt reveal, stale slice of bread. But no such examination was needed.

I ask myself, over and over whenever I recall the strange man, whether it was his predisposition to little banalities or the resemblance of that slice of bread to one in his youth, which stirred his mind. Indeed stirred, as one would stir a very abandoned and cold pot of stew, bringing forth the sedimentary dregs of spices and herbs left forgotten at the bottom by carelessness, by time immemorial, or by fate. I don’t know, but I do know that Levin did not hang himself that day, or the next. Instead he saw Kolya the next evening in the courtyard, sporting an impressive purple bruise on his forehead. Instead of hanging himself, I imagine our buffoon embraced Kolya heartily. A universal symbol of love.

*

Seldom did Levin get the chance to converse with both the dispirited Krupin and the lively Mitya. But whenever he could find them in the courtyard, whenever they seemed to be idle and not engaged in any sort of dubious commitments elsewhere, they passed the time playing cards and chatting, and so Levin joined them whenever he could. Of course, it is only a human urge to be attracted by those who have given him anything which he may, in any sense, call stability. If there was any little thing at all which could have popped into the head of Levin, upon leaving his cell escorted towards the courtyard by a guard, which could in any meager sense inspire a sense of moving homeward, or even a vague feeling of security, then it was something that the man desperately clung onto. What a fool! It is precisely this, in conjunction with his many other faults, which I am not surprised to say merited him the righteous fierceness of God.

Krupin wiped away some tears from his face upon accepted his friend’s offer to play a hand of cards. “Come now, Krupin,” Mitya said, shuffling the cards. “Stop all your crying. You have been crying for ten years. Are you going to cry until you die? God help us all. But in all seriousness, there is no reason why Kolya and I, and now Levin here, should have to watch you cry and then remember you as the old man who wept his vitality away.”

“You rotten friend! I may have been here with you since you were first condemned to these walls five years ago but that gives you no right. If I wish to shed tears till my last breathe, then so be it! A buffoon such as yourself will not stop me. Now be quiet and shuffle, won’t you?”

“I think I’m a very good friend,” he turned to Levin. “You’ll see! But Krupin hereis just a cowardly old man. Not very good at all. But there is nothing to be afraid of; he’s got a strong heart.” The old man crossed his arms and cursed under his breath.

“I’m sure you are,” Levin said. “Where is Kolya?”

“He is most likely speaking with Mister Kuznetsov.”

[[this is to be completed]]

VI

The Kolmogorov family

On a summer afternoon, in July 1860, I believe, I was drinking tea with Casimir. On the East Side of the Kolmogorov chateau was a garden, where we drank tea on occasion. This was usually after lessons in the morning. We had lessons in the morning, oftentimes went for walks or runs in the nearby wood afterwards, and then we would work diligently, usually in Casimir’s bedroom, taking advantage of the large desk and working space by his bed. On this rare occasion, however, we worked at the garden. It was kept very well preserved and protected from the elements. In the middle of the garden, where we sat to drink tea and work, was a lovely little belvedere which overlooked the edge of the garden, and further in the background, the edge of a wood. It was rather hot, and so the tea was perfectly refreshing.

Casimir poured us each a cup of tea. I pulled out some working materials and papers from my bag, and observed, for a moment, the individual strands of vapor rising from the liquid as my friend poured. The strands of vapor spooled around in the air as they rose, contorting themselves so gently and, as it seemed, were wonderfully and harmoniously in tune with the mood of the scene as a whole. “Don’t you think it’d be lovely to live in that wood over there?” he asked pointing at the forest beyond the garden. I looked over at my friend, as I so often delighted in doing, while he plainly and dully poured his own cup. It was in these dull moments when I was most engorged with interest. He wore a casual blue blouse and black trousers. He held the cup of tea in his bony hand while he retrieved working materials and papers with his other.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to live in that river by the village?”

“Ah you’re too right. How silly of me. Perhaps if you had skipped lessons this morning you would have never been able to remind of this now, and I would have perhaps been doomed to live in the forest alone. I would much rather live by the river.”

Perchance, Lola Kolmogorovna came idly strolling through one of the stone walkways running across the fresh foliage. She wore a brilliant but plain summer dress. Now that I recall this moment exactly, I must mention that she wore no jewelry. She was chatting with some friends in her salon, so one may say that her plain dress, devoid of jewelry, and one that would not even be worn with a crinoline, was quite characteristic of her. But it was not always characteristic of her. In fact, she turned out to be quite the extravagant little spender. But I won’t speak of the importance of this now. She carried a white parasol, and, upon spotting us, put it away and began to walk towards the belvedere. She sat down casually by Casimir. “I was just in the parlor, entertaining some friends, but I needed some air. I saw you two and simply could not resist to stop by, out of curiosity,” she said plainly. “What are you two doing?”

I preferred to remain silent, as usual. “Work,” Casimir responded, caustically and without looking up from his papers.

“Are you angry with me, Kazik?”

“I think,” I said. “That Casimir would prefer if you didn’t call him like that.”

“I can speak on my own, Sergei,” Casimir said, absent of expression.

“Ah don’t let your dislike of me spoil your liking of Seryozhka, yes? How immature of you. You could hate the whole world, but will that let you hate your friend also? Anyway,” she spoke quite casually as she removed her gloves and fiddled with her fingers. “I mentioned I was chatting with some friends. Do you remember Anna, Kazik? Anna Fyodorovna? You may remember her; she’s a silly girl and loves to flatter. While you may be just a boy, you happen to catch her eye quite often.” She lied of course. Ah, how she lied! If only I had known this lie when she said it. But more on this later. “And quite rightly so, I might add; she’s just five years older than you.” I saw her smile faintly. Casimir did not.

“I don’t remember any of your stupid friends,” he answered, plainly and while working on his paper. “If I did, I’d be too sorry to have less on my mind than the affairs of my superficial sister.”

“Mind your tongue, cheeky boy,” she said, refraining from further reprimanding. “And you, Seryozhka? What are you doing?” She turned to me and I looked at her. “We don’t frequent each other yet I see you so often.”

I did not respond before my friend responded instead. “Do you think you could get on with your day, unless you’d like to tell us what your friends think of Sergei?”

She looked at my friend seriously. “I’m afraid I don’t think I’ve heard mention of Seryozhka.” She turned to me for a moment. “But don’t let that bother you; some silly women simply can’t see true handsomeness.”

“Leave us, Lola,” Casimir said, gravely.

“Little brother,” she said, disappointedly and her tone became grave. “I cannot stay this way with you. I am going to marry in a few months, and I am for the first time in my life enjoying happiness as it was meant to be enjoyed. But I would prefer it if we stopped with such silly, superficial attitudes towards each other. After all, we are brother and sister.” One cannot forget, quite comically, that while she bore no physical jewelry, she did wear the greatest and brightest jewel of all: the fact of her pending marriage. I had heard of the topic terribly often whenever I became bored and listened in on conversations around the Kolmogorov chateau, mainly whenever Lola and her friends held intimate little gatherings in the chateau parlors. I did on one such occasion recall mentioning of an Anna Fyodorovna, but that is to be mentioned later. I again regain focus of the conversation between Lola and my friend. She went on. “And because we are brother and sister, I see no rational reason why our antipathy should go beyond the superficial. This is especially true in light of what’s supposed to be a joyous occasion.”

“Ah, I disagree with you entirely, sister,” answered Casimir, rather triumphantly. His voice became slowly tinged with growing awareness and, as a result, spoke almost contemptuously. “It is because of the very fact that I despise inauthenticity in myself so much that I don’t care to make such close acquaintance with you, even if you are my own blood. I reject such notions. I recognize that you may have a certain degree of superficial animosity to me, but I must confess to you that I cannot come to terms with you as being properly my sister. You hold yourself against a man that does not love you. That may be fine and all, but I will never, however, agree with your own self-inflicted benightedness to this fact. I loathe the fact that you believe you will be happy, when I know you will not. I loathe the fact that you believe he will love you, when I know he will never do such a thing. You, at the dinner, kept far too close of a watch on his robust arms and never cared to look at his face, at his expressions and mannerisms, did you? There was no love to be seen anywhere.”

“I know you feel this way,” she began to tear up. I was far too surprised to hear all of this to speak. I said nothing, and only listened. “I’ve known for a while, but it was mere suspicion.” She held back her tears with great strength. And I saw as a few very small and very lonesome tears slowly rolled down her radiant cheeks. They themselves were quite radiant. “But they were mere suspicions. I am at least a little happy that you do and say and think all this because you are frustrated.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you are frustrated that you think I am deluding myself, which I am not. But I understand the frustration you must feel over believing that I, someone you truly care about, will not be happy. I can tell you that I will be happy, and that I still love you, like only an older sister could love a younger brother. I know you have a difficult time accepting this, but I love you all the same, and solely because you are my brother.”

Casimir was utterly unmoved. I could go as far as say that he might have been a bit entertained, even, by what was, to him, a pathetic display. “You seem to have the incredible ability to delude yourself on even the plainest things to see. I am not at all bothered by what I know will be pending disillusionment and tragedy for you. I am only bothered by the simple fact that I must call you, such a deluded woman, my sister, while claiming myself to be a free and authentic individual.”

She wept fully and freely now. “Can’t you understand at all what my love means? And that I am giving you something that to me, as your sister, is precious?”

“Your love is tainted with your own self. I have come to know you as the adult woman you are, and I am not at all interested in anything you have. What you foolishly confuse as my ‘superficial’ antipathy towards you is only my hatred of having to be acquainted so deeply with you, while, at the same time, calling myself a lover of my own authenticity. Don’t you see how this is frustrating to me? You are the only truly superficial person, between the both of us.”

She slapped him, not with much strength, I’d say. Casimir did nothing in response. He simply remained looking at the ground, in the direction her little hand had left his head facing. “Enough! I’ve had enough of your cruel nonsense. I came here to give you my love in the moments leading up to what will be one of the most important days of my life. But you have spoiled it all with your cruel nonsense!” She stood up, opened her parasol, made a quick and ineffective attempt at wiping as many tears from her face as she could, and walked away, towards the chateau.

It was not until we could no longer see her in the distance that I spoke. “You were very cruel to her,” I said, timidly.

“I was honest.”

I remember very clearly how his response outraged me. “You were cruel,” I said more sternly.

“You act like such an enemy of truth. Go and join her, idiot.”

“I won’t leave; we have work to finish.”

“You should leave. It would be honorable of you. But I understand that you don’t wish to disappoint Miss Bissette to-morrow morning. So let’s work.”

This seemed to dispel all little bits of anger within me. These were meager little bits, which amounted to nothing. It was true however. I blushed slightly. He smiled, cruelly, but I dismissed it. I dismissed quite a bit.

He went on. “I can easily see you chasing after any little skirt that initially stirs your heart, if you weren’t so busy chasing after a pointless, uneventful, and skirt-less fancy.” I said nothing, I dismissed this, while it pained me so. What the hell was a playing at, with such cruel comments? Was I going mad? Was I terribly misunderstanding something very serious, because to my growing anxiety and fear? I could hardly stand such things. He was, in the end, very right in what he said.

I did not say a word. But was overwhelmed at this moment, and I could find nothing better to do than to react by setting aside all my papers, and running from the belvedere. I ran into the wood, where he could soon no longer see me. He stayed put, perhaps watching me as I ran. I did not stop running until I was deep within the forest, and until I found a convenient tree stump. After laying my arms and face on the stump, I became immobile, only breathing heavily. There were also no tears. I did hurt myself upon falling onto the stump, most likely against a piece of wood protruding from it. There was a slight gash in my right forearm. Casimir found me, several minutes later. He kneeled towards me, grabbed hold of my bleeding arm, and used his handkerchief to mend it. “I’m sorry about that. Let’s finish our tea,” he said.

Ah but now I wish that this is how it had happened. I can’t pretend to fool myself or my memory, at this point in my remembrance. So I don’t think I will fool myself; no such thing happened, while I might now bite my lip and curse myself for not doing so. I can only see the ugly red of regret when I close my eyes before this fireplace.

*

It had been, several days from then, about a week since my parents and I had dinner with the Kolmogorov family and its guests. These were Monsieur Boris Vasilyev, from the Ministry of the Interior, Mister Thomas Bayland, the English entrepreneur, and Lola’s fiancé, the dashing Lord de Voclain. I was sitting on Casimir’s bed, waiting for my friend to return. He had been called by his father down to his study, which was just one chamber offset from being directly below my friend’s quarters. It was such a drab day. We had quickly finished our work from the lessons in the morning. I was sitting, staring at the ceiling above me. But there was soon very horrible shouting. I listened, frightened.

“Oh, damned life!” this was the booming voice of Casimir’s father. He had exploded in rage all so suddenly. I leapt to my feet and ran towards the veranda of the staircase, just outside my friend’s quarters. Below me, I could better hear, but not quite see, Casimir and his father, engaged in another dire quarrel. “Almighty God how could you do this to me? Ah, but no! It is not God who tortures me so cruelly, but you,” there was a pause. “You, my only son, who devastates everything. It is only you, whose mere existence has cost me much in health as it is already.” I was crouched, clutching the railing of the staircase and trembling. “You pestilent abomination, you! If I did not love you so much I would have shipped you off along with your stupid mother…Have you any sense in you at all? Have you any idea how long it took me to secure a betrothal between your dear sister and the good Lord de Voclain? Ages, it took me ages.” I trembled more and I did not hear a response, not even a small witticism from my friend. It seems to me that you are nothing more than an incredibly ungrateful little devil who’s tasked himself with destroying and undoing what I create.”

“Papa, leave him be,” I heard Lola’s voice. She struggled to form these words, through what I could here was terrible sobbing. “He did not mean to do anything wrong.” Her voice faltered and I, with my vague and ultimately erroneous conception of her as a simple aristocrat, became stupefied by this sobbing. I had thought it impossible for her to be sad, outraged, or distraught in any significant way. This was most certainly not because she always possessed a superfluity of happiness or contentedness, oh this is quite the opposite, but because she was never very aware of herself. What I heard, the sobbing unlike any other sobbing I had heard before, was a wounded animal, realizing for the first time that it possesses the very strange ability to feel pain. It was this moment that she became aware, and it was in this sobbing that she became aware. I saw as she sat at a chair. She wore a plain white dress, as habit would have it. She clutched a stack of papers, letters, close to her chest as she sobbed. She sobbed like a child sobbed, upon awakening for the first time and as the cold air of uninhibited misery forces its way into its lungs, for the first time.

“Oh Lola, my stupid daughter. I had reprimanded your brother so many times in the past about him irritating your former fiancé by confronting me in such blatantly offensive ways. I had in private conversation remarked and reprimanded him about this unbecoming behavior and no one can repudiate the fact any further: Antonin de Voclain has left you, my sweet but foolish daughter, because he could not conceive of having to tolerate your brother’s maddening and simply godless attitude. Ah, I should have known from the very start that such a pious and virtuous man would have trouble with my godless child.” I sat crouched and trembling and thinking about how Casimir was stubborn, rebellious, and full of chaotic energy. He felt free from all tethers or judgements. “How can you stand there Lola, holding in your hands all the letters exchanged between you and your former fiancé, and say that your brother, your heathen brother, had absolutely no intention on this outcome? It seems trivially obvious to me.” I had not heard the Patriarch more enraged. “God will punish you, my son. You shall burn in hell.”

In the midst of the turmoil, I saw a servant enter the chamber. “Sir,”

“Yes Natasha, speak!” Kolmogorov shouted from the opposite end of the chamber. The servant seemed to not notice the tension.

“Thomas Bayland is at the door, sir.” There was a silence. “Shall I tell him to return later?”

I saw Kolmogorov quickly don a coat and walk briskly to the foyer to meet Bayland. Before exiting for the foyer, he did not turn to his daughter but spoke bluntly to her, “Lola, make yourself decent or go to your quarters.”

“Father,” she said. “How could you neglect me like this? You act and give attention to Casimir as if you think he is both the victim and the guilty one.”

“What did you say?” Kolmogorov replied, as if deeply offended. “I could easily slap some sense into you as well, if I was not such a gentlemanly coward.” And he exited the chamber, towards the foyer. Lola rose to her feet, indignant and still sobbing profusely, and clambered to the staircase atop of which I was silently watching everything. I quickly returned to Casimir’s bedroom before Lola, wiping the tears from her face, could notice me.

Casimir came up to his bedroom a few minutes after. I was sitting at the seat near the foot of his bed, pretending to have not heard or noticed anything unusual, but, in truth, I think I could have easily heard his father’s shouting from within the bedroom. My friend entered and quickly closed the door behind him. He was angry; his gait was wide and brisk and, upon sitting on his bed, he violently tore the white cravat tied around his neck and tossed it onto the ground. I turned to face him. At this point, I began to weep softly in the silence. My friend did nothing for a few minutes, but stare angrily at the floor, until, slowly, his face had become mild-tempered and he turned to look at me. How pitifully he looked at me. “Seryozhka, you look like such a woman.”

I said nothing. How irritating this was! I wanted to scream, to shout at the top of my lungs, to grab his hand and shake him violently and to tell him What is it? Why do you confound me and torture me with such terrible irony? Why can’t we just speak our minds as we fully desire, as we both fully know? Why must we torture ourselves with this perverse masquerade of hidden meaning? But I did not say this, much to my amusement now. Ha! Instead, we snuck out of the chateau through the East Side, where there was the garden by the small wood. We decided, as we used to do, to escape this tedium and go to the river. In an almost perverse way, I felt, in some dark corner of my heart, happy that Casimir had gotten himself into such an argument with his father, which prompted us to go to the river. Since Lord de Voclain ended his engagement with Lola, and, as it seems, with the Kolmogorov family as a whole, I began to see less of my friend. We did have lessons every morning with Miss Bissette, but he felt increasingly compelled to shut himself off from me as he did from his father. I could attribute some of this to myself; in the following weeks and months, I felt increasingly afraid of Monsieur Grigori. His temper became erratic after Lola lost her fiancé and quite frightening at times.

The river running through Prachevya District is not very far from the Kolmogorov chateau. It separates the Prachevya volost, consisting of some eight villages, from a large forest which is itself was the border between the Zloyezerdtse Governorate and the Kazan Governorate. Of course, if it weren’t for Miss Bissette, I would not know any of this; I have rarely been out of this governorate, including the two or so times I’ve been to Moscow with my father and my friend and his father. In retrospect, this was perhaps the fourth time Casimir and I ventured into the open volost area and the Prachevya River. It was not a very cold day and there were some villagers lined along the riverbank collecting water in large wooden barrels. The scene was quite different from that of the garden in the East Side of the gothic Kolmogorov chateau. I turned around to face the villages behind me as Casimir and I stood facing the river and the forest on the other side. The villages absolutely bubbled with raw, rugged energy, and vibrant life. I saw people traveling back and forth from marketplace to marketplace hauling large burlap sacks filled with grain and bread and other foodstuffs, some men lugging around wooden carts carrying fruits and stacks of linens, cautious not to drop any along the rocky pavement. And I saw children clothed in rags and with muddied faces chasing each other. All of this together produced such ebullience and uproar amidst what I can only describe as the torrential force of peasant life. Life itself seemed to be forced down the throats of all these people. I saw such new and bright colors! And every single time my friend and I ventured to these parts of the town, by the river and the villages, I was stunned in the same manner and to the same degree by the unwavering spectacle. The whole scene, still etched in my mind, stirred something of a fervor in me. As the two of us stood before the crashing waves of the tame river, I wanted to turn around, grab my friend’s hand and pull him to face the wild spectacle with me, to turn him over and watch him be stunned by the truly torrential presence of it all. And I wanted to then smile to him as only a friend could smile at another, and begin to run, to sprint into the vibrancy itself and be enveloped by it. I wanted us to throw each other onto the muddy ground as we would race towards the town. And we would be beaming the entire time. I wanted to take his hand and run through the entire volost, cheering and celebrating this and carrying as much of this air in our lungs as we could. Even from within the walls of Casimir’s bedroom I wanted to do this and even from the little belvedere and amidst the almost disgustingly unreal flowerbeds, I wanted to do this. But I didn’t. I regret it so very badly. Strangely, I do not think I can come to the conclusion that, had I another life, another body, another chance, I would think of doing it in another life, another body, or another chance.

I look down at my hands, today, and I think to myself that I still very much want to do this, to run like a little child. Not only this, but to run amidst the spirited people in Prachevya District. But now it seems like such a foreign concept, such small things. Foreign and impossible, even though I do not know why. It seems that I simply like myself better sitting in this chair and miserable. How horrible. And it seems that I must sit here and worship misery, not because I absolutely must, but because it makes me grand. It makes me the subject of a grand tragedy…maybe even by Shakespeare!

Casimir sat down on a flat rock after taking his shoes off and placing them beside him. He was marveling at the river. I sat down. He was sitting close to the water, allowing some of it to run through his feet, very gently. “You didn’t come to lessons this morning,” I said, rather pointlessly.

“I was busy in the morning. I actually went on a little trip up here in Prachevya. It’s a lovely town.”

“You were here?” I was surprised. Casimir usually never left his estate unless on a business trip with either my father and I or his own father, while at the time that would have been impossible.

“Yes, in town.”

“You should be careful when down here.”

“Ah, I forget to mention earlier, I saw the funniest thing while I was here,” and he turned to face me fully while grinning with excitement. “There is an old man who lives here. He sits down every morning and eats his breakfast of bread and cheese outside his little hovel, facing the morning sun. I’ve seen him every time I’m down here. And every time he stretches his gullet to take a bite out of his loaf, he swivels his head back and forth as only an old man can. How he swivels his head, Seryozhka!” He impersonated the old man, pretending to hold a loaf of bread, and he impersonated the comic swiveling. We laughed.

“So it’s not the first time you’ve been in this town, Kazik,” I said. He nodded while pulling a small piece of cheese wrapped in a cloth from his inner coat pocket.

He took a bite out of the cheese and then gestured at me to have some, so I leaned in and took a bite. “No,” he said, swallowing the cheese. “I haven’t. It’s become something of a habit for me, recently.” He looked wistfully at his cheese and took another, reluctant bite.

I didn’t say anything immediately after this. It seemed as if I could easily hear his thoughts and his subtle misery without him having to speak. And all the better; I didn’t want him to begin speaking and reprimanding and being vile. Ah it hurts my tongue to even say such a thing…But I did what I thought was wanted of me at the moment. “I presume you are now an expert on the town, then?”

He turned, bowed his head down just slightly while his lip curled into a slight smile, almost embarrassed by my false praise and teasing, and then he chuckled tenderly. “Of course I’m an expert.”

I leaned in with a prudish smile on my face, to tell him this embarrassing query, quietly of course. “Tell me something then,” I began, in Russian. “Is it true that street cats are as easy to find around here as it is a grain market or a homeless man?”

Initially, he did not seem to know what I was referring to. After a moment, he was simply astonished that I had asked such a thing. But he did answer. “Have you no shame, Seryozhka?” We laughed and laughed. “I think,” he said, smiling at me slyly. “That if one had the means, one could easily find a little escort here or there, especially around the pubs. How does that sound to you?” My friend could be, without going into detail, quite the obscene little imp. I was, and am, not as vulgar.

“Only were we to have courage! Oh were we to have the courage,” I said. Surprisingly, our fierce cackling drew attention from no one. At least, it seemed as though no one else existed, and so I could imagine no one sneering or complaining about our laughter behind our backs.

I leaned in and carefully took another bite out of his cheese. “Miss Bissette said you shouldn’t miss any more lessons. She told me she’ll eventually be forced to tell your father.”

“Don’t worry.” He finished the cheese. “I don’t think I will be needing any more lessons in any case. But I’m unsure; I’ll see how things play out with father.”

We talked of such little things for a while. It was nearly sunset. The waning sun caused the river to become slowly imbued with a modest bronze, and, eventually, a splendid, freshly polished greyish blue. The sky was cerulean; not as deep as the river, but still impressively blue and cloudless.

“We should go hunting,” I said. “All of us.”

“I would be glad to go with you alone,” he replied. He then turned to face the river, and I now immediately recognized these words. ‘I would be glad to go with you alone’, is what he said. This pronouncement, which seemed to me at the time to be so filled with such a care and appreciation for me, that I might even go so far as to say that this pronouncement, which excited me in its clever and suggestive phrasing, was filled with love. But, as I force myself to remember with honest and brutal clarity, the moment he uttered these words, I realize that they were merely a preamble, or a cruel façade, to a more sinister pronouncement filled with, not love, but hatred and resentment. “And I would only want to go with you. I will not tolerate my father for much longer.”

“So there it is: you are angry with him.”

“How can you say that I am merely angry with him? Do you not know what he’s done to me?”

“I know. I would even agree with you that you have every right to no longer tolerate him. But I worry about this matter very often.”

“Don’t worry, Seryozh. I myself don’t worry. Well, I certainly don’t to the extent that you do, which is crippling for me sometimes. You worry and worry and I do nothing but try to be happy with myself.”

“By banishing God and your father from your life? Wouldn’t it be better to have God guide you in your miserable freedom?” I believe I began to plead. “You certainly don’t look happy to me. You always look miserable. You’re never happy.”

He said nothing for a moment, and then turned to look at me scathingly. “Ah what is so good or likable about your ‘happiness’? Happiness, then, is so detestable. And it is so typical of you to be unable to understand. This is why I refuse to talk of such things with you. I will be leaving my home soon, hopefully, and I will leave alone, for this reason: you cannot understand, you simply lack the capacity. And hopefully, when I leave, I will not have to hear your childish stupidity ever again.” He remained so calm and spoke with such a casual tone as if trying to irritate me to the point of madness. I swear to God that he wanted to provoke madness in me!

“You idiot!” I shouted. I could not contain any anger at that point. At the time, his actions, his words, seemed so ridiculous and foolish, that hearing him speak and even considering his assurances was absurd. I took the cloth with which he wrapped his morsel of cheese and threw it aside not caring where it landed. I forced myself up to me feet, to try to exercise some sort of control or, at the very least, convey what I was fully feeling. “You are such an idiot. If only you could hear yourself speaking! You lack the capacity to understand how much anyone ever gives a damn about you and how much misery you put yourself through. Utterly senseless misery!” I was frantic. He said nothing. He did not even look at me for a moment.

After a moment, he also got up to his feet. He was only a bit taller than me. “You are an idiot,” he said calmly. “I will not stay because I would be leaving my home, my father, my sister. And I will not stay because you are my friend, and because you are so paranoid. I will leave, and, for your sake, I expect you will not give a damn soon afterwards. Because whatever happiness I find outside of all my misery, and all the things that keep me bound, are things that you are an enemy of. You speak like an enemy of what I am trying to do with my life, and so what goodness do you have to offer?” I didn’t answer. I kept fixedly staring into his eyes, but no longer with the same sternness with which I spoke my mind.

Now he drained me of all vitality. And I believe that I also drained him, for he spoke with determination, but not dogmatically. He was unyielding, but not dogmatic. He spoke with what he believed to be purest and noblest desire to escape from his bounds and to fly but not with presumption. He possessed the incredible effrontery to challenge everything and to fly, but it was so frightening to me because, at the time, it seemed like an impossible task. Of course, I suppose there is absolute freedom now. Maybe happiness…I don’t know the Almighty as well as I’d like to think. But I am still here.

“Leave me, Seryozh,” he said, turning around and sitting back down on the flat rock. I did not move, and this infuriated him. After another few moments of silence, he erupted. Back on his feet, he ran down below the flat rock where the river ended widthwise and from the mud he collected a few palm-sized rocks. “Leave!” he shouted at me from the bank. I did not move. He threw a rock in my direction, landing only a few paces from me. This was unfathomable. It was utterly perplexing. At the time it was not tragic or pitiful, but only unfathomable. I ran. I ran quickly to the north, avoiding the town and away from the river. He kept throwing rocks in my direction for a short while after I started running. And I never turned back to see if he had stopped throwing rocks. But I could here that he did stop after a while. But I still did not stop to look back. I did not even slow down, no. Slow at first, then quickly. And while I ran through a small wood, avoiding the town, time passed. I felt my heart beating, slowly at first, and then voraciously. Voraciously taking in blood by the handful and again and again and time passed. And my lungs soon gasped for air and I breathed in such heavy breaths which filled my chest with cold…

Ah, I have run out of drink. The bottle is empty now. I did say I would stop my wretched recounting once I had finished the bottle. But I can’t bring myself to stop now. I have split my mind open far too wide and there is far too much I haven’t said to myself. I wonder what it is that compels me to continue: is it a sense of duty to finish my tale? Or was the bottle a mere excuse for me to begin torturing myself in this way? And is this why I am not drunk at all? For, what drunk man can properly experience the full, uncensored potency of his life when remembered drunkenly? And what is it that compels me to torture myself in this way? I don’t care. I do know that I regret many things. I regret this vodka; I have tasted far better. But I can’t readily say that I would by any means do otherwise, that I would care less for my situation, for my friend’s madness, for anything at all. Everything would go on exactly as it has in my life. And nothing, even the deepest regret fished out from the bottom of the deepest bottle can change this. I will, every time come any other opportunity or life, be the tragic one in the Shakespeare tragedy. I can do nothing else but bask in the miserable glory of the role. And I do want to stay here, sitting by my fireplace. I want to continue my tale. I am not done remembering because I am not done forgetting.

*

On the subject of forgetting, I am immediately reminded, while it nags at me constantly in the very back of my mind at all times, of the night Monsieur Grigori Kolmogorov gave the most spectacular and utterly terrifying homage to that old Bacchus. I had never before been so terrified, even considering the many other memories which persist in my delirium, which I am forced to call reality. And, as with the delirium of any madman, I hoped and prayed for nightfall to come quickly everyday, so that I may sleep. It is in sleep, the closest a coward like myself can come to death, that I felt the disease of reality least painfully. And, so considering the many other memories in my perpetual state of delirium, this delirium which I am so very aware of as such, I cannot say that I have experienced greater terror than in this occasion.

It was the time for another one of Lola’s soirées, which her held twice a month or so. She had instructed Leti, and the servants Natasha and Anna, to organize all the necessary preparations, and, a week prior, I helped her mail out the invitations to her numerous guests, as I sometimes liked to do in the afternoon when I was in the grand Kolmogorov chateau, idle, and alone. Casimir’s attendance to morning lessons with Miss Bissette became very haphazard. Although, I seemed to always have an idea of where he was: Prachevya River. Of course, in those moments, I lived to be distracted by anything at all, even banal things, if it meant not having to experience what became the sickness of reality. So, naturally, I enjoyed the company of Lola Kolmogorovna and helped her with as much as my time permitted. On this most terrifying of occasions, I found myself finished with the task that Lola had so enthusiastically assigned me. It was, I remember exactly, a quarter till eight in the evening. Of course, Monsieur Kolmogorov had left the estate in the morning, as he often did (he was, while no longer the formal manager of the estate, quite a busy man). In fact, his absences in the chateau became more noticeable as they became longer. But, no matter, I thought. I became anxious, once I became idle again, so I decided, naturally, to go see Lola in her quarters. The door was ajar. I heard gentle weeping and whimpering from within.

“Lola?” I asked, poking my head into her chamber.

She stopped her whimpering as soon as she heard me. “Sergei, please sit with me,” she pleaded, wiping off some tears with a cloth.

I admit I was reluctant. But I took a seat by her, on her bed.

“What’s the matter, Lola? You party is next week. I hope you’re not ill.”

“I am not ill.” She gestured at a stack of papers on a table by her bed, just a few paces away. “Those letters over there, do you see them?”

“Yes.”

“Those are all of the love letters I ever sent Lord de Voclain. In the summer, exactly one year ago. As we were falling in love. Of course, I have his replies stowed away. I can’t bear to look at them. But these…I cannot stop thinking about them. Do you know what he did? I don’t think I ever told you.”

“I’m sorry,” I did not know what to say, of course. “You never did tell me.”

“He sent them back, Sergei,” and stronger sobbing ensued. I placed an arm over her, quite mechanically, as I now recall, but I had to do it! The poor creature was still in unbearable pain. “The day I received his cruel letter, the last letter, he sent also all of these, by my own hand, almost as if with the intention of stirring within me the greatest self-loathing. All of the letters, in one big envelope, just after he broke everything off!” She put her hand on mine, nearly instinctively and she began to breathe heavily and erratically.

“Please, Lola,” I said, sympathetically. I did not know instinctively what to do or say, but I knew what seemed reasonable. If I were to speak to her sympathetically, and perhaps even give her counsel in some way, then it seemed reasonable to me to put up a little performance: I would, after each word, slowly and steadily increase the intensity of my voice, to match her own agitation. In this way, I thought, she would feel deep empathy emanate from within me, and would be persuaded by my display of emotion and the intensity with which I felt her own pain, to calm down, to think more positively, and to take a proper course of action. This was surely the best and most reasonable thing for me to do, so I did it. “I see those letters over there. Please, let me rip them up for you. Let me toss the shreds into the garbage at once! The are only poisoning you.”

I did not, however, account for the fact that she was a madwoman. Or, now that I think seriously about it, I did not account for the fact that she was in love. But maybe I could equate the two. Ha! What a foolish woman. She seemed not at all in love at all with what she thought was the object of her infatuation. Not at all. To me, she was always in love with the idea of being helpless. Of being in a state of constant attack or fear of it. It is certainly no coincidence that soon after Voclain moved back to France that Lola began planning her parties. Extravagant parties! Opulent beyond belief! It had been a year, and still this broken romance tortured her. And it forced her to reveal, to all those most close to her, including myself, the ugly things buried within her heart.

“No!” she shrieked, dragging from deep within her the ugliest thing imaginable. I looked at her eyes, and saw nothing, but a corpse trapped within the guise of a young, sad woman. “I will not let you do this.” To my utter astonishment, she ran towards the little table by her bed, and from one of the drawers she pulled out a little gilded dagger. “Don’t you dare do anything to these letters! If you do anything at all, I will cut out my throat right here before you.” She held the dagger close to her neck. The blade glistened softly in the light. I could see my face within it. Soft image, with nondescript edges of blurred color, tinted gold.

I was surprised by her action, but did not really believe that she would do any harm to herself. But, I reminded myself, I needed to put on a little show once again, in the slightest chance that she had genuinely gone mad. What lunatics need is not force, but the illusion of compliance. “Alright, alright,” I said. “I will do no such thing. Please, put the dagger down, Lola. You’re frightening me.”

She was reluctant, but dropped the dagger to the floor after a moment. Her hands trembled. “Damn!” she said. “You should rather be going out to find Casimir. He is the one you need to toss in the garbage. Everything is his fault! I tried loving him, but he hates me. What is one to do with this? Hatred breeds only more hatred. So I am not to blame here at all. And my dear fiancé knew this too well. He hated Casimir. And now I hate Casimir.”

“Lola!” I heard a roar from outside. Footsteps followed. “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh God, it’s father,” she whispered. “Go on, go on,” in a moment of lucidity she pushed me off her bed and into one of her vast wardrobes. She sat me on the floor and closed the little door. Through a chink in the door, I saw her place a few stands of her hair back into place. Monsieur Kolmogorov entered her quarters, brandishing a bottle of pale greenish liquid.

I pray to God to forgive me now for remembering this. “Who are you talking to? Have you finally gone mad? Don’t think I don’t know that you still keep all those letters, eh? You madwoman!”

“Father, are you drinking? You haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in years.”

“What a stupid fool you are.”

“What are you saying, Papa? Give me the bottle, Papa, please.” She trembled violently, unknowing what to do. I myself trembled. At this moment, I would not even dare to say that Kolmogorov was a sufficient fiend, but it is true. He hit her, striking her cheek with a full, drunken swing of his arm.

She fell onto the ground, after a whimper. “Stupid fool! Do you know where I’ve just been? I’ve just been with my good friends: the prestigious councilor Maxim Denisov, Thomas Bayland the genius entrepreneur, and none other than the esteemed Boris Vasilyev. Have you, you senseless girl, any idea of how utterly humiliated I felt? Have you any idea of how utterly humiliated I feel at all times, day and night? I squirm from own humiliation. I, the father of the silly girl who is a damn failure at securing even a marriage with a wealthy Frenchman?”

Lola covered her face with her little hands, “Please, papa! You should beating Casimir,” I can hear her horrific screams, still, in my head like the immensity of the ocean waves. Drowning everything. “Everything is his fault. Go beat him, Papa, I beg you leave me.”

“Oh I don’t give a damn whose fault it is! It might as well be God Himself. I don’t give a damn. You are all rotten and deserve my hatred, not my love.” He threw the bottle, shattering against a wall.

I can smell, even today as I sit here and remember this horrifying event, the scent of the absinthe against the wall and staining the carpeting, as if for the first time filling and flaring my nostrils with its intoxicating beauty. Little did she know that her father was, in fact, not drunk from a any excessive drinking that night. It was an extraordinary and frightening theatrical performance that Kolmogorov had just shown us, but a “performance” nonetheless; I waited until Lola had forgotten my existence, for embarrassment or for shame or whatever the reason, and had fallen asleep for me to slowly make my way out of her wardrobe. I was just a few paces form the door when I saw, glinting on the floor, the disembodied neck of the absinthe bottle. A closer examination revealed the cork and green wrapping paper still firmly in place, unopened or untampered with by any hands. What a disgusting man.