Fifty-Two Stories

Dmitri Petrovich moved quite close to me, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek. In the evening darkness his pale, lean face seemed still more pale, and his dark beard blacker than soot. His eyes were sad, earnest, and a bit afraid, as if he were about to tell me something frightening. He looked me in the eye and went on in his habitual pleading voice.

“Our life and the world beyond the grave are equally incomprehensible and frightening. Whoever is afraid of ghosts should also be afraid of me, and of those fires, and of the sky, because all of it, if you think well, is no less incomprehensible and fantastic than apparitions from the other world. Prince Hamlet did not kill himself, because he feared the visions that might come in that sleep of death.¹ I like his famous soliloquy, but, frankly speaking, it never touched my soul. I’ll confess to you as a friend, in moments of anguish I’ve sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death, my fantasy has invented thousands of the most gloomy visions, and I’ve managed to drive myself to tormenting exaltation, to nightmare, and that, I assure you, did not seem more frightening to me than reality. Needless to say, visions are frightening, but life is frightening, too. I, my dear friend, do not understand and am afraid of life. I don’t know, maybe I’m a sick, demented person. It seems to a normal, healthy person that he understands everything he sees and hears, whereas I’ve lost that ‘it seems,’ and day after day I poison myself with fear. There exists a sickness—the fear of spaces—well, so I’m sick with the fear of life. When I lie in the grass and look for a long time at a bug that was born yesterday and doesn’t understand anything, it seems to me that its whole life consists of nothing but horror, and I see myself in it.”

“What is it that actually frightens you?” I asked.

“Everything frightens me. I’m not a profound man by nature and I have little interest in such questions as life after death, the destiny of mankind, and generally I rarely soar into the heavenly heights. I’m frightened mainly by the commonplace, which none of us can escape from. I’m unable to tell what in my actions is true or false, and they bother me; I’m aware that the conditions of life and my upbringing confined me to a narrow circle of lies, and that my whole life is nothing but a daily worry about deceiving myself and others and not noticing it, and I’m frightened by the thought that till death I won’t get out of this lie. Today I do something, and tomorrow I don’t understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and got scared, I came here to take up farming and also got scared…I see that we know little and therefore make mistakes every day, we are often unfair, we slander, we prey on other people’s lives, we expend all our strength on nonsense that we don’t need and that hinders our lives, and that frightens me, because I don’t understand who needs it and why. I don’t understand people, my dear friend, and I’m afraid of them. I’m frightened looking at peasants, I don’t know for what higher purposes they suffer and what they live for. If life is pleasure, they are superfluous, unnecessary people; but if the goal and meaning of life is need and unmitigated, hopeless ignorance, I don’t understand who needs this inquisition and why. I understand no one and nothing. Kindly try to understand this subject here!” said Dmitri Petrovich, pointing to Forty Martyrs. “Set your mind to it!”

Noticing that we were both looking at him, Forty Martyrs coughed respectfully into his fist and said:

“I was always a faithful servant to good masters, but the main reason is alcoholic beverages. If you were to honor me now, an unfortunate man, and give me a post, I would kiss an icon. My word is firm.”

The sexton walked by, looked at us in perplexity, and started pulling the rope. The bell, abruptly breaking the evening silence, slowly and protractedly rang ten.

“Anyhow it’s already ten o’clock,” said Dmitri Petrovich. “Time for us to go. Yes, my dear friend,” he sighed, “if you only knew how afraid I am of my humdrum, everyday thoughts, in which it seems there should be nothing frightening. So as not to think, I divert myself with work and try to wear myself out, so as to sleep soundly at night. Children, wife—for others it’s ordinary, but how hard it is for me, my dear friend!”

He rubbed his face with his hands, grunted, and laughed.

“If I could tell you what a fool I’ve played in my life!” he said. “Everybody says to me: you have a nice wife, lovely children, and you’re an excellent family man. They think I’m very happy, and they envy me. Well, since we’re at it, I’ll tell you in secret: my happy family life is nothing but a sad misunderstanding, and I’m afraid of it.”

A strained smile made his pale face unsightly. He put his arm around my waist and went on in a low voice: