Raznevsky's chosen drinking house was a dingy, low-ceilinged establishment on Nevsky, absolutely crammed with customers from all walks of life. A dense layer of smoke clung to the ceiling like a second layer of skin. After the appalling carriage ride and Raznevsky's stream of verbiage, Mikhail collapsed into a chair around the only apparent free table in a corner while Raznevsky ordered some drinks.
The rest of the time spent with Raznevsky was irrelevant to Mikhail. They went through the motions of two ostensibly friendly people having a quiet drink but said nothing of any consequence or even interest to each other. This is the way that the majority of our free time is spent. Mikhail had already decided that Raznevsky's sole purpose in dragging him here was as an escape from the rigid, Orthodox household he shared with his dreary wife. After about an hour of trivialities and rantings, Mikhail had had enough and began to explain why he would be forced to go. However he was saved this ignominy as Raznevsky announced he would have to depart and begged his leave to go. Mikhail had no hesitation in denying this and relished the thought of his much sought after tranquillity. After the usual pleasantries, he watched Raznevsky leave, declining accompanying him in order to avoid any further conversation.
Alone and now quite drunk. Mikhail let his mind wander as one does when there is no fixed direction for it to go in. Why, he wondered, would God in His judgement create such people whose only function appears to be to work at an unnecessary job, achieve nothing by the time of their death and hinder others? Surely a perfect God would create just those who had a certain purpose. However, he reflected bitterly, if this were so, then the world would have much more room and Russia would be almost empty. So, do I have a purpose? A destiny? Or is there no such thing? Come to that is there a God? All the great philosophers could not answer that and I am not so arrogant as to assume I am better than they. But if there was no God, there would be no point in living. There would be no heaven and no hell and therefore if one is not morally punishable, one need not live by society's rules. Perhaps this is all we can expect from life; marriage, job, child and finishing work and gaining liberty when we are too old to enjoy it.
Tired and despondent as a true Russian is prone to get, he leant forwards on the soiled, ash- blackened wood and rested his chin upon his hands. Is it easier to ask questions than to be satisfied with the way things are? he pondered.
'Are you all right,' sang out a deliciously sweet voice.
Without moving his head he swung his eyes upwards. Before his drunken eyes stood a vision. She was beautiful, not conventionally so but beautiful nonetheless. Yes, she had flaws. Her nose was a little pointed and her eyes quite dull, but before him in her cream and rose dress with the elegant sash about the slender waist, she was the loveliest creature he had seen beyond his own imagination. Her greatest asset was her smile as it lit up her face, every feature complementing the others.
'....only I saw you from over there and I thought you seemed the worse for wear and I wondered if there was anything I could do.' She was awkward but this only served to make Mikhail like her more, for he hated over-confident types. He felt immensely flattered that she had noticed him and deemed it terribly kind of her to aid someone she did not know.
'Your name is Mikhail Rostornik, isn't it?' she continued. His illusions were shattered. Probably a friend of his wife's. He felt resentful again. Something of the instant wariness in his eyes conveyed itself to the girl.
'I'm a friend of your wife's,' she said, as if this was in some way an excuse. If these words were supposed to magically bridge the divide between them and make their conversation natural, as many often attempt to do, he was not having it. Why should they naturally connect my wife and me? Her friends are not mine, nor mine hers. Marriage does not make of two people, one. We are individuals, he argued to himself.
' You cannot be one of my wife's friends,' he said 'You are far too young.'
She laughed at this and it came to his ears, like the apologetic tinkle of a little bell. The self- conscious laugh softened Mikhail towards her and made him feel somewhat more gracious.
'I'm not as young as I look,' she explained ' and I suppose I'm not really that much of a friend...I....I mean that we get on but we're not that....erm....'
Mikhail smiled, causing her to do likewise. He felt a tremendous surge of feeling for her.
'Don't worry. You don't have to justify yourself to me. What's your name?'
'Natasha.' The smile did not leave her face. He cynically wondered whether she was aware of its power to enhance her features, but he quelled the ungenerous thought.
He was experiencing a sensation that had not been aroused in him for many years. One that could not be ascribed to any emotions. He used to feel this way towards his wife before she changed. And he felt this to be the fundamental iniquity about life. Why must people change? Do we do it or is it done for us? Tametsky always remarked on the astounding adaptability of humans. But think of a river. As a stream in the mountains, it plays merrily and childishly among the foliage but then, all innocence lost, it cascades mercilessly downwards yet does it continue like this endlessly? No, it reverts to its placid, mature version of its former self as it goes seawards. Why, as humans could we not similarly revert, once changed instead of bringing misery to others around them?
Maria cannot possibly have changed so irrevocably, merely over the death of our son. That was three years ago and does she not remember he was as much mine. Perhaps this was the way a woman's mind worked.....
Aware of having been asked something, he abandoned these thoughts and creased his brow questioningly. She laughed again and after that it did seem natural. Therefore they talked for about fifteen minutes (though it did not appear so). Of the weather and of society. Of people they both knew and of the bold, new Russian composers. And Mikhail felt uncomfortably happy, like the meadows clasped in the passionate embrace of the sun. Why am I so inspired? Perhaps there is an empathy and warmth with her.
He was starting to learn of the incomparable joy at discovering someone, to whom you can express your views and have them reaffirmed. A blessed relief from the social circles, nowadays, where the fashionable pastime is to disagree as fervently as possible in the hope of declaiming some revelatory idea which, while frequently implausible and easily controvertible, might anger the men and shock the women and gain one's entry to the halls of some 'ism' or another (be it the fatalists, nihilists, materialists, all pursuing their ideals in the public of a ballroom or two). Mikhail's most popular belief was that it was easier to dispute and refute everything than to accept anything wholeheartedly.
However an interlude, no matter how wonderful, will end and Natasha apologised but said she would have to rejoin her companions. Mikhail had not realised, though thinking about it, would she have been alone, gazed over at where the other two men and a girl sat around a bottle of wine, summoning Natasha. Mikhail detested them, in their oh-so-fashionable, pleased with themselves clothes. But he could see he would have to lose her.
'Wait....erm....' He stumbled over his words, flustered and confused at what he was doing. ' I'd like to...er...see you again.... I.... that is, if you want to. Each syllable was a confession. He might well have said ' Wait, I love you. I'll divorce my wife and marry you.'
She did not laugh, frivolously, for which he was gratified. Her eyes still gave a glimmer of amusement but not mocking his words.
'Do you fancy a stroll tomorrow at around three o'clock?' she asked.
' Certainly I love walking.' (Oh God, how pitiable).
'Well, then. Perhaps you or you and Maria.... (is she teasing me or....).... under the Bronze Horseman in Senate Square?'
'Certainly, but Maria may not....'
She smiled coyly. ' Then come alone.'
She stood up. Kiss her hand, you fool, quickly before the moment's lost. But it was gone. It was a pity he was not as bold as he desired to be but still tomorrow...
.... In God's name, why do I want to kiss her hand? I'm married and she's a friend of my wife's. I'm chained to this circle of gold for ever.
Outwardly, he appeared as calm and composed as ever but he wanted to scream and he wanted to flee this smoky pit. But he remained. He sat enervated, shoulders slumped. His cold, unfeeling reason was no match for the fiery emotions of the common man. Happiness became disbelief, disbelief became fear and so on until his mind was ablaze with images and words burned upon his brain. And on the back of all these feelings lay envy as he watched the other men tease Natasha, much to the chagrin of the other girl. Jealously is a creature that lies inside, gnawing on the marrow of your sanity until you go mad. Othello fell to it, Troy was fought for it and thousands are afflicted everyday. How many pointless duels and rivalries does it create?
This far, he could reason. Reason prevailed and he told himself that Natasha could laugh with her inconsequential friends as much as she wanted. For he was married 'for better or for worse'. He would see her again tomorrow. We shall talk of politics, exchange anecdotes, laugh and be on our respective way. For it would be rude to turn her down, especially as I suggested it.
Yet this forced logic let him down. At every perceived, stifled yawn, he rejoiced as if he had gained a spectacular triumph and with every laugh he wanted to thrash these arrogantly superior young men, with their affected grins and complacent twists of the head. Mikhail realised he could not possibly continue here. As a madman, he threw the vodka down his throat, relished the burning he endured and flung several roubles onto the table before rising, contemptuously glancing over the assembled company. He forced his way out, blind to the revelry of all around him.
The night air was cool but all was emptiness and desolation. The silence was eerie and discomforting, and the echoes of his steps mocked his loneliness. Joy and laughter was elsewhere. Where conversation had flowed unremittingly below the warm sun, it had now ceased. And what is a street without people? Merely a line on a map. It surrenders all its vitality and dies as the people leave. Yet the life would return, he knew, the stone rolled back and life emerges and yea, shalt there be rejoicing. But for the present, this is no consolation. Does one chase the people or sit and wait in the hope that they will return.
How long have I been away from home? he wondered. Hours? For he carried no pocket- watch, the symbol of the class divide. Ignore all the clothing differences, the accents. It all comes down to whether you have a pocket-watch or not. Although aware that this reasoning was ludicrous, he allowed himself to be led by it.
There was an expectancy amongst the moneyed classes that you should carry one. The irony is that those with, who should be elevated from mortal concerns by dint of their wealth, are painfully aware of their own mortality and the loss of every second and those without remain blissfully ignorant. This is ridiculous! Am I so affected that I just argued for minutes, with myself, on unimportant drivel?
A bedraggled peasant with a stoop, so pronounced, he appeared to be scouring the pavements, shuffled past and noticed him. Taking Mikhail for a nobleman, the peasant turned two burning eyes upon him and made a sudden entreaty.
'Spare a couple ah roubles, if yah can, yer honour. I gets an awful thirst at night,' he mumbled.
To Mikhail there was something inexplicably frightening about this spectacle and he shrank back in disgust and fear. Though it did not relate to his position in any way, this normal request drew back every recent emotion and brought on an awareness of his position in society which rankled him. If he was so placed above in society, then why was this position so hard. Should he not entertain happiness with his privileges? See Natasha if he wanted to and hang the consequences? This was the ultimate conflict of life and society. He wished he were a man of action, a Byronic figure. Damn society and my position! This is not freedom. But what other choice do I have? Run away? This struck him as attractive. Yes, become a soldier, gaze from the white mountains of Georgia over the rolling vistas of forests, seas, leaving this pathetic town and its miserable harbour. The image transported his imagination and momentarily lifted him above the doubts as to his bravery and his infirmity of purpose.
But such an image must always bring on another. He saw his wife, not screaming at him and destroying the china, nor lying vacantly on a couch, staring out through the smeared glass to the thunder and rain (images all too frequent in recent years) but he saw her on a summer's day laughing and screaming with glee, barefoot amongst the fallen leaves in the woods, just outside Petersburg. Intruding unbidden, he guiltily recalled the pleasure of flirting with a friend of hers. No, he had not been a socially acceptable husband nor a model partner recently, but did she deserve this?
Mikhail had stood still for some time, fixed towards the point at the end of the road where the darkness began. He had been oblivious to the old man's cursing for his lack of generosity and it took the din of a carriage, tearing by, to awake him from the stupor. A fresh idea had been granted. Nikolai Petrovich, of course, the perfect fellow.
Suddenly the distance seemed no longer so great. The cool night air and gentle warmth from the houses, pleasantly contradictory. He sped on, posture restored, tunic buttoned up, his dignity returned. He smoothed down one side of his thick, wavy locks. For it is remarkable how one can fail to resolve a problem but merely by unburdening oneself, one's hopes are reborn.
Some twenty minutes later, he caught sight of his carriage outside the offices. Unlike Nevsky, which followed a worker's time cycle, active while it caught the sun's rays, then retiring till the sun's next stand, Bolshoy and the district of the 'bourgeois' (a nicely onomatopoeic word, recently coined that he had liked hearing, meaning the middle class) thrived no matter the time of day; night, dark, dusk, dawn, always the same pointless business of those busy with nothing to do and nowhere to go.
His driver, a lean, handsome Serb, stood carelessly against the door; the horses were stamping the ground, impetuously, in front of the carriage that Maria had insisted they get, as it befitted his 'position'. Seeing Mikhail, he flicked away the cheap cigarette and made an imperfect salute that smacked of haughty arrogance. Clearly he was indignant at having been left waiting so long, though from the smell inside the carriage, Mikhail deduced that a bottle of cheap vodka had obviously shared his vigil.
He instructed the driver to a house in the Petrograd region across the bridge. Mirroring its occupant, the carriage unsteadily took off and drunkenly rocked around, down to the bridge. Pairs of midnight lovers, arm in arm, happily shared the crossing of the Neva with them and from the window, Mikhail torn between a smile and a grimace, stared on them, dispassionately.