The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕

“I? No, I didn’t kill him,” answered Trirodov.

“Who then?” asked Ostrov in his derisive voice.

“He’s alive,” said Trirodov.

“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Ostrov.

And he burst out into a loud, insolent, hoarse laugh, though he seemed panic-stricken at the same time. He asked:

“What of those little prisms which you’ve manufactured? I’ve heard that even now they are lying on the table in your study.”

“That’s true,” said Trirodov dryly.

“And I’m told that your present is not absolutely clean either,” observed Ostrov.

“Yes?” asked Trirodov derisively.

“Yes-s,” continued Ostrov jeeringly. “The first business in your colony is conspiracy, the second corruption, the third cruelty.”

Trirodov gave a stern frown and asked scornfully:

“You’ve had enough time to gather a bouquet of slanders.”

“Yes-s, I’ve managed, as you see. Whether they are slanders is quite another matter. I can only say that they fit you somehow. Take, for instance, those perverse habits of yours; need I recall them to you? I could remind you, if I wished, of certain facts from your early life.”

“You know you are talking nonsense,” said Trirodov.

“It is reported,” went on Ostrov, “that all this is being repeated in the quiet of your asylum.”

“Even if it were all true,” said Trirodov, “I do not see that you have anything to gain by it.”

Trirodov’s eyes had a tranquil look. He seemed remote. His voice had a calm, hollow sound. Ostrov exclaimed vehemently:

“Don’t imagine for a moment that I have fallen into a trap. If I don’t leave this place, I have prepared something that will send you to gaol.”

“Nonsense,” said Trirodov as quietly as before. “I’m not afraid. In the last resort I can emigrate.”

“I suppose you’ll put on the mantle of a political exile,” laughed Ostrov. “It’s useless! Our police, they’ll keep a sharp lookout for you, clever fellows that they are. Never fear, they’ll get you. They’ll get you anywhere. You may be sure of that.”

“They’ll not give me up where I’m going,” said Trirodov. “It’s a safe place, and you’ll not be able to reach me there.”

“What sort of place have you prepared for yourself?” asked Ostrov, smiling malignantly. “Or is it a secret?”

“It is the moon,” was Trirodov’s simple and tranquil answer.

Ostrov laughed boisterously. Trirodov added:

“Moreover, the moon has been created by me. She is before my window, ready to take me.”

Ostrov jumped up in great rage from his place, stamped violently with his feet, and shouted:

“You are laughing at me! It is useless. You can’t fool me with those stupid fairytales of yours. Tell those sweet little stories to the silly little girls of the provinces. I’m an old sparrow. You can’t feed me on chaff.”

Trirodov remained unruffled.

“You’re fuming all for nothing. I’ll help you with money on a condition.”

“What sort of condition?” asked Ostrov with restrained anger.

“You’ll have to go from here⁠—very far⁠—for always,” answered Trirodov.

“I’ll have to think that over,” said Ostrov.

“I give you a week. Come to me exactly within a week, and you’ll receive the money.”

Ostrov suddenly felt an incomprehensible fear. He experienced the feeling of having passed into another’s power. He felt oppressed. A stern smile marked Trirodov’s face. He said quietly:

“You are of such little value that I could kill you without scruple⁠—like a snake. But I am tired even of other people’s murders.”

“My value?” Ostrov muttered hoarsely and absurdly.

“What is your value?” went on Trirodov. “You are a hired murderer, a spy, a traitor.”

Ostrov said in a meek voice:

“Nevertheless, I’ve not betrayed you so far.”

“Because it wouldn’t pay, that’s why you’ve not betrayed me. Again, you dare not.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Ostrov humbly. “What is your condition? Where do you want me to go?”

Trirodov left a pleasant impression on Rameyev. Rameyev made haste to return his visit: he went together with Piotr. Piotr did not wish to go to Trirodov’s, but could not make up his mind to refuse. He kept frowning on the way, but once in Trirodov’s house he tried to be courteous. This he did constrainedly.

Misha soon made friends with Kirsha and with some of the boys. An intimacy sprang up between the Rameyevs and Trirodov⁠—that is, to the extent that Trirodov’s unsociableness and love of a solitary life permitted him to become intimate.

It once happened that Trirodov took Kirsha with him to the Rameyevs and remained to dinner. Several other close acquaintances of the Rameyevs came to dinner. The older of the visitors were the Cadets, the younger were the Es-Deks11 and the Es-Ers.12

At the beginning there was a long agitated discussion in connection with the news brought by one of the younger guests, a public school instructor named Voronok, an Es-Er. The Chief of Police had been killed that day near his house. The culprits managed to escape.

Trirodov took almost no part in the conversation. Elisaveta looked at him with anxious eyes, and the yellow of her dress appeared like the colour of sadness. It had been remarked by all that Trirodov was thoughtful and gloomy; he seemed to be tormented by some secret agitation, which he made obvious efforts to control. At last the attention of all was turned upon him. This happened after he had answered one of the girls’ questions.

Trirodov noticed that they were looking at him. He felt uneasy and vexed with himself. This vexation, however, helped him to control his agitation. He became more animated, threw off, as it were, some weight, and began to talk. The glance of Elisaveta’s deep blue eyes grew joyous at this.

Piotr put in a remark just then, in his usual parochial, self-confident manner:

“If it were not for the wild changes in Peter’s time, everything would have gone differently.”

There was a tinge of derision in Trirodov’s smile.

“A mistake, wasn’t it?” he observed. “But if you are going to look for mistakes in Russian history, why not start earlier?”

“You mean at the beginning of creation?” said Piotr.

“Precisely then. But without going so far back, let us pause at the Mongolian period,” replied Trirodov. “The historical error