The possessed or, The devils
sight of some of the persons who had come from the refreshment-room;
there was an expression of extreme wonder in his face. Suddenly there
was a loud roar of laughter at a caper that was cut in the quadrille.
The editor of the "menacing periodical, not a Petersburg one," who was
dancing with the cudgel in his hands, felt utterly unable to endure
the spectacled gaze of "honest Russian thought," and not knowing how to
escape it, suddenly in the last figure advanced to meet him standing on
his head, which was meant, by the way, to typify the continual turning
upside down of common sense by the menacing non-Petersburg gazette. As
Lyamshin was the only one who could walk standing on his head, he had
undertaken to represent the editor with the cudgel. Yulia Mihailovna had
had no idea that anyone was going to walk on his head. "They concealed
that from me, they concealed it," she repeated to me afterwards in
despair and indignation. The laughter from the crowd was, of course,
provoked not by the allegory, which interested no one, but simply by
a man's walking on his head in a swallow-tail coat. Lembke flew into a
rage and shook with fury.
"Rascal!" he cried, pointing to Lyamshin, "take hold of the scoundrel,
turn him over... turn his legs... his head... so that his head's up...
up!"
Lyamshin jumped on to his feet. The laughter grew louder.
"Turn out all the scoundrels who are laughing!" Lembke prescribed
suddenly.
There was an angry roar and laughter in the crowd.
"You can't do like that, your Excellency."
"You mustn't abuse the public."
"You are a fool yourself!" a voice cried suddenly from a corner.
"Filibusters!" shouted someone from the other end of the room.
Lembke looked round quickly at the shout and turned pale. A vacant smile
came on to his lips, as though he suddenly understood and remembered
something.
"Gentlemen," said Yulia Mihailovna, addressing the crowd which was
pressing round them, as she drew her husband away--"gentlemen, excuse
Andrey Antonovitch. Andrey Antonovitch is unwell... excuse... forgive
him, gentlemen."
I positively heard her say "forgive him." It all happened very quickly.
But I remember for a fact that a section of the public rushed out of
the hall immediately after those words of Yulia Mihailovna's as though
panic-stricken. I remember one hysterical, tearful feminine shriek:
"Ach, the same thing again!"
And in the retreat of the guests, which was almost becoming a crush,
another bomb exploded exactly as in the afternoon.
"Fire! All the riverside quarter is on fire!"
I don't remember where this terrible cry rose first, whether it was
first raised in the hall, or whether someone ran upstairs from the
entry, but it was followed by such alarm that I can't attempt to
describe it. More than half the guests at the ball came from the quarter
beyond the river, and were owners or occupiers of wooden houses in that
district. They rushed to the windows, pulled back the curtains in a
flash, and tore down the blinds. The riverside was in flames. The fire,
it is true, was only beginning, but it was in flames in three separate
places--and that was what was alarming.
"Arson! The Shpigulin men!" roared the crowd.
I remember some very characteristic exclamations:
"I've had a presentiment in my heart that there'd be arson, I've had a
presentiment of it these last few days!"
"The Shpigulin men, the Shpigulin men, no one else!"
"We were all lured here on purpose to set fire to it!"
This last most amazing exclamation came from a woman; it was an
unintentional involuntary shriek of a housewife whose goods were
burning. Every one rushed for the door. I won't describe the crush in
the vestibule over sorting out cloaks, shawls, and pelisses, the shrieks
of the frightened women, the weeping of the young ladies. I doubt
whether there was any theft, but it was no wonder that in such disorder
some went away without their wraps because they were unable to find
them, and this grew into a legend with many additions, long preserved in
the town. Lembke and Yulia Mihailovna were almost crushed by the crowd
at the doors.
"Stop, every one! Don't let anyone out!" yelled Lembke, stretching out
his arms menacingly towards the crowding people.
"Every one without exception to be strictly searched at once!"
A storm of violent oaths rose from the crowd.
"Andrey Antonovitch! Andrey Antonovitch!" cried Yulia Mihailovna in
complete despair.
"Arrest her first!" shouted her husband, pointing his finger at her
threateningly. "Search her first! The ball was arranged with a view to
the fire...."
She screamed and fell into a swoon. (Oh, there was no doubt of its being
a real one.) The general, the prince, and I rushed to her assistance;
there were others, even among the ladies, who helped us at that
difficult moment. We carried the unhappy woman out of this hell to her
carriage, but she only regained consciousness as she reached the house,
and her first utterance was about Andrey Antonovitch again. With the
destruction of all her fancies, the only thing left in her mind was
Andrey Antonovitch. They sent for a doctor. I remained with her for a
whole hour; the prince did so too. The general, in an access of generous
feeling (though he had been terribly scared), meant to remain all night
"by the bedside of the unhappy lady," but within ten minutes he fell
asleep in an arm-chair in the drawing-room while waiting for the doctor,
and there we left him.
The chief of the police, who had hurried from the ball to the fire, had
succeeded in getting Andrey Antonovitch out of the hall after us, and
attempted to put him into Yulia Mihailovna's carriage, trying all he
could to persuade his Excellency "to seek repose." But I don't know
why he did not insist. Andrey Antonovitch, of course, would not hear of
repose, and was set on going to the fire; but that was not a sufficient
reason. It ended in his taking him to the fire in his droshky. He told
us afterwards that Lembke was gesticulating all the way and "shouting
orders that it was impossible to obey owing to their unusualness." It
was officially reported later on that his Excellency had at that time
been in a delirious condition "owing to a sudden fright."
There is no need to describe how the ball ended. A few dozen rowdy
fellows, and with them some ladies, remained in the hall. There were
no police present. They would not let the orchestra go, and beat
the musicians who attempted to leave. By morning they had pulled all
Prohoritch's stall to pieces, had drunk themselves senseless, danced the
Kamarinsky in its unexpurgated form, made the rooms in a shocking mess,
and only towards daybreak part of this hopelessly drunken rabble reached
the scene of the fire to make fresh disturbances there. The other part
spent the night in the rooms dead drunk, with disastrous consequences
to the velvet sofas and the floor. Next morning, at the earliest
possibility, they were dragged out by their legs into the street. So
ended the fête for the benefit of the governesses of our province.
IV
The fire frightened the inhabitants of the riverside just because it
was evidently a case of arson. It was curious that at the first cry of
"fire" another cry was raised that the Shpigulin men had done it. It
is now well known that three Shpigulin men really did have a share in
setting fire to the town, but that was all; all the other factory
hands were completely acquitted, not only officially but also by public
opinion. Besides those three rascals (of whom one has been caught and
confessed and the other two have so far escaped), Fedka the convict
undoubtedly had a hand in the arson. That is all that is known for
certain about the fire till now; but when it comes to conjectures it's
a very different matter. What had led these three rascals to do it? Had
they been instigated by anyone? It is very difficult to answer all these
questions even now.
Owing to the strong wind, the fact that the houses at the riverside were
almost all wooden, and that they had been set fire to in three
places, the fire spread quickly and enveloped the whole quarter with
extraordinary rapidity. (The fire burnt, however, only at two ends;
at the third spot it was extinguished almost as soon as it began to
burn--of which later.) But the Petersburg and Moscow papers exaggerated
our calamity. Not more than a quarter, roughly speaking, of the
riverside district was burnt down; possibly less indeed. Our fire
brigade, though it was hardly adequate to the size and population of the
town, worked with great promptitude and devotion. But it would not
have been of much avail, even with the zealous co-operation of the
inhabitants, if the wind had not suddenly dropped towards morning. When
an hour after our flight from the ball I made my way to the riverside,
the fire was at its height. A whole street parallel with the river was
in flames. It was as light as day. I won't describe the fire; every one
in Russia knows what it looks like. The bustle and crush was immense in
the lanes adjoining the burning street. The inhabitants, fully expecting
the fire to reach their houses, were hauling out their belongings, but
had not yet left their dwellings, and were waiting meanwhile sitting
on their boxes and feather beds under their windows. Part of the male
population were hard at work ruthlessly chopping down fences and even
whole huts which were near the fire and on the windward side. None
were crying except the children, who had been waked out of their sleep,
though the women who had dragged out their chattels were lamenting
in sing-song voices. Those who had not finished their task were still
silent, busily carrying out their goods. Sparks and embers were carried
a long way in all directions. People put them out as best they could.
Some helped to put the fire out while others stood about, admiring it. A
great fire at night always has a thrilling and exhilarating effect.
This is what explains the attraction of fireworks. But in that case the
artistic regularity with which the fire is presented and the complete
lack of danger give an impression of lightness and playfulness like the
effect of a glass of champagne. A real conflagration is a very different
matter. Then the horror and a certain sense of personal danger,
together with the exhilarating effect of a fire at night, produce on the
spectator (though of course not in the householder whose goods are being
burnt) a certain concussion of the brain and, as it were, a challenge to
those destructive instincts which, alas, lie hidden in every heart, even
that of the mildest and most domestic little clerk.... This sinister
sensation is almost always fascinating. "I really don't know whether one
can look at a fire without a certain pleasure." This is word for word
what Stepan Trofimovitch said to me one night on returning home after he
had happened to witness a fire and was still under the influence of the
spectacle. Of course, the very man who enjoys the spectacle will rush
into the fire himself to save a child or an old woman; but that is
altogether a different matter.
Following in the wake of the crowd of sightseers, I succeeded, without
asking questions, in reaching the chief centre of danger, where at last
I saw Lembke, whom I was seeking at Yulia Mihailovna's request. His
position was strange and extraordinary. He was standing on the ruins of
a fence. Thirty paces to the left of him rose the black skeleton of a
two-storied house which had almost burnt out. It had holes instead of
windows at each story, its roof had fallen in, and the flames were still
here and there creeping among the charred beams. At the farther end
of the courtyard, twenty paces away, the lodge, also a two-storied