A Man from the Future. 1856

17. First Philosophical Conversation

They went into a cheap tea house on the corner of the square – a dark, smoke-filled room with dirty tables and benches. They ordered a glass of tea each and a piece of bread.

The tea was strong, hot, with a heaping sugar cube on the saucer. The bread was black, sour. But for Dmitry it was almost a royal feast – he hadn’t eaten since morning, and yesterday’s shchi hadn’t really satisfied him.

“You still haven’t told me who you really are,” Rodion said, sipping his tea. “Where you came from and why.”

Dmitry thought. What should he say? The truth – that he’s from the future? Or continue lying about America?

He helped me, Dmitry thought. Gave me his last money. I can’t keep lying to him.

“I’ll say this,” he began carefully. “I really am not from America. I’m… from a very distant place. So distant that you won’t believe it.”

“Try me, I may not look smart,” Rodion looked at him carefully.

“I’m from the future,” Dmitry blurted out.

Silence fell. Rodion didn’t laugh, didn’t shout that his companion was mad. He just looked, searchingly, as if trying to understand – was this true or delirium?

“From the future,” he repeated slowly. “That is, you’re saying that… you traveled through time?”

“Yes. I was born and lived in… many years after your time. And I ended up here by accident. Through…” Dmitry faltered, “through some kind of artifact. Glasses. Old glasses in a museum.”

“In a museum,” Rodion thought. “I see. And now you can’t go back?”

“I don’t know. The glasses are lost. Maybe I can. Maybe not.”

Rodion was silent for a moment, then said:

“You know, I believe you.”

“You believe?” Dmitry was surprised.

“Yes. Because in this world anything is possible. If God created man from clay in a single day, if Christ can rise from the dead, then why can’t a man travel through time?” He smiled. “Besides, your clothes, the way you speak, your view of the world – all of it says you’re not from here.”

He believed me, Dmitry thought with relief. Or pretended to believe. But why?

“Tell me,” Rodion continued, “in your future… is it better than here?”

Dmitry thought. How to answer that?

“It’s mixed,” he said finally. “On one hand, there’s no poverty like here. People live longer, get sick less, have more opportunities. There’s no slavery, no serfdom, more freedom.”

“Sounds like paradise,” Rodion noted.

“But on the other hand,” Dmitry continued, “people have become… empty. They live for money, for consumption. They have no high goals, no faith, no meaning to life. They simply exist – work, buy things, entertain themselves, age, die.”

“Like me,” Rodion said quietly.

“What?”

“Well… I live like that too. Exist without meaning, like a dog. That’s why I think…” he hesitated, “I think about how to change that. How to become not just a creature, but a person. A real person.”

Become a real person, Dmitry repeated to himself. Lord, that’s straight out of Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov wanted to prove that too – that he was a person, not a “trembling creature.”

“And how do you think you’ll do it?” he asked carefully.

Rodion was silent for a long time. Then he answered:

“I don’t know yet. But I think. I think a lot. Sometimes it seems to me that for this you need to do something… extraordinary. To cross a line. To go against all rules.”

Cross a line, Dmitry went cold. He really is planning a crime.

“Rodion Romanovich,” he said firmly, “don’t do it.”

“Do what?” Rodion looked at him in surprise.

“What you’re thinking about. Crossing a line – that’s a path to nowhere. You won’t become a person from it. You’ll only destroy yourself.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” There was sharpness in Rodion’s voice now.

“Because…” Dmitry caught himself.

Because I know your future. Because I read a novel where a character with your name commits murder and then suffers for the rest of his life. But I can’t tell him that.

“Because I thought the same thing myself,” he lied. “In my time. And I know where it leads. To emptiness. To even greater emptiness.”

Rodion looked at him with a long gaze:

“You’re a strange man. Very strange. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong place.”

He stood, leaving his unfinished tea:

“I have to go. Business. Will you manage on your own?”

“Yes, thank you for everything,” Dmitry also stood.

“Come by tomorrow evening. To my room. Praskovia Pavlovna will show you. We’ll talk more.” Rodion put on his hat. “I think we have a lot to tell each other.”

He left, leaving Dmitry alone in the smoke-filled tea house.

18. First Evening

Dmitry went out into the street. It was already beginning to get dark – October days are short. Lamplighters were lighting the oil lamps, and the city was sinking into twilight.

What do I do next? he thought, wandering aimlessly through the streets. I have zero rubles left (gave all three for tea and bread), I have clothes, I have a room for one night. And tomorrow? Tomorrow Praskovia Pavlovna will demand money for lodging. Where can I get it?

He remembered his phone – he’d hidden it in his room, under the mattress. There was still battery. Maybe sell the phone? But to whom? Who would buy an incomprehensible gadget that doesn’t work without electricity?

A watch, he remembered. I have an electronic watch on my wrist.

He looked – yes, the watch was still there. Simple, inexpensive, but working. Maybe he could sell it as a curiosity?

But it was already late – the shops were closed, the merchants had gone. He’d have to wait until tomorrow.

Dmitry returned to Praskovia Pavlovna’s house. He climbed the creaking stairs to his room. He lay on the bed without undressing – it was cold, and the frock coat provided at least some warmth.

He lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house. Behind the walls life continued – someone was cursing, someone was crying, someone was praying. Somewhere a door creaked, heavy footsteps went past.

I’m here, Dmitry thought. I’m really in the nineteenth century. This is not a dream, not a hallucination. This is reality. And now I need to learn to live in it. Or die.

But strangely – there was almost no fear. Instead of fear – some strange calm. As if he had finally ended up where he was supposed to be.

Maybe this is my fate? he thought. Maybe I was born in the wrong time, and these glasses corrected the mistake? Returned me to where I belong?

Before sleep he took out his phone and turned it on. The screen lit up brightly, almost blinding in the darkness. He looked at the date: October 17, 2025.

No, he thought. Wrong.

He went into settings and changed the date to October 17, 1856. Now the phone showed the correct time.

I’m here now, he told himself. In 1856. And this is my real present.

He turned off the phone, hid it under the mattress. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in many years, he slept peacefully, without anxiety, without nightmares.

Because for the first time in many years, he felt alive.

19. Morning of the Third Day

Dmitry woke to a knock on the door. Outside the window it was barely dawning – a gray, cold October dawn.

“Dear!” came Praskovia Pavlovna’s voice. “Are you awake? I was getting worried – that nothing had happened to you.”

He got up and opened the door. The landlady stood on the threshold with a tray on which steamed a glass of tea and lay a piece of black bread with butter.

“Here, dear, I’ve brought you something to eat,” she said with a kind smile. “I can see you’re a good man, though strange. Not like the previous tenants – they always tried to cheat, not pay. But yesterday you immediately and honestly admitted you didn’t have money. That means you have a conscience, you’re decent.”

Dmitry was touched by this simple kindness.

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he said sincerely. “You’re very kind to me. I’ll try to find work as soon as possible and settle up with you.”

His hand mechanically reached for the nightstand – to take the phone, check the time, notifications, news. His fingers found only a wooden surface and a candlestick. He froze. For the first time in fifteen years he’d woken without burying his face in a screen. Silence pressed on his ears. There were no notification sounds, no vibrations, no glowing pixels. Strange. Empty. And – unexpectedly – peaceful.

“Oh, don’t hurry, dear,” she waved her hand. “I can see people through and through. You’re not a cheat. You’ll pay when you can. But for now, live, rest. Only tell me,” she paused, then added quietly, “are you really from America?”

Dmitry thought. He didn’t want to lie to this kind woman.

“Not exactly from America, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he answered carefully. “I’m from… a very distant place. So distant that you might not even believe it.”

“And I’m not asking where,” she said gently. “I see you don’t want to talk – so there’s a reason for it. Everyone has their secrets. The main thing is that the heart is good. And yours, dear, is a good heart – I can feel it. I can feel it.”

Good heart, Dmitry thought bitterly. If she knew what I was like in the twenty-first century – cynical, indifferent, cruel. But here, in this time, I really do feel different. As if something inside has thawed.

“Tell me, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, sipping his tea, “how do I find a job? I have an education, I can read and write, I speak languages. Maybe I could become a teacher somewhere?”

“Oh, a teacher?” she thought. “That’s good work, dear, but it’s hard without recommendations. All the positions were taken long ago. And you’re a new man, nobody knows you. Maybe find something simpler first? A clerk of some kind, or an assistant in a shop?”

“And where do I look for such work?”

“Well, you need to read the announcements, dear. They’re posted in the newspapers. Or you could go up and down Nevsky Prospect – there are all kinds of offices there, maybe someone needs an assistant. Or you could go see my son-in-law – he works at a print shop, as a typesetter I think. Maybe there are openings there.”

A print shop, Dmitry thought. That’s interesting. Though I’ve never worked with nineteenth-century printing machines.

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna. I’ll try looking myself first, and if I don’t find anything, I’ll ask your son-in-law.”

“Good, dear, good. I’m going now, I have things to do. I’ll come by in the evening and ask how you’re getting on.”

She left, leaving him with his tea and bread. Dmitry ate slowly, thinking over his situation.

Work. I need a job. But what kind? I’m a systems administrator – a profession that doesn’t exist here. I’m a historian – but without credentials, no one will hire me. What else can I do? Write on a computer – but there are no computers here. Search for information on the internet – there is no internet here. I’m essentially unemployed in the nineteenth century.

The thought was not encouraging. But he wasn’t about to give up.

20. Job Search

Dressed in his new (or rather, old and someone else’s) frock coat, Dmitry went out into the street. The day was clear and cold, with a piercing wind. He walked toward Nevsky Prospect – the main street of St. Petersburg.

Nevsky amazed him. Of course, he’d seen this street in the twenty-first century thousands of times, but this was a completely different Nevsky. The buildings were the same – majestic palaces, mansions, churches – but the atmosphere was entirely different.

Along the street moved carriages – elegant coaches with coats of arms on their doors, simple cabs, heavy carts. Cabdrivers shouted at their horses. Along the sidewalks walked ladies in long dresses with umbrellas, gentlemen in top hats with walking sticks, merchants in expensive fur coats, students in worn overcoats.

The shops gleamed with displays – fashionable stores, jewelers, bookshops, confectioners. Doormen in livery stood at the entrances. It smelled of fresh sweet pastries, perfume, leather.

There it is, the grand St. Petersburg, Dmitry thought. A city of contrasts. At Sennaya – dirt and poverty, and here – luxury and wealth.

He went into various offices and shops, asking if they needed assistants, clerks, employees. Everywhere he got a polite but firm refusal:

“Sorry, sir, we have no openings.”

“We already have all the employees we need.”

“Do you have recommendations? No? Then, sorry, we can’t hire you.”

By noon he was tired and hungry. He went into a cheap eating house on a side street, ordered a bowl of shchi for five kopecks (almost his last money from what Rodion had lent him).

At the next table sat an elderly man with a gray beard, dressed simply but neatly – clearly a tradesman or minor official. He ate his shchi and kept glancing at Dmitry with curiosity.

“You’re not from around here, young man?” he finally asked.

“No, not from around here,” Dmitry answered. “I arrived recently, I’m looking for work.”

“Work?” the old man perked up. “What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Any, to be honest. I could work as a clerk, a teacher, an assistant in a shop. I have an education, I can read and write.”

“Education is good,” the old man nodded approvingly. “Without it nowadays you can’t get anywhere. And when did you study?”

“As a child,” Dmitry answered.

“And who taught you? Your parents?”

“My grandfather taught me. He was… a learned man.”

Not entirely a lie – Grandfather really did know a lot and loved books.

“A learned man!” the old man positively brightened. “Well that’s something! So you’re from a wealthy family. That’s good, very good. You know what, young man,” he leaned closer, “I have an acquaintance who runs a small school for merchants’ children. He needs an assistant just now – to teach the children reading and arithmetic. The pay is not much, of course – fifteen rubles a month, but the work is quiet, peaceful. Would you like an introduction?”

Dmitry nearly jumped with joy:

“Of course I would! Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, sir,” the old man smiled. “I can see you’re a good man. Young, of course, inexperienced, but with a good heart. And with a good heart, a man will find his place everywhere.”

Again about a good heart, Dmitry wondered. Why does everyone here say that? In the twenty-first century no one cares about your heart – the main thing is that your resume is right and you have work experience.

21. Gospodin Krupov’s School

Semyon Ignatyich, as he introduced himself, led Dmitry through several streets to a small two-story house on a quiet street. On the gate hung a sign: “Private School of I.P. Krupov.”

“Here,” said Semyon Ignatyich. “Ivan Petrovich Krupov is a kind man, fair. He’s been working at the school for nearly twenty years. He teaches the children not just reading, but conscience, honor. A rare man these days.”

They went inside. In a small vestibule there was a smell of chalk, ink, and children’s voices – from somewhere came singing, someone was reading aloud by syllables, someone was laughing.

Semyon Ignatyich knocked on the door of a small office. From inside came:

“Enter!”

They went in. Behind a writing desk piled with notebooks and books sat a man about fifty – somewhat portly, with a round good-natured face, wearing glasses. When he saw Semyon Ignatyich, he became delighted:

“Ah, Semyon Ignatyich! What brings you? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Hello, Ivan Petrovich. Listen, I brought you an assistant. A young educated man looking for work. Will you take him or not?”

Krupov looked at Dmitry carefully, studying him:

“What is your name, young man?”

“Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov.”

“Komarov…” Krupov wrote something in a notebook. “And where are you from?”

“From… from the provinces,” Dmitry answered evasively. “I arrived in St. Petersburg recently.”

“What education do you have?”

“University. History and philology.”

Krupov raised his eyebrows:

“University? That’s wonderful! And which university did you graduate from?”

*Damn,* Dmitry thought. *Now he’s going to ask for documents, a diploma…*

“Kazan,” he quickly lied, remembering that Kazan University had existed for a long time.

“Kazan!” Krupov nodded. “An excellent institution. And do you have your diploma?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dmitry lowered his eyes. “I… lost all my documents. I was robbed on the road.”

“Robbed?” Krupov shook his head sympathetically. “Oh, what a misfortune! The roads have become dangerous these days, bandits have multiplied. Well, never mind, never mind. It’s not about the diploma but the knowledge. Tell me, young man,” he removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief, “why do you want to teach children?”

Dmitry thought. The question was unexpected and very apt.

“I want…” he began slowly, “to do something useful. Something real. Teaching children means shaping the future. Every child you teach to read, write, think – is a person who can change the world for the better.”

*Lord,* he thought to himself, *where did I get that? But it’s true. I really do think that.*

Krupov looked at him with growing interest:

“Change the world for the better…” he repeated quietly. “Yes, young man, you’re right. That’s what I’ve been doing my whole life. I teach children not just reading, but humanity, kindness, love for one’s neighbor.” He paused, then smiled: “You know what, Dmitry Sergeevich? I’ll take you. Fifteen rubles a month, lunch included, work from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. Do you agree?”

“I agree!” Dmitry could barely contain his joyful cry.

“Excellent. You’ll start tomorrow. Today you can watch how classes are conducted, meet the children.”

***

22. First Lesson

Krupov led Dmitry into a classroom. A large room with tall windows, long tables with benches along the walls, pictures with letters and numbers on the walls, maps of Russia and Europe. About twenty children sat at the tables – boys aged eight to twelve in simple shirts and vests.

“Children!” Krupov said loudly, entering the classroom. “Meet Dmitry Sergeevich. Starting tomorrow he will help me teach you.”

The children turned to Dmitry and stared with curiosity. Some smiled, others looked doubtfully.

“Hello, children,” said Dmitry, feeling slight nervousness.

“Hello, Dmitry Sergeevich!” the children answered in unison, standing up from their places.

*They stood up,* Dmitry was surprised. *They showed respect to the teacher. In the twenty-first century students don’t behave like that.*

“Today we have a lesson in penmanship,” said Krupov. “Dmitry Sergeevich, would you like to show the children how to write properly?”

Dmitry approached the board. He took chalk – thick, white, leaving a dense mark. He wrote several sentences in beautiful handwriting (in university he’d specifically studied old-fashioned writing for archive work):

“Learning is light, and ignorance is darkness, as Suvorov himself said”

“Patience and labor overcome all”

The children watched in admiration.

“Oh, how beautifully you write!” exclaimed a round-faced boy with a snub nose.

“Will you teach me?” asked a girl with long braids.

*A girl?* Dmitry was surprised. *Krupov teaches girls too? That was rare in the nineteenth century.*

Krupov noticed his surprise and explained:

“I believe girls have as much right to education as boys. Not everyone understands this nowadays, but I hope with time everything will change.”

*A progressive man,* Dmitry thought with respect. *In the nineteenth century that took courage.*

The lesson continued. Dmitry walked between the rows, watching how the children carefully traced letters in their notebooks. He helped those who were struggling, corrected mistakes, praised successes.

*Strange,* he thought. *I’ve never worked with children. But I like it. They’re so open, sincere, trusting. Not like adults in the twenty-first century – cynical, closed off, suspicious.*

After the lesson, one boy – the smallest, about seven or eight years old, with big eyes and thin arms – approached him shyly:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, will you really be teaching us?”

“Yes, I will,” Dmitry smiled.

“Are you kind?” the boy asked with childish directness.

“I’ll try to be kind,” Dmitry answered.

“Will you not hit us with a ruler? The old teacher used to hit when we made mistakes.”

*Hit with a ruler,* Dmitry’s heart sank. *Yes, corporal punishment in schools was normal in the nineteenth century.*

“No,” Dmitry said firmly. “I will never hit you. I promise.”

The boy brightened:

“Really? That’s good! Then I’ll try hard to study well!”

He ran off to his friends, and Dmitry heard him say happily:

“He said he won’t hit! He’s kind!”

*Kind,* Dmitry repeated to himself. *Here that’s the main word. Not smart, not successful, not efficient – but kind. Maybe they’re right?*

***

23. Evening at Rodion’s

Returning in the evening to Praskovia Pavlovna’s house, Dmitry found a note slipped under his door:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, come see me this evening. I want to talk with you. Rodion Romanovich”

He went up one flight, found Rodion’s door, and knocked. From inside came a quiet:

“Enter.”

Rodion’s room was even smaller than Dmitry’s – a tiny little room right under the roof, with a low ceiling and a single small window. There was almost no furniture – a bed, a table, a chair, nothing else. Books and papers lay on the table, and a candle stub.