A Man from the Future. 1856
- -
- 100%
- +
Rodion sat on the bed, dressed in the same worn frock coat, barefoot. His face was even paler than yesterday, his eyes sunken with dark circles, but burning with some strange, feverish fire.
“Come in, sit down,” he pointed to the chair.
Dmitry sat. A heavy, tense silence fell between them. Rodion looked out the window at the darkening sky and whispered something to himself.
“Rodion Romanovich,” Dmitry began carefully, “you wanted to talk?”
“Yes,” Rodion turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about your story. About you being from the future. And I understood that I believe you. Not because it’s logical or reasonable. But because there’s something… out of time about you. You look at everything as if you’re seeing it for the first time. As if you wonder at what’s ordinary for us.”
“That’s true,” Dmitry admitted. “I really do marvel. In my time everything is different.”
“Tell me,” Rodion asked, and there was something hungry, almost painful in his voice. “Tell me about it. About your future. Have people become better there? More just? Freer?”
Dmitry thought. How to answer that honestly?
“Well… for instance,” he began. “There’s not as much poverty there as here. That is, it exists, but it’s different. People don’t die of hunger in the streets. Everyone has homes, food, clothing. Medicine has become very advanced – they cure diseases that kill people here. People live to seventy, eighty years old.”
“Wow! That’s good,” Rodion nodded. “So progress is happening! So humanity is moving forward.”
“But,” Dmitry hesitated, “people have become… different. Colder. Everyone lives for themselves. Neighbors don’t know each other. People can pass by a dying man and not stop – because it’s ‘not their business.’”
“How is it not their business?” Rodion jumped off the bed, his eyes flashed. “How can it be not their business? If a man is dying – it’s everyone’s business! It’s…” He caught himself, paced the room. “So despite all the progress, people haven’t become better? Haven’t become kinder, more just?”
“No,” Dmitry admitted honestly. “They became richer, more educated, but not kinder.”
Rodion stopped, stared at him:
“And the division between people? Did it remain? Between the rich and poor, the powerful and powerless, those who have the right and those who… tremble?”
Lord, Dmitry went cold, he’s already formulated his theory. About “trembling creatures” and “those who have the right.”
“The division remained,” he answered slowly. “Maybe not as obvious, but it’s there. There are the rich, who rule the world, and the poor, who work for them.”
“So nothing has changed!” Rodion struck the table with his fist. “Despite all your machines, medicines, progress – the essence remains the same! Humanity hasn’t become more just!”
“Perhaps,” Dmitry said quietly, “justice doesn’t exist at all? Perhaps it’s just a beautiful idea that will never be realized?”
“No!” Rodion almost cried out. “No, it must exist! And if the world is unjust – then it needs to be changed. Someone has to do it. Someone has to… transgress. Step over all these rules, laws, morality, which are invented by those at the top to keep us at the bottom!”
There it is, Dmitry understood. He’s ready. Ready for crime.
“Rodion Romanovich,” he said firmly, “I understand you. I understand your pain, your anger. I was like that once too. I also thought the world was unjust and needed to be changed. But you know what I realized?”
“What?” Rodion looked at him with tense attention.
“That you can’t fix the world through evil. You can’t defeat injustice with murder. You can’t become a person by committing a crime.”
Rodion went even paler:
“How do you know that I…” he didn’t finish.
“Because I see it in your eyes,” said Dmitry. “You’re possessed by some idea. You think that if you do something terrible, you’ll prove to yourself and the world that you’re not a ‘trembling creature,’ but a person with a capital P. But it’s a trap, Rodion Romanovich. It’s a path to nowhere.”
Silence fell. Rodion stood with his head down, his hands trembling.
“You don’t understand,” he finally said quietly. “You can’t understand. You live in a world where people have choices. But I… I was born in poverty. My mother died of consumption because we didn’t have money for medicine. My sister married a scoundrel because there was no other way out.
I myself studied at university on my last kopecks, starved, froze, was humiliated. And all this – why? Because I was born into the wrong family. Because fate decided it that way.
He raised his head, and Dmitry saw tears in his eyes:
“And up there, people live! Who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Who’ve never gone hungry, never frozen, never been humiliated. Who think they have the right to rule our fates. Simply because that’s how the world is organized. And you tell me – don’t transgress? Don’t step over the line? But how else? How else can I prove I’m not worse than them? That I’m also a person?”
Dmitry said nothing. He understood Rodion – understood his pain, his despair, his rage. He’d felt something similar once himself.
“Rodion Romanovich,” he finally said, “I know how you suffer. But listen to me carefully. In my time, in the future, I know the story of a man. Very much like you. He also thought the world was unjust. He also wanted to prove he had the right. And he… committed a crime. He killed a man.”
Rodion flinched but didn’t interrupt.
“And you know what happened after?” Dmitry continued. “He didn’t become stronger. Didn’t become freer. He became the most miserable person in the world. Because he didn’t kill an old moneylender – he killed himself. His conscience. His soul. And then for the rest of his life he suffered, trying to atone for it. But you can’t atone. Murder stays on the soul forever.”
“How do you know this?” Rodion whispered.
“I read about it,” Dmitry answered. “In a book. A great book that will be written by a writer in a few years. He’ll tell the story of a man who committed a crime to prove himself right. And the whole book will be about how that man suffers. How remorse tears him apart. How he realizes he was wrong.”
Rodion sank onto the bed, covered his face with his hands:
“You speak as if you know my future…”
“Not your future,” Dmitry said gently. “But I know where this path leads. Rodion Romanovich, do you want to be a person? A real person? Then become one through good, not through evil. Through helping others, not through crime.”
Rodion was silent for a long time. Then he raised his head, and Dmitry saw in his eyes a strange mixture of gratitude and stubbornness.
“Thank you, Dmitry Sergeevich,” he said quietly. “Thank you for trying to stop me. You’re a good man. Better than I am. Perhaps you’re right. But…” he hesitated, “but I can’t just abandon my idea. I’ve thought about it for too long. It’s become part of me.”
“Rodion Romanovich…”
“No, listen to me,” Rodion interrupted. “I’ll think about your words. I give you my word, I’ll think. But I’m not promising anything. Because… because there are two forces battling inside me. One says – yes, you’re right, you can’t. The other says – no, you must, you have to. And I don’t know which will win.”
He stood, walked to the window, looked at the dark roofs of houses:
“You see, Dmitry Sergeevich, there are people who live peacefully. Who never have such thoughts. They just exist – work, eat, sleep, have children, age, die. They’re happy in their simplicity. And there are other people – those who are tormented by questions. Who am I? Why do I live? Do I have the right? And these questions don’t let you sleep, eat, breathe. They burn inside like fire. And the only way to extinguish this fire is to answer the question. Through action.”
“But what action?” asked Dmitry. “Murder?”
Rodion turned to him:
“Not necessarily murder. Maybe… something else. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. But I have to do something. Have to! Otherwise I’ll go mad.”
He’s not refusing, Dmitry realized with horror. He still plans to do something. I didn’t convince him.
“Rodion Romanovich,” Dmitry said desperately, “please, don’t do anything rash. I beg you. Promise me that before you act, you’ll come to me. Talk to me again.”
Rodion looked at him with a long gaze:
“All right,” he said finally. “I promise. If I decide to act – I’ll tell you. Though…” he smiled bitterly, “maybe I won’t have the courage. Maybe I really am just a ‘trembling creature’ who only talks but doesn’t act.”
“You’re not a creature,” Dmitry said firmly. “You’re a person. A thinking, feeling, suffering person. And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t become a murderer.”
Rodion nodded but said nothing. Dmitry understood the conversation was over. He stood:
“I’ll go. Good night, Rodion Romanovich.”
“Good night, Dmitry Sergeevich.”
Dmitry left the little room with a heavy heart. The conversation brought no relief – on the contrary, the fear intensified. Rodion hadn’t rejected his idea. He’d only postponed his decision.
What do I do? Dmitry thought as he descended the stairs. How do I stop him? Follow him? But I can’t follow him constantly. Tell the police? But what would I say? That my acquaintance is thinking about committing a crime? I’d be arrested for slander. Find whoever he’s planning to target and warn them? But I don’t even know who he’s chosen.
Returning to his room, he lay on the bed without undressing. Sleep wouldn’t come. Before his eyes stood Rodion’s pale, tormented face, his fever-bright eyes.
I have to save him, Dmitry decided firmly. That’s my task here. Not just to survive, not just to adapt – but to save a man standing on the edge of an abyss. Because if I don’t save him, who will?
Somewhere in the distance someone was shouting, someone was crying, someone was laughing drunkenly. St. Petersburg’s life continued – terrifying, beautiful, merciless life. And in a little room under the roof sat a young man thinking about crime.
24. First Days of Teaching
The morning of the next day began early. Dmitry woke to the sound of roosters crowing and carts rumbling over the pavement. His head ached from a sleepless night full of anxious thoughts about Rodion.
But life goes on, he thought, washing in ice-cold water. I have work. The children are waiting. I can’t let them down because of my worries.
He dressed, had breakfast of black bread with tea (Praskovia Pavlovna brought him food again, not asking for money – “Pay when you get your wages, dear”), and headed to Krupov’s school.
The walk took half an hour – through narrow streets, past shops, taverns, churches. The October morning was cold and gray, but Dmitry barely noticed the cold. His thoughts were occupied with the upcoming lesson.
What will I teach them? he wondered. Reading, arithmetic – that’s clear. But you can teach them more. You can teach them to think, feel, understand. You can make them better, kinder, smarter. That’s enormous responsibility.
At the school, Krupov met him – cheerful, energetic, despite the early hour:
“Ah, Dmitry Sergeevich! Good morning! Did you sleep well? Ready to work?”
“Ready, Ivan Petrovich,” Dmitry smiled.
“Excellent! Today you’ll have your first independent lesson. The younger group – children from seven to nine years old. Teach them writing. Here are the copybooks, here are the quills, the ink. The main thing is patience and kindness. You can’t show weakness with children – they sense it.”
Krupov led him to the classroom. The children were already sitting at their desks – about fifteen, boys and three girls. When they saw the new teacher, they grew quiet, stared curiously.
“Children,” said Krupov, “this is Dmitry Sergeevich, your new teacher. Listen to him carefully, don’t misbehave. I’m going to the older students.”
He left, leaving Dmitry alone with the children. For several seconds there was silence. Dmitry looked at the children, the children looked at him.
Lord, he thought, where do I start?
“Good morning, children,” he began.
“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich!” the children answered in unison, standing up.
“Please sit down,” Dmitry indicated with his hand. “Let’s get to know each other. My name is Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov. I’ll be teaching you writing and reading. And what are your names?”
The children began introducing themselves – one by one, shyly, embarrassed:
“Vanya Petrov…”
“Masha Ivanova…”
“Kolya Smirnov…”
“Sashenka Volkova…”
Simple names, simple children, Dmitry thought. Children of merchants, tradespeople, minor officials. Not wealthy, but not beggars either. They have a chance to get an education, find a profession, change their fate. And I can help them.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” he said when everyone had introduced themselves. “Tell me, do you like to study?”
The children exchanged glances. One boy – the very one who’d asked yesterday if the new teacher was kind – shyly raised his hand:
“Do you really not hit us, Dmitry Sergeevich?”
“I really don’t,” Dmitry answered firmly. “Never. I promise.”
The children brightened noticeably. One girl with braids said:
“Then I’ll try hard! I want to learn to write beautifully, like ladies do!”
“And you will,” Dmitry smiled. “You’ll all learn if you try. The main thing is don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Mistakes are normal. Everyone makes them. Even adults. Even teachers.”
Even me, he added to himself. I’ve made so many mistakes in life. But here, in this time, I have a chance to fix everything.
The lesson began. Dmitry distributed copybooks to the children – notebooks with letter samples. He showed them how to hold the quill properly, how to dip it in the inkwell, how to form letters.
The children tried their hardest – tongues sticking out from effort, bent over their notebooks. Some did better, some worse. Someone got ink all over himself up to his ears, someone tore the paper with an awkward movement.
Dmitry walked between the rows, helping, correcting, encouraging:
“Good job, Vanyechka, already better!”
“Mashenka, hold the quill like this, see, it’ll be easier!”
“Kolya, don’t rush, write slowly, carefully!”
Strange, he thought, I feel happy. Despite all the problems, the poverty, the fear for Rodion – I’m happy. Because I’m doing something real. Something important. Not updating antivirus software, but teaching children. Shaping their future.
By the end of the lesson the children were tired but satisfied. They showed each other their notebooks, boasting:
“Look, mine turned out almost like the teacher’s!”
“And I don’t have a single blot!”
“And I wrote a whole line without mistakes!”
Krupov came in at the end of the lesson, looked at the children’s work, nodded approvingly:
“Good, Dmitry Sergeevich. I see you have a talent for teaching. The children listen to you, they try. That’s the main thing.”
After the lesson, when the children had run off, Krupov invited Dmitry to his office for tea.
“Tell me, Dmitry Sergeevich,” he asked, pouring tea from the samovar, “why did you decide to become a teacher? You’re an educated man, you could have found more profitable work. In some office or another.”
Dmitry thought. It was a fair question.
“You see, Ivan Petrovich,” he answered slowly, “I searched for a long time for my place in life. I tried different occupations. And I realized that money isn’t the main thing. The main thing is to feel that your work has meaning. That you’re making the world a little bit better. And a teacher – that’s exactly what he does, right?”
Krupov looked at him with respect:
“Right, Dmitry Sergeevich. Absolutely right. You know, I’ve devoted my whole life to children. I could have become a clerk, lived more comfortably. But I chose the school. And I’ve never regretted it. Because the greatest reward for a teacher is seeing your student grow up to be a good person. Educated, kind, honest. That’s true happiness.”
True happiness, Dmitry repeated to himself. In the twenty-first century people don’t talk about such happiness. There happiness is money, a car, an apartment, a vacation by the sea. But here, in the nineteenth century, people still remember that happiness is something different.
They finished their tea, talked a bit more about pedagogy, about children, about life. Krupov turned out to be a remarkable man – intelligent, kind, full of ideas. He spoke about his plans to open a bigger school where not just merchants’ children but poor children could study.
“Education should be available to everyone,” he said passionately. “It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. Every child has the right to learn. But unfortunately not everyone understands this. The authorities think education for the lower classes is dangerous. That an educated people will rebel. But I think the opposite – an educated people will be reasonable. And reasonable people don’t rebel without cause.”
Krupov is an idealist, Dmitry thought. But such a bright, kind idealism. Not like Rodion – dark, obsessed, ready for crime. But healthy, creative. That’s who I need to show Rodion! That’s an example of how you can change the world not through destruction but through creation.
“Ivan Petrovich,” he said, “could I bring an acquaintance here? He’s an educated man too, also looking for his place in life. Maybe it would be good for him to talk with you.”
“Of course, Dmitry Sergeevich!” Krupov was delighted. “Bring him. I’m always glad to meet like-minded people.”
Yes, Dmitry decided. I’ll bring Rodion here. Let him see there’s another way. That you can be a person without committing a crime.
Part 3. Hunger and Transformation
1. Third Day Without Money
Dmitry woke from cold. The room was so cold that his breath turned to vapor. He lay under a thin blanket, huddled in his frock coat, looking at the ceiling.
Third day, he counted. Third day with almost no food. Yesterday – a crust of bread in the morning and evening. The day before – the same. Today it’ll be the same. Three more weeks until my first wages. How will I make it?
His stomach ached – not just rumbling from hunger, but actually aching, with a dull, sickening pull. His head spun when he stood up. His legs trembled.
I always thought I understood poverty, he reflected, slowly getting out of bed. I read about it in Dostoevsky and Nekrasov. I saw homeless people on the streets of the twenty-first century. But that wasn’t understanding. That was observation from the side, from a warm apartment window. Now I understand – real hunger isn’t just wanting to eat. It’s when your stomach aches, your head spins, your hands shake. When you think about food every second. When the smell of bread from a bakery causes physical pain.
There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a tray – a glass of tea and a tiny piece of black bread.
“Here, dear, eat something,” she said and sighed. “I can’t give you more. You understand, I’m not wealthy. I can feed you like this for a week, maybe two. But not longer. I have to feed my own children.”
“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna,” Dmitry took the glass with trembling hands. “You’re very kind. I’ll try to find additional work.”
“God willing, dear. Because I see you’re getting thinner. You’ve gone very pale. I hope you don’t get sick.”
She left, and Dmitry was alone with his tea and the tiny piece of bread. He ate slowly, stretching it out, chewing each crumb as long as possible.
In the twenty-first century I threw away more food in a day than I eat now, he thought bitterly. Uneaten burgers, leftover pizza, stale bread – all in the trash. And here every crumb is worth its weight in gold.
2. School and Children
Dmitry came to school half an hour early – he wanted to sit somewhere warm. The classroom had a stove and it was relatively warm.
Krupov met him in the corridor:
“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich! How are you feeling?”
“Well, Ivan Petrovich, thank you,” Dmitry lied.
Krupov looked at him carefully:
“You’re pale, my friend. And you’ve lost weight. Maybe you need help?”
Yes, Dmitry almost cried out. Yes, I need help! I’m dying of hunger! Give me some money!
But aloud he said:
“No, everything’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.”
“Make sure you don’t overwork yourself,” Krupov patted him on the shoulder. “Health is more important. And come to my room for tea at lunch – we’ll have some.”
Tea, Dmitry thought desperately. Just tea again. But I need bread. Meat. Real food. But I can’t ask. Too shameful.
The lesson began. The children came – cheerful, noisy, rosy-cheeked. They’d been fed at home, given warm clothes, sent to study. They had a childhood.
And there are children who don’t, Dmitry thought, looking at them. Children who work at factories from age ten. Who go hungry. Who die from disease. And no one helps them. No one.
He taught the children writing, but his thoughts were far away. The letters blurred before his eyes, his head spun.
“Dmitry Sergeevich,” called little Vanyechka Petrov, “are you all right?”
“No, Vanyechka, everything’s fine,” Dmitry smiled. “I’m just a bit tired.”
“Did you eat today?” asked the girl with braids. “Mama says that if you don’t eat, your head will spin.”
What a smart girl, Dmitry thought. Smarter than me. I forgot I’m not a superhero. That I need food to live.
“I did eat, Mashenka, thank you,” he lied again.
But after the lesson, when the children had left, he remained sitting at the desk, his head in his hands. He didn’t have the strength to walk home.
3. Decision
In the evening, walking home across Sennaya Square, Dmitry saw a crowd of men outside a tavern. They stood waiting for something.
He approached closer. From the tavern came out a fat man in a dirty apron – the owner, apparently.
“Need a man to wash the floors, carry out the slop!” he shouted. “I’ll pay fifteen kopecks for the evening! Work till midnight! Who’s interested?”
The men were silent. For them, laborers, this work was humiliating. They were used to carrying heavy things, not washing floors like women.
Fifteen kopecks, Dmitry thought. If I work every evening, that’s ninety kopecks a week. Almost four rubles a month. I can buy bread, porridge, maybe even a little meat.
“I’ll do it,” he said, raising his hand.
The men looked at him – with confusion, with contempt. An intellectual, in a frock coat, going to wash floors. Either completely desperate or some kind of drunkard.
“You?” the owner looked him over. “Can you manage? You’re not some weakling?”
“I can manage,” Dmitry said firmly.
“All right then, come on. There’s a lot of work. Come at eight in the evening.”
I’m a teacher, Dmitry thought as he walked home. I’m a historian with a university education. In the twenty-first century I was a systems administrator, worked in an office, made decent money. And now I’ll be washing floors in a tavern for fifteen kopecks. For kopecks. There’s the price of pride in the nineteenth century – nothing.
But hunger was stronger than shame.
4. First Evening in the Tavern – Shock and Disgust
At eight o’clock, Dmitry came to the tavern. The owner – his name was Savely Kuzmich – showed him a bucket of water, a rag, and said:
“Here, get started. Wash the floors, wipe the tables, carry out the slop. If a customer throws up – clean it. If they fight – call me, don’t get involved yourself. Understand?”
“Understood,” Dmitry nodded.
“Well, get to work. The evening’s just beginning.”
Dmitry took the rag – gray, damp, with the sharp smell of cheap soap – and looked at the floor. Wooden boards were covered with something sticky, cigarette butts lay in the corners, someone had stepped in dirt and smeared it across the floor.