the law library

“Where to, young Sir?”

“West Avenue, the Law Library,” the student muttered, clambering into the cab. The day was grey, the city empty, and a bitter wind tossed the autumn leaves across the faces of buildings, husbands. The final examinations were in six days, and the student L- hadn’t so much as glanced at the materials. “But I have other ideas,” he kept thinking to himself, anxiously, “important ones.”

“What’s your business then, if I can ask, young Sir?” The cabbie piped.

“Law.”

“By G-d!” Stammered the cabbie, and not mocking, “Congratulations to you, Sir. A hard stick, is it?”

“Yes.”

The cabbie continued talking, but the student wasn’t listening. Everything- the cabbie’s gesticulating (he was obviously drunk), the ghastly rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth trumpeting through the wiry speakers, the miserable city-slickers, who, rushing somewhere, were apparently tempted by the thought of throwing themselves in front of the moving car- the entire world and all possible renditions of it seemed abhorrent to our student, and he felt alone.

“...my wife, she’s a scoundrel, Sir! Do you know, Sir, that she’s promised never to deliver a son? Three times she promised, and alas! Three daughters! She says to me, ‘what sort of life would he live? At least they can be married off !’ And its true, Sir, it pains me to admit so, but it’s true. You see, Sir, my wife made an error when she married me. Then I was reading Plato, Herodotus even... I was even enrolled at an institution at one point… well yes, it was only a month or two, but that’s besides the point. Just the other day, Sir, she went into our bookshelf and found my copy of the Histories, and right there, in faded pencil inside the front cover it read; “What does man emerge from?” I haven’t the slightest recollection of it, Sir, but there’s no doubt; those words were written by me! Can you believe it? She’s been carrying this book around for four days now, and every time I do something that upsets her she opens the inside cover and says, in a very profound voice;
‘what does man emerge from?’
And I’m simply crushed and without recourse... or whichever is the word. The Histories! Now all I have is some music here and there and some lofty emotions and some loose outlines, but nothing concrete, Sir! No words, no questions, certainly no thinking about man’s emergence from anywhere! History, who needs it? Ah, but I know it’s rubbish to say that; I know history has a purpose for men like you, and I say that not meaning anything Sir, for in honest truth, I’m ashamed of these words, “what does man emerge from” You see it’s much worse, Sir, a thousand times worse, to be pondering and hopeful in youth if you only end up miserable and hopeless in old age. Better to choose a course and stick to it, philosophically speaking, that is; then you don’t have women marrying one man and ending up married to another man in the same form! She’s probably going through the Histories as we speak, looking for more! ‘Don’t let here near any of the Freud’s or Jung’s,' I said to my eldest this morning, ‘and for G-d’s sake lock away the Tolstoy’s!’ Anyways, Sir, here we are.”

The student looked up from a crack in the leather seating. He mumbled something, handed the cabbie some money, and collected his bundle of books.

“I’ll wait here for a minute young Sir... I’ll be here a minute, no longer!”

It was bitterly cold. The Law Library looked down on our student like a terrible future. Never before had he noticed how narrow the windows were. In one of these slits there was a pale face looking out, the breath creating a small patch of fog on the glass; in another slit there was only the back of a head- a sprawling bundle of hair- the body of which appeared to have collapsed in a heap. He also noticed for the first time the air ventilation pipes- remarkably narrow little intakes- around the edges of which fluttered feathers and plastics. The student shuddered.

By the road, right next to him, was a small and withered magnolia tree with the remains of nest. In it a Myna bird was chirping frantically; it appeared to be missing half a leg. Our student, looking to the creature’s face, was suddenly struck by the thought that it was weeping. He moved nearer, so that he was only a few centimetres from its face. Yes! Impossibly faint, but doubtless; there was wetness around the creatures eyes, over its little cheeks.

“But, isn’t this what you like?” The student muttered, despairing, “Don’t you like living here, where it’s grey?”
The bird stopped chirping, scratched itself with its half-leg, and looked our student in the eyes, turning its little head confusedly.

“I sai...”
But suddenly the bird lurched forward, and pecked our student three times in rapid succession. One peck landed squarely in his right eye.
“Gah!” he cried out, dropping his bundle and beating a retreat.
“Away, Away!” Thundered a voice, “This way, young Sir!”
The cabbie emerged waving his umbrella furiously, managing to connect with the bird multiple times. The bird made off, and our student collapsed into the old man’s sturdy arms.
“Get me out of here!” He cried, “Home, or somewhere sunny!”
“Yes, Sir!” The cabbie piped, replacing the umbrella to his side as if a spear. He marched to the passenger side, and opened the door, then closing it after our student had clambered in. Again, with the upmost ceremony, the cabbie marched to the driver’s side, climbed in, tossing the umbrella into the rear seats.
Starting the car he announced in a proud and sonorous voice: “I will deliver you safely into the arms of your destiny,”

(he had been waiting for many years to deliver this line).

And the whole drive home the cabbie was muttering,
“So that marvellous deeds... no... was it, so that great and marvellous deeds...”*

*Hed 1.0.1.

Mikhail Vorobyev, Autumn Night in Petersburg, 1835