A Man from the Future. 1856

He even walked closer to the railing, looked down. The water was dark, cold, terrifying.

No, he suddenly thought. No, I can’t. Not because I’m afraid of death. But because it would mean I gave up. That life defeated me. And I don’t want to give up. I don’t!

He turned away from the railing and continued. Ahead he could see the museum building – an old eighteenth-century mansion that had recently reopened after restoration. Dmitry passed it every day but had never gone inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll go in, see how people lived in the past. I’ll forget this gray reality for at least an hour.

He turned toward the museum, climbed the steps, and pushed open the heavy door.

Part 2. The Crossing

1. The Transition

1. The Museum

Dmitry pushed open the heavy museum door and stepped inside. The door closed with a creak. Silence fell upon him like water – thick, dense, almost tangible. Outside the windows the city hummed, cars roared, people rushed, but here, behind these old walls, time seemed to have stopped.

Like in a church, he thought. The same solemn silence, the same feeling that you’ve entered another world.

In the foyer, behind an old writing desk, sat an elderly woman in glasses, reading something. When she saw the visitor, she looked up and smiled in greeting, but somehow strangely – as if she’d known him for a long time.

“Good evening, young man,” she said in a quiet voice. “Is this your first time with us?”

“Yes,” Dmitry answered, reaching for his wallet. “How much is admission?”

“Three hundred rubles,” she said, handing him a small ticket on thick yellowish paper, the kind they used to make long ago. “Come in. The exhibition is on the second floor. But please, don’t touch anything with your hands.”

Don’t touch anything, echoed in his head. Like I’m a child.

Dmitry climbed the wide wooden staircase with carved railings. The steps creaked under his feet – a pleasant, cozy creak of old wood. On the walls hung portraits in heavy gilded frames: men in uniforms, women in evening gowns, children with serious faces. They all looked at him with a particular, almost living attentiveness.

Funny, Dmitry thought. Dead people who lived two hundred years ago, and it seems to me they see right through me. That they know something about me that I don’t know myself.

On the second floor the exhibition began. The first room was devoted to the eighteenth century – the time of Catherine the Great. In the display cases lay old fans, snuffboxes, gloves, journals. On mannequins were dressed gowns and coats. In the corner stood a harpsichord – a real one, not a replica – and Dmitry involuntarily imagined someone playing it while ladies in full skirts danced a minuet.

That’s when people knew how to live, he thought, slowly going around the cases. Unhurried, beautifully, with dignity. Not like now – everyone’s running somewhere, fussing, never keeping up. And for what? To make money? Buy a new phone? Take a vacation once a year?

In the second room were objects from the nineteenth century – an era he knew best. There were books in antique bindings, writing implements, photographs in oval frames. Dmitry stopped at a display case with books and read the titles on the spines: Мертвые души (Dead Souls) by Gogol, Герой нашего времени (A Hero of Our Time) by Lermontov, Отцы и дети (Fathers and Sons) by Turgenev.

First editions, he thought respectfully. How old are they? A hundred and fifty years? A hundred and sixty? And they’re still here, still alive, still able to tell their stories.

Further on were household items: samovars, candlesticks, lamps, dishes. On the wall hung a clock – large, round, with Roman numerals and a heavy pendulum. It was running – ticking steadily, solemnly, marking time that was long gone.

A paradox, Dmitry thought. A clock showing time that no longer exists. But it still runs, still ticks. For what? For whom?

2. The Locked Room

At the end of the second room he noticed a small door – old, dark, with a tarnished brass handle. Beside it hung a sign: “Staff Area. Admission Forbidden.”

I wonder what’s in there? Dmitry thought. Probably a storage room or something.

He was about to move on, but suddenly heard a strange sound – quiet, barely perceptible, like a whisper or breathing. The sound came from behind the door.

A hallucination, he decided. Or maybe a draft.

But the sound repeated – and this time he clearly made out the words, spoken quietly but distinctly:

“Enter… enter…”

Dmitry went cold. He looked around – there was no one in the room. The museum clearly wasn’t popular, and he was the only visitor.

I’m losing my mind, he thought. From stress, from exhaustion, from all this shit that’s accumulated in my life. I should go home, take something to calm my nerves. I haven’t even picked up that prescription the neurologist or psychologist gave me, whoever knows about these things anyway…

His hand reached for the door handle of its own accord. He turned it. The door opened – easily, silently, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Beyond the door was a small room – no more than three meters long and wide. There was no window, but somehow it was light – a dim yellowish glow came from nowhere in particular, as if the walls themselves were emitting a soft radiance. In the room stood one single object – an old writing desk with drawers and a green leather desktop. On the desk lay an open book – a thick volume in a worn leather binding.

What is this? Dmitry wondered. Some kind of strange exhibit? Why lock visitors away from just a table and a book?

He stepped into the room – and the door silently closed behind him. Dmitry turned around, tried to open it again, but the handle wouldn’t turn.

It’s jammed, he thought irritably. Damn it. I should call the attendant.

But instead of calling for help, he somehow walked over to the desk and looked at the open book. The pages were covered in small, old-fashioned handwriting – ink, pen, with curlicues and flourishes.

He tried to read the text but couldn’t – the letters blurred before his eyes, formed into incomprehensible patterns. Then suddenly one phrase became readable, appeared bright and clear:

“He who has lost himself in the present may find himself in another time.”

What nonsense is this? Dmitry thought. Some mystical garbage.

But his heart suddenly beat faster. Because these words – they were addressed directly to him. Lost himself in the present. That was about him! He really had lost himself – that Dmitry who dreamed, who loved history, who wanted to live for a reason.

Find myself where? he repeated to himself. How? What does that mean?

3. The Glasses

He looked away from the book and noticed that on the corner of the desk lay another object – old glasses in a thin wire frame. The lenses were an unusual color – not transparent, but slightly yellowish, as if covered with the patina of time.

Beside the glasses lay a small card – yellowed, with writing in an old typeface:

“Spectacles belonging to the learned gentleman E. von H., 1840s. The owner claimed that through these lenses one could see not only the present but also the past.”

Dmitry smirked.

Of course, he thought. A mystical story for tourists. Magical glasses that let you see the past. Next they’ll say they grant wishes.

But his hand reached for the glasses again. He picked them up. Held them to his eyes.

What am I doing? Dmitry thought. Why would I put on some old glasses? This is stupid, a children’s game.

But something inside – some incomprehensible feeling, a mixture of despair and hope, longing and curiosity – made him put on the glasses. The lenses were slightly fogged, as if someone had recently breathed on them. Dmitry wiped them with the edge of his shirt and put them back on.

And the world changed.

4. The Vision

At first he saw the same room, but as if in a different light – not in the dim yellowish glow, but in a bright, almost cutting light. Then the walls began to blur, as if they were watercolor paintings in the rain. Colors flowed, mixed, disappeared.

Hallucination, Dmitry thought. I’ve definitely lost my mind.

He tried to take off the glasses, but his hands wouldn’t obey – as if paralyzed, they hung limp at his sides. His legs didn’t move either. He stood in the middle of the disappearing room and felt the ground giving way beneath his feet – not metaphorically, but literally.

Fear overwhelmed him – animal, primal fear of death, of disappearing, of dissolving into the void.

No! he cried out silently. No, I don’t want this! Stop it! Send me back!

But there was no voice – he was screaming soundlessly into the void that swallowed everything. And suddenly, in that void, he heard a Voice. Not the whisper that had called him from behind the door – but a real Voice, loud, solemn, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once:

“Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov, you are tired of your life. You believe your existence has no meaning. You think you were born in the wrong era, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

Yes, Dmitry answered mentally. Yes, that’s true. I’m tired. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

“I give you the opportunity,” the Voice continued. “The opportunity to leave your time and enter the one you dream of. The nineteenth century. But remember: this is not a game. This is not a dream. You will go there for real. And it’s not certain you’ll be able to return.”

And do I have anything to return to? Dmitry thought bitterly. I have nothing in this time. No one and nothing.

“Then go,” said the Voice. “Go and find yourself. Or perish in the attempt.”

5. The Fall

And Dmitry fell.

Not down – not up – but sideways, into some unknown dimension where there was neither up nor down, neither light nor darkness. He flew through the void, feeling his mind grasping at the last threads of reality.

I’m dying, he realized. This is death. My brain is dying, and it seems to me I’m flying somewhere.

But then the void began to fill. First came sounds – distant, unclear. A noise like that of a big city, but different – no roar of motors, no screech of brakes.

The clop of hooves, the creak of wheels, the shouts of street vendors, the ringing of church bells.

Church bells? Dmitry wondered. Where are church bells coming from?

Then came the smells. Sharp, strong, unfamiliar. The smell of horse manure, the smell of smoke from stoves, the smell of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume, the smell of the river, the smell of bread, the smell of kerosene.

Kerosene? He tried to remember where he could have smelled that. No, this is something else. This is the smell of oil lamps.

Then came the colors. Gray. Yellow. Brown. Black. The sky – covered in clouds. The walls of houses – peeling, dirty. The street – wet, with puddles. People – in long overcoats, in hats, in shawls.

Lord, Dmitry thought, I really…

And at that moment he fell. A real fall – onto hard, cold, wet cobblestones. He hit his knees, his hands, almost smashed his face. The glasses flew off and rolled across the stones. He lay there for a few seconds, unable to move. Then slowly he lifted his head and looked around.

He was on a street. A narrow, dirty, cobblestone street. Around him stood houses – old, four or five stories high, with peeling plaster and dark windows. People walked along the street – men in long frock coats and top hats, women in full skirts and bonnets, children in short pants and stockings.

On the corner of the street stood a lamp – old-fashioned, oil-burning, not yet lit. Beside it a beggar in rags begged for alms, extending a dirty hand to passersby.

This is impossible, Dmitry thought. This can’t be real. I’m asleep. Or hallucinating. Or dead.

He tried to stand – and then noticed his clothes. Jeans. A sweatshirt. Sneakers. Modern clothing that here looked like an alien’s costume.

The passersby looked at him with confusion and fear. An old woman crossed herself and hurried away. A cabdriver passing by nearly dropped his reins when he saw the strangely dressed man lying on the street.

“Sir, are you alive?” someone asked in pure русском (Russian), but with some unusual intonation. “Are you unwell?”

Dmitry lifted his head and saw a man about forty in a worn frock coat and crushed hat. His face was kind, worried, but his eyes looked with distrust – as if they didn’t understand what kind of character this was.

“I… who?…” Dmitry began, then stopped. Because he understood: this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was reality.

He really had arrived in the nineteenth century.

6. The First Minutes

Dmitry slowly got to his feet, feeling his knees tremble. The man in the worn frock coat steadied him by the arm.

“Careful, sir,” he said. “Looks like you took quite a knock. Should we call a doctor? Or shall I take you home?”

“I… no, I’m fine,” Dmitry mumbled.

How is he addressing me? Sir? So he’s taking me for a nobleman. Or maybe that’s just how he addresses everyone who’s decently dressed?

He looked around once more – more carefully this time, trying to understand where he was. The street was clearly a St. Petersburg street – narrow, gloomy, with tall buildings on both sides. In the distance the dome of some church was visible. It smelled of the Neva – he recognized that smell, specific, riverlike, with a hint of industrial runoff.

St. Petersburg, he understood. I’m in St. Petersburg. But what year? What part of the city?

“Excuse me,” he said to the man, who was still standing beside him, curiously examining his strange clothes. “Could you please tell me what today’s date is?”

The man looked at him in surprise:

“The date? It’s October seventeenth, sir. Monday.”

“And the year?”

Dmitry began feeling the curb and stones on the road, trying to understand if this was a set, maybe a prank.

Now the man looked at him with obvious bewilderment, even with alarm:

“The year? Why, it’s eighteen sixty-five, sir. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I really call a doctor?”

“1856,” Dmitry repeated to himself. “October seventeenth, 1856. Dostoevsky hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet. The assassination of the tsar is still sixteen years away. The revolution – fifty-two years.”

His head spun – not from physical weakness, but from the realization of what had happened. He really was here. In the past. In the real, actual past.

“Thank you,” he said to the man. “I really am fine. Just… a bit dazed.”

“I can see that,” the man agreed. “And if you don’t mind my asking, sir, where are you from? Your clothes are… unusual.”

Clothes, Dmitry caught himself. Yes, I need to change immediately. Otherwise they’ll think I’m insane or escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

“I’m… I’m a foreigner,” he quickly lied. “From America. Just arrived. That’s how we dress there… fashionable.”

“From America!” the man whistled. “Well, that’s something! You’ve come far. But you speak Russian so pure, without any accent at all.”

“I studied for a long time,” Dmitry mumbled.

I need to leave, he thought. I need to find somewhere to collect myself, figure out the situation. And find clothes urgently.

“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said, and quickly walked down the street, not knowing where he was headed.

The man in the worn frock coat watched him go with confusion, then shook his head and went on his way.

7. First Steps in the Nineteenth Century

Dmitry walked along the wet cobblestones, trying not to pay attention to the stares of passersby. Everyone who saw him stopped and looked at him in amazement – as if they’d seen a ghost or some exotic beast.

I have to be careful, he thought. If they take me for a madman, they could send me to a hospital. Or worse – to the police. And what would I say? That I’m from the future?

The cold October wind cut through him – the sweatshirt didn’t protect against St. Petersburg’s dampness. Dmitry shivered and quickened his pace.

Around him was the real nineteenth century – not a museum version, not from a book, but living, actual. There went a merchant in a beaver hat and fur coat, fat, with a full beard. There ran a messenger boy with a package in his hands. There stood a police officer in uniform, carefully examining the passersby. There begged a disabled veteran without a leg, leaning on a crutch.

Lord, Dmitry thought, this is all real. These people are alive. They have their own lives, their own fates. And I’ve ended up here. But why? What for? What am I supposed to do here?

He turned toward the embankment – recognized it immediately. The Neva flowed the same as in the twenty-first century, but the embankment looked different – not as well-maintained, without modern streetlights and asphalt. But there were those very granite parapets he’d read about in books.

He stopped, placed his hands on the cold stone, and looked at the water. Murky, dark, it flowed slowly toward the gulf, carrying the reflection of the gray sky within it.

What should I do? he asked himself. Where should I go? I have no money – well, I do have modern money, but it’s useless here. No documents. No clothes. No roof over my head. I’m completely alone in a strange time.

Fear began to rise from within again – cold, sticky, paralyzing. But with it came another feeling – strange, incomprehensible. Exhilaration? Hope? The sensation that finally something real had happened, not invented, not illusory?

I’m free, he suddenly thought. For the first time in my life, truly free. No work, no obligations, no that gray routine. There’s only me and this time that I loved so much in books. And now I can live in it.

But then a sober thought came:

To live, I need money, clothes, shelter. And I need to somehow explain who I am. A foreigner from America – that’s a good cover story, but it won’t work for long. Sooner or later someone will ask for documents. What will I say?

He took his wallet from his jeans pocket and looked at what was inside. Three thousand rubles in modern bills. A bank card. A driver’s license with a photo. All of it was absolutely useless here.

Driver’s license, he smirked. I can just imagine how a police officer would examine this plastic with incomprehensible letters.

Suddenly he remembered the glasses. Those very ones that had brought him here. He fell, they flew off, rolled across the cobblestones…

Where are they? he thought in a panic. I lost them! What if they’re needed to get back?

He quickly felt his pockets – nothing. He turned around and ran back to the place where he’d fallen.

But the street was different now – or had he gotten lost in the alleys? Only twenty minutes had passed, and he already couldn’t remember the way.

Calm down, he ordered himself. Calm down. First I need to solve the problem of survival. And the glasses… maybe I don’t need them. Maybe I can’t go back anyway.

And strangely – this thought didn’t frighten him. On the contrary, it brought some relief.

Maybe this is what I needed? he thought. The chance to start over. In a world where no one knows me, where I can become anyone?

8. First Meeting

He was walking along the embankment, lost in thought, and didn’t notice he’d collided with a man coming toward him.

“Excuse me!” said Dmitry, stepping back.

“Never mind, never mind,” the man replied, and Dmitry looked up at him.

Before him stood a man about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, thin, pale, with burning, feverish eyes. He was dressed poorly – in a worn frock coat, scuffed boots, no hat. Dark, disheveled hair. An intelligent face, nervous, tormented.

A student, Dmitry thought. Or former student. By appearance – a poor man.

The man looked at him with confusion, examining his strange clothes.

“You’re… a foreigner?” he asked.

“Yes, from America,” Dmitry answered mechanically.

“America,” the man repeated, and there was something strange in his voice – contempt? mockery? “Yes, of course, America. They say everyone there is free and equal. And they dress as they like, ignoring propriety, shoving past pedestrians.”

Dmitry felt a prick of irritation – there was something challenging in the stranger’s tone.

“So here, do clothes define a person?” he asked sharply.

The man smiled – bitterly, viciously:

“Here everything defines a person. Clothes, money, position in society. You’ll understand that if you stay in our city.”

A strange character, Dmitry thought. There’s something about him… familiar. As if I’d seen him somewhere before.

“And you yourself… are you local?” he asked.

“Local,” the man nodded. “From St. Petersburg. Born here, grew up here, and probably will die here. In this damned city, where man is a wolf to man.”

He spoke with some suppressed malice, and Dmitry involuntarily remembered lines from Crime and Punishment: “I wanted to become Napoleon, that’s why I killed.”

My God, he suddenly realized. Could it be… no, that’s impossible. It’s just a similar type. Raskolnikov is a fictional character. He hasn’t even been written yet.

But something inside told him: Dostoevsky didn’t invent his characters out of thin air. He took them from life. And here was one of those wretched, tormented, proud, and sick people who populated the pages of his novels.

“Excuse me,” Dmitry said quietly, “I’ve kept you. Goodbye.”

He went on, but the man suddenly called after him:

“Wait! You… where are you going?”

Dmitry turned around:

“I don’t know. I just arrived, haven’t found a hotel yet.”

“A hotel,” the man smirked. “Do you have money? It’s expensive here. Very expensive.”

“A little,” Dmitry lied.

Although what’s the point of lying – I don’t have any local money at all.

The man looked at him carefully – long, searchingly, as if trying to understand something important. Then he said:

“You know what? If you want, I can show you around. I’ll tell you where you can stay cheaply. I know a landlady who rents out rooms to students and visitors.”

Why would he do that? Dmitry thought suspiciously. Why help a stranger?

But there was no choice. He really didn’t know where to go, and help from anyone was invaluable right now.

“Thank you,” he said. “I would be very grateful.”

“Let’s go,” the man turned and began walking along the embankment. “By the way, my name is Rodion. Rodion Romanovich.”

Rodion Romanovich, Dmitry repeated to himself. Lord, this can’t be…

But he didn’t finish the thought – because at that moment he bit his tongue and the world began to blur before his eyes again.

9. Loss of Consciousness

Dmitry felt the ground give way beneath his feet. Not metaphorically – literally. His legs gave out, black circles swam before his eyes, his ears rang.

What’s happening to me? he managed to think. My heart? A stroke?

The last thing he saw was the face of Rodion Romanovich bending over him. A worried, frightened face. And someone’s hands catching him by the elbows.

Then – darkness.

He came to from a sharp smell. Something acute, pungent, hit his nostrils, making him cough and wince.

“Smelling salts,” he heard a woman’s voice. “You’ll feel better soon, dear, don’t worry.”