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  WHITE NIGHTS
  AND OTHER STORIES

  THE NOVELS OF
  FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
  VOLUME X




  WHITE NIGHTS

  AND OTHER STORIES BY
  FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

  FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
  CONSTANCE GARNETT


  NEW YORK
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1918


  _Printed in Great Britain_




         CONTENTS


                                            PAGE

  WHITE NIGHTS                                1

  NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND--
    PART I. UNDERGROUND                      50
    PART II. A PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW        81

  A FAINT HEART                             156

  A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING            200

  POLZUNKOV                                 208

  A LITTLE HERO                             223

  MR. PROHARTCHIN                           258




WHITE NIGHTS

A SENTIMENTAL STORY FROM THE DIARY OF A DREAMER


FIRST NIGHT

It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are
young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at
it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and
capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful
question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more
frequently into your heart!... Speaking of capricious and ill-humoured
people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From
early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly
seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and
going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every
one" was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg
I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I
was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as
though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went
to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three
whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing
what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the
Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those
I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year.
They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them
intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted
when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have
almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed
day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he
is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in
his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even
notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a
certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels
disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other,
especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had
not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually
touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed
each other with a look of interest.

I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the
streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say:
"Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to
have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated
to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so
on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them
intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day
on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I
shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a
light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked
so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my
heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I
walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a
plaintive, "They are painting me yellow!" The villains! The barbarians!
They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor
little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And
to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured
friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.

So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all
Petersburg.

I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days
before I guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in
the street--this one had gone and that one had gone, and what had become
of the other?--and at home I did not feel like myself either. For two
evenings I was puzzling my brains to think what was amiss in my corner;
why I felt so uncomfortable in it. And in perplexity I scanned my grimy
green walls, my ceiling covered with a spider's web, the growth of which
Matrona has so successfully encouraged. I looked over all my furniture,
examined every chair, wondering whether the trouble lay there (for if
one chair is not standing in the same position as it stood the day
before, I am not myself). I looked at the window, but it was all in vain
... I was not a bit the better for it! I even bethought me to send for
Matrona, and was giving her some fatherly admonitions in regard to the
spider's web and sluttishness in general; but she simply stared at me in
amazement and went away without saying a word, so that the spider's web
is comfortably hanging in its place to this day. I only at last this
morning realized what was wrong. Aie! Why, they are giving me the slip
and making off to their summer villas! Forgive the triviality of the
expression, but I am in no mood for fine language ... for everything
that had been in Petersburg had gone or was going away for the holidays;
for every respectable gentleman of dignified appearance who took a cab
was at once transformed, in my eyes, into a respectable head of a
household who after his daily duties were over, was making his way to
the bosom of his family, to the summer villa; for all the passers-by had
now quite a peculiar air which seemed to say to every one they met: "We
are only here for the moment, gentlemen, and in another two hours we
shall be going off to the summer villa." If a window opened after
delicate fingers, white as snow, had tapped upon the pane, and the head
of a pretty girl was thrust out, calling to a street-seller with pots of
flowers--at once on the spot I fancied that those flowers were being
bought not simply in order to enjoy the flowers and the spring in stuffy
town lodgings, but because they would all be very soon moving into the
country and could take the flowers with them. What is more, I made such
progress in my new peculiar sort of investigation that I could
distinguish correctly from the mere air of each in what summer villa he
was living. The inhabitants of Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or of the
Peterhof Road were marked by the studied elegance of their manner, their
fashionable summer suits, and the fine carriages in which they drove to
town. Visitors to Pargolovo and places further away impressed one at
first sight by their reasonable and dignified air; the tripper to
Krestovsky Island could be recognized by his look of irrepressible
gaiety. If I chanced to meet a long procession of waggoners walking
lazily with the reins in their hands beside waggons loaded with regular
mountains of furniture, tables, chairs, ottomans and sofas and domestic
utensils of all sorts, frequently with a decrepit cook sitting on the
top of it all, guarding her master's property as though it were the
apple of her eye; or if I saw boats heavily loaded with household goods
crawling along the Neva or Fontanka to the Black River or the
Islands--the waggons and the boats were multiplied tenfold, a
hundredfold, in my eyes. I fancied that everything was astir and moving,
everything was going in regular caravans to the summer villas. It seemed
as though Petersburg threatened to become a wilderness, so that at last
I felt ashamed, mortified and sad that I had nowhere to go for the
holidays and no reason to go away. I was ready to go away with every
waggon, to drive off with every gentleman of respectable appearance who
took a cab; but no one--absolutely no one--invited me; it seemed they
had forgotten me, as though really I were a stranger to them!

I took long walks, succeeding, as I usually did, in quite forgetting
where I was, when I suddenly found myself at the city gates. Instantly I
felt lighthearted, and I passed the barrier and walked between
cultivated fields and meadows, unconscious of fatigue, and feeling only
all over as though a burden were falling off my soul. All the passers-by
gave me such friendly looks that they seemed almost greeting me, they
all seemed so pleased at something. They were all smoking cigars, every
one of them. And I felt pleased as I never had before. It was as though
I had suddenly found myself in Italy--so strong was the effect of nature
upon a half-sick townsman like me, almost stifling between city walls.

There is something inexpressibly touching in nature round Petersburg,
when at the approach of spring she puts forth all her might, all the
powers bestowed on her by Heaven, when she breaks into leaf, decks
herself out and spangles herself with flowers.... Somehow I cannot help
being reminded of a frail, consumptive girl, at whom one sometimes looks
with compassion, sometimes with sympathetic love, whom sometimes one
simply does not notice; though suddenly in one instant she becomes, as
though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and, impressed and
intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made those sad,
pensive eyes flash with such fire? What summoned the blood to those
pale, wan cheeks? What bathed with passion those soft features? What set
that bosom heaving? What so suddenly called strength, life and beauty
into the poor girl's face, making it gleam with such a smile, kindle
with such bright, sparkling laughter? You look round, you seek for some
one, you conjecture.... But the moment passes, and next day you meet,
maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale
face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse,
traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction....
And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to
return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve
because you had not even time to love her....

And yet my night was better than my day! This was how it happened.

I came back to the town very late, and it had struck ten as I was going
towards my lodgings. My way lay along the canal embankment, where at
that hour you never meet a soul. It is true that I live in a very remote
part of the town. I walked along singing, for when I am happy I am
always humming to myself like every happy man who has no friend or
acquaintance with whom to share his joy. Suddenly I had a most
unexpected adventure.

Leaning on the canal railing stood a woman with her elbows on the rail,
she was apparently looking with great attention at the muddy water of
the canal. She was wearing a very charming yellow hat and a jaunty
little black mantle. "She's a girl, and I am sure she is dark," I
thought. She did not seem to hear my footsteps, and did not even stir
when I passed by with bated breath and loudly throbbing heart.

"Strange," I thought; "she must be deeply absorbed in something," and
all at once I stopped as though petrified. I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I
was not mistaken, the girl was crying, and a minute later I heard sob
after sob. Good Heavens! My heart sank. And timid as I was with women,
yet this was such a moment!... I turned, took a step towards her, and
should certainly have pronounced the word "Madam!" if I had not known
that that exclamation has been uttered a thousand times in every Russian
society novel. It was only that reflection stopped me. But while I was
seeking for a word, the girl came to herself, looked round, started,
cast down her eyes and slipped by me along the embankment. I at once
followed her; but she, divining this, left the embankment, crossed the
road and walked along the pavement. I dared not cross the street after
her. My heart was fluttering like a captured bird. All at once a chance
came to my aid.

Along the same side of the pavement there suddenly came into sight, not
far from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years,
though by no means of dignified carriage; he was staggering and
cautiously leaning against the wall. The girl flew straight as an arrow,
with the timid haste one sees in all girls who do not want any one to
volunteer to accompany them home at night, and no doubt the staggering
gentleman would not have pursued her, if my good luck had not prompted
him.

Suddenly, without a word to any one, the gentleman set off and flew full
speed in pursuit of my unknown lady. She was racing like the wind, but
the staggering gentleman was overtaking--overtook her. The girl uttered
a shriek, and ... I bless my luck for the excellent knotted stick, which
happened on that occasion to be in my right hand. In a flash I was on
the other side of the street; in a flash the obtrusive gentleman had
taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible argument, fallen
back without a word, and only when we were very far away protested
against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly
reached us.

"Give me your arm," I said to the girl. "And he won't dare to annoy us
further."

She took my arm without a word, still trembling with excitement and
terror. Oh, obtrusive gentleman! How I blessed you at that moment! I
stole a glance at her, she was very charming and dark--I had guessed
right.

On her black eyelashes there still glistened a tear--from her recent
terror or her former grief--I don't know. But there was already a gleam
of a smile on her lips. She too stole a glance at me, faintly blushed
and looked down.

"There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing
would have happened...."

"But I did not know you; I thought that you too...."

"Why, do you know me now?"

"A little! Here, for instance, why are you trembling?"

"Oh, you are right at the first guess!" I answered, delighted that my
girl had intelligence; that is never out of place in company with
beauty. "Yes, from the first glance you have guessed the sort of man you
have to do with. Precisely; I am shy with women, I am agitated, I don't
deny it, as much so as you were a minute ago when that gentleman alarmed
you. I am in some alarm now. It's like a dream, and I never guessed even
in my sleep that I should ever talk with any woman."

"What? Really?..."

"Yes; if my arm trembles, it is because it has never been held by a
pretty little hand like yours. I am a complete stranger to women; that
is, I have never been used to them. You see, I am alone.... I don't even
know how to talk to them. Here, I don't know now whether I have not said
something silly to you! Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence?..."

"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home."

"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances...."

"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice."

"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire...."

"To be liked, eh?"

"Well, yes; but do, for goodness' sake, be kind. Think what I am! Here,
I am twenty-six and I have never seen any one. How can I speak well,
tactfully, and to the point? It will seem better to you when I have told
you everything openly.... I don't know how to be silent when my heart is
speaking. Well, never mind.... Believe me, not one woman, never, never!
No acquaintance of any sort! And I do nothing but dream every day that
at last I shall meet some one. Oh, if only you knew how often I have
been in love in that way...."

"How? With whom?..."

"Why, with no one, with an ideal, with the one I dream of in my sleep. I
make up regular romances in my dreams. Ah, you don't know me! It's true,
of course, I have met two or three women, but what sort of women were
they? They were all landladies, that.... But I shall make you laugh if I
tell you that I have several times thought of speaking, just simply
speaking, to some aristocratic lady in the street, when she is alone, I
need hardly say; speaking to her, of course, timidly, respectfully,
passionately; telling her that I am perishing in solitude, begging her
not to send me away; saying that I have no chance of making the
acquaintance of any woman; impressing upon her that it is a positive
duty for a woman not to repulse so timid a prayer from such a luckless
man as me. That, in fact, all I ask is, that she should say two or three
sisterly words with sympathy, should not repulse me at first sight;
should take me on trust and listen to what I say; should laugh at me if
she likes, encourage me, say two words to me, only two words, even
though we never meet again afterwards!... But you are laughing; however,
that is why I am telling you...."

"Don't be vexed; I am only laughing at your being your own enemy, and if
you had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been
in the street; the simpler the better.... No kind-hearted woman, unless
she were stupid or, still more, vexed about something at the moment,
could bring herself to send you away without those two words which you
ask for so timidly.... But what am I saying? Of course she would take
you for a madman. I was judging by myself; I know a good deal about
other people's lives."

"Oh, thank you," I cried; "you don't know what you have done for me
now!"

"I am glad! I am glad! But tell me how did you find out that I was the
sort of woman with whom ... well, whom you think worthy ... of attention
and friendship ... in fact, not a landlady as you say? What made you
decide to come up to me?"

"What made me?... But you were alone; that gentleman was too insolent;
it's night. You must admit that it was a duty...."

"No, no; I mean before, on the other side--you know you meant to come up
to me."

"On the other side? Really I don't know how to answer; I am afraid
to.... Do you know I have been happy to-day? I walked along singing; I
went out into the country; I have never had such happy moments. You ...
perhaps it was my fancy.... Forgive me for referring to it; I fancied
you were crying, and I ... could not bear to hear it ... it made my
heart ache.... Oh, my goodness! Surely I might be troubled about you?
Surely there was no harm in feeling brotherly compassion for you.... I
beg your pardon, I said compassion.... Well, in short, surely you would
not be offended at my involuntary impulse to go up to you?..."

"Stop, that's enough, don't talk of it," said the girl, looking down,
and pressing my hand. "It's my fault for having spoken of it; but I am
glad I was not mistaken in you.... But here I am home; I must go down
this turning, it's two steps from here.... Good-bye, thank you!..."

"Surely ... surely you don't mean ... that we shall never see each other
again?... Surely this is not to be the end?"

"You see," said the girl, laughing, "at first you only wanted two words,
and now.... However, I won't say anything ... perhaps we shall meet...."

"I shall come here to-morrow," I said. "Oh, forgive me, I am already
making demands...."

"Yes, you are not very patient ... you are almost insisting."

"Listen, listen!" I interrupted her. "Forgive me if I tell you something
else.... I tell you what, I can't help coming here to-morrow, I am a
dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as
this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again
in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a
whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow, just here to this
place, just at the same hour, and I shall be happy remembering to-day.
This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such
places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories ... like you....
Who knows, perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory....
But, forgive me, I have forgotten myself again; perhaps you have once
been particularly happy here...."

"Very good," said the girl, "perhaps I will come here to-morrow, too, at
ten o'clock. I see that I can't forbid you.... The fact is, I have to be
here; don't imagine that I am making an appointment with you; I tell you
beforehand that I have to be here on my own account. But ... well, I
tell you straight out, I don't mind if you do come. To begin with,
something unpleasant might happen as it did to-day, but never mind
that.... In short, I should simply like to see you ... to say two words
to you. Only, mind, you must not think the worse of me now! Don't think
I make appointments so lightly.... I shouldn't make it except that....
But let that be my secret! Only a compact beforehand...."

"A compact! Speak, tell me, tell me all beforehand; I agree to anything,
I am ready for anything," I cried delighted. "I answer for myself, I
will be obedient, respectful ... you know me...."

"It's just because I do know you that I ask you to come to-morrow," said
the girl, laughing. "I know you perfectly. But mind you will come on the
condition, in the first place (only be good, do what I ask--you see, I
speak frankly), you won't fall in love with me.... That's impossible, I
assure you. I am ready for friendship; here's my hand.... But you
mustn't fall in love with me, I beg you!"

"I swear," I cried, gripping her hand....

"Hush, don't swear, I know you are ready to flare up like gunpowder.
Don't think ill of me for saying so. If only you knew.... I, too, have
no one to whom I can say a word, whose advice I can ask. Of course, one
does not look for an adviser in the street; but you are an exception. I
know you as though we had been friends for twenty years.... You won't
deceive me, will you?..."

"You will see ... the only thing is, I don't know how I am going to
survive the next twenty-four hours."

"Sleep soundly. Good-night, and remember that I have trusted you
already. But you exclaimed so nicely just now, 'Surely one can't be held
responsible for every feeling, even for brotherly sympathy!' Do you
know, that was so nicely said, that the idea struck me at once, that I
might confide in you?"

"For God's sake do; but about what? What is it?"

"Wait till to-morrow. Meanwhile, let that be a secret. So much the
better for you; it will give it a faint flavour of romance. Perhaps I
will tell you to-morrow, and perhaps not.... I will talk to you a little
more beforehand; we will get to know each other better...."

"Oh yes, I will tell you all about myself to-morrow! But what has
happened? It is as though a miracle had befallen me.... My God, where am
I? Come, tell me aren't you glad that you were not angry and did not
drive me away at the first moment, as any other woman would have done?
In two minutes you have made me happy for ever. Yes, happy; who knows,
perhaps, you have reconciled me with myself, solved my doubts!...
Perhaps such moments come upon me.... But there I will tell you all
about it to-morrow, you shall know everything, everything...."

"Very well, I consent; you shall begin...."

"Agreed."

"Good-bye till to-morrow!"

"Till to-morrow!"

And we parted. I walked about all night; I could not make up my mind to
go home. I was so happy.... To-morrow!


SECOND NIGHT

"Well, so you have survived!" she said, pressing both my hands.

"I've been here for the last two hours; you don't know what a state I
have been in all day."

"I know, I know. But to business. Do you know why I have come? Not to
talk nonsense, as I did yesterday. I tell you what, we must behave more
sensibly in future. I thought a great deal about it last night."

"In what way--in what must we be more sensible? I am ready for my part;
but, really, nothing more sensible has happened to me in my life than
this, now."

"Really? In the first place, I beg you not to squeeze my hands so;
secondly, I must tell you that I spent a long time thinking about you
and feeling doubtful to-day."

"And how did it end?"

"How did it end? The upshot of it is that we must begin all over again,
because the conclusion I reached to-day was that I don't know you at
all; that I behaved like a baby last night, like a little girl; and, of
course, the fact of it is, that it's my soft heart that is to
blame--that is, I sang my own praises, as one always does in the end
when one analyses one's conduct. And therefore to correct my mistake,
I've made up my mind to find out all about you minutely. But as I have
no one from whom I can find out anything, you must tell me everything
fully yourself. Well, what sort of man are you? Come, make
haste--begin--tell me your whole history."

"My history!" I cried in alarm. "My history! But who has told you I have
a history? I have no history...."

"Then how have you lived, if you have no history?" she interrupted,
laughing.

"Absolutely without any history! I have lived, as they say, keeping
myself to myself, that is, utterly alone--alone, entirely alone. Do you
know what it means to be alone?"

"But how alone? Do you mean you never saw any one?"

"Oh no, I see people, of course; but still I am alone."

"Why, do you never talk to any one?"

"Strictly speaking, with no one."

"Who are you then? Explain yourself! Stay, I guess: most likely, like me
you have a grandmother. She is blind and will never let me go anywhere,
so that I have almost forgotten how to talk; and when I played some
pranks two years ago, and she saw there was no holding me in, she called
me up and pinned my dress to hers, and ever since we sit like that for
days together; she knits a stocking, though she's blind, and I sit
beside her, sew or read aloud to her--it's such a queer habit, here for
two years I've been pinned to her...."

"Good Heavens! what misery! But no, I haven't a grandmother like that."

"Well, if you haven't why do you sit at home?..."

"Listen, do you want to know the sort of man I am?"

"Yes, yes!"

"In the strict sense of the word?"

"In the very strictest sense of the word."

"Very well, I am a type!"

"Type, type! What sort of type?" cried the girl, laughing, as though she
had not had a chance of laughing for a whole year. "Yes, it's very
amusing talking to you. Look, here's a seat, let us sit down. No one is
passing here, no one will hear us, and--begin your history. For it's no
good your telling me, I know you have a history; only you are concealing
it. To begin with, what is a type?"

"A type? A type is an original, it's an absurd person!" I said, infected
by her childish laughter. "It's a character. Listen; do you know what is
meant by a dreamer?"

"A dreamer! Indeed I should think I do know. I am a dreamer myself.
Sometimes, as I sit by grandmother, all sorts of things come into my
head. Why, when one begins dreaming one lets one's fancy run away with
one--why, I marry a Chinese Prince!... Though sometimes it is a good
thing to dream! But, goodness knows! Especially when one has something
to think of apart from dreams," added the girl, this time rather
seriously.

"Excellent! If you have been married to a Chinese Emperor, you will
quite understand me. Come, listen.... But one minute, I don't know your
name yet."

"At last! You have been in no hurry to think of it!"

"Oh, my goodness! It never entered my head, I felt quite happy as it
was...."

"My name is Nastenka."

"Nastenka! And nothing else?"

"Nothing else! Why, is not that enough for you, you insatiable person?"

"Not enough? On the contrary, it's a great deal, a very great deal,
Nastenka; you kind girl, if you are Nastenka for me from the first."

"Quite so! Well?"

"Well, listen, Nastenka, now for this absurd history."

I sat down beside her, assumed a pedantically serious attitude, and
began as though reading from a manuscript:--

"There are, Nastenka, though you may not know it, strange nooks in
Petersburg. It seems as though the same sun as shines for all Petersburg
people does not peep into those spots, but some other different new one,
bespoken expressly for those nooks, and it throws a different light on
everything. In these corners, dear Nastenka, quite a different life is
lived, quite unlike the life that is surging round us, but such as
perhaps exists in some unknown realm, not among us in our serious,
over-serious, time. Well, that life is a mixture of something purely
fantastic, fervently ideal, with something (alas! Nastenka) dingily
prosaic and ordinary, not to say incredibly vulgar."

"Foo! Good Heavens! What a preface! What do I hear?"

"Listen, Nastenka. (It seems to me I shall never be tired of calling you
Nastenka.) Let me tell you that in these corners live strange
people--dreamers. The dreamer--if you want an exact definition--is not a
human being, but a creature of an intermediate sort. For the most part
he settles in some inaccessible corner, as though hiding from the light
of day; once he slips into his corner, he grows to it like a snail, or,
anyway, he is in that respect very much like that remarkable creature,
which is an animal and a house both at once, and is called a tortoise.
Why do you suppose he is so fond of his four walls, which are invariably
painted green, grimy, dismal and reeking unpardonably of tobacco smoke?
Why is it that when this absurd gentleman is visited by one of his few
acquaintances (and he ends by getting rid of all his friends), why does
this absurd person meet him with such embarrassment, changing
countenance and overcome with confusion, as though he had only just
committed some crime within his four walls; as though he had been
forging counterfeit notes, or as though he were writing verses to be
sent to a journal with an anonymous letter, in which he states that the
real poet is dead, and that his friend thinks it his sacred duty to
publish his things? Why, tell me, Nastenka, why is it conversation is
not easy between the two friends? Why is there no laughter? Why does no
lively word fly from the tongue of the perplexed newcomer, who at other
times may be very fond of laughter, lively words, conversation about the
fair sex, and other cheerful subjects? And why does this friend,
probably a new friend and on his first visit--for there will hardly be a
second, and the friend will never come again--why is the friend himself
so confused, so tongue-tied, in spite of his wit (if he has any), as he
looks at the downcast face of his host, who in his turn becomes utterly
helpless and at his wits' end after gigantic but fruitless efforts to
smooth things over and enliven the conversation, to show his knowledge
of polite society, to talk, too, of the fair sex, and by such humble
endeavour, to please the poor man, who like a fish out of water has
mistakenly come to visit him? Why does the gentleman, all at once
remembering some very necessary business which never existed, suddenly
seize his hat and hurriedly make off, snatching away his hand from the
warm grip of his host, who was trying his utmost to show his regret and
retrieve the lost position? Why does the friend chuckle as he goes out
of the door, and swear never to come and see this queer creature again,
though the queer creature is really a very good fellow, and at the same
time he cannot refuse his imagination the little diversion of comparing
the queer fellow's countenance during their conversation with the
expression of an unhappy kitten treacherously captured, roughly handled,
frightened and subjected to all sorts of indignities by children, till,
utterly crestfallen, it hides away from them under a chair in the dark,
and there must needs at its leisure bristle up, spit, and wash its
insulted face with both paws, and long afterwards look angrily at life
and nature, and even at the bits saved from the master's dinner for it
by the sympathetic housekeeper?"

"Listen," interrupted Nastenka, who had listened to me all the time in
amazement, opening her eyes and her little mouth. "Listen; I don't know
in the least why it happened and why you ask me such absurd questions;
all I know is, that this adventure must have happened word for word to
you."

"Doubtless," I answered, with the gravest face.

"Well, since there is no doubt about it, go on," said Nastenka, "because
I want very much to know how it will end."

"You want to know, Nastenka, what our hero, that is I--for the hero of
the whole business was my humble self--did in his corner? You want to
know why I lost my head and was upset for the whole day by the
unexpected visit of a friend? You want to know why I was so startled,
why I blushed when the door of my room was opened, why I was not able to
entertain my visitor, and why I was crushed under the weight of my own
hospitality?"

"Why, yes, yes," answered Nastenka, "that's the point. Listen. You
describe it all splendidly, but couldn't you perhaps describe it a
little less splendidly? You talk as though you were reading it out of a
book."

"Nastenka," I answered in a stern and dignified voice, hardly able to
keep from laughing, "dear Nastenka, I know I describe splendidly, but,
excuse me, I don't know how else to do it. At this moment, dear
Nastenka, at this moment I am like the spirit of King Solomon when,
after lying a thousand years under seven seals in his urn, those seven
seals were at last taken off. At this moment, Nastenka, when we have met
at last after such a long separation--for I have known you for ages,
Nastenka, because I have been looking for some one for ages, and that is
a sign that it was you I was looking for, and it was ordained that we
should meet now--at this moment a thousand valves have opened in my
head, and I must let myself flow in a river of words, or I shall choke.
And so I beg you not to interrupt me, Nastenka, but listen humbly and
obediently, or I will be silent."

"No, no, no! Not at all. Go on! I won't say a word!"

"I will continue. There is, my friend Nastenka, one hour in my day which
I like extremely. That is the hour when almost all business, work and
duties are over, and every one is hurrying home to dinner, to lie down,
to rest, and on the way all are cogitating on other more cheerful
subjects relating to their evenings, their nights, and all the rest of
their free time. At that hour our hero--for allow me, Nastenka, to tell
my story in the third person, for one feels awfully ashamed to tell it
in the first person--and so at that hour our hero, who had his work too,
was pacing along after the others. But a strange feeling of pleasure set
his pale, rather crumpled-looking face working. He looked not with
indifference on the evening glow which was slowly fading on the cold
Petersburg sky. When I say he looked, I am lying: he did not look at it,
but saw it as it were without realizing, as though tired or preoccupied
with some other more interesting subject, so that he could scarcely
spare a glance for anything about him. He was pleased because till next
day he was released from business irksome to him, and happy as a
schoolboy let out from the class-room to his games and mischief. Take a
look at him, Nastenka; you will see at once that joyful emotion has
already had an effect on his weak nerves and morbidly excited fancy. You
see he is thinking of something.... Of dinner, do you imagine? Of the
evening? What is he looking at like that? Is it at that gentleman of
dignified appearance who is bowing so picturesquely to the lady who
rolls by in a carriage drawn by prancing horses? No, Nastenka; what are
all those trivialities to him now! He is rich now with his _own
individual_ life; he has suddenly become rich, and it is not for
nothing that the fading sunset sheds its farewell gleams so gaily before
him, and calls forth a swarm of impressions from his warmed heart. Now
he hardly notices the road, on which the tiniest details at other times
would strike him. Now 'the Goddess of Fancy' (if you have read
Zhukovsky, dear Nastenka) has already with fantastic hand spun her
golden warp and begun weaving upon it patterns of marvellous magic
life--and who knows, maybe, her fantastic hand has borne him to the
seventh crystal heaven far from the excellent granite pavement on which
he was walking his way? Try stopping him now, ask him suddenly where he
is standing now, through what streets he is going--he will, probably
remember nothing, neither where he is going nor where he is standing
now, and flushing with vexation he will certainly tell some lie to save
appearances. That is why he starts, almost cries out, and looks round
with horror when a respectable old lady stops him politely in the middle
of the pavement and asks her way. Frowning with vexation he strides on,
scarcely noticing that more than one passer-by smiles and turns round to
look after him, and that a little girl, moving out of his way in alarm,
laughs aloud, gazing open-eyed at his broad meditative smile and
gesticulations. But fancy catches up in its playful flight the old
woman, the curious passers-by, and the laughing child, and the peasants
spending their nights in their barges on Fontanka (our hero, let us
suppose, is walking along the canal-side at that moment), and
capriciously weaves every one and everything into the canvas like a fly
in a spider's web. And it is only after the queer fellow has returned to
his comfortable den with fresh stores for his mind to work on, has sat
down and finished his dinner, that he comes to himself, when Matrona who
waits upon him--always thoughtful and depressed--clears the table and
gives him his pipe; he comes to himself then and recalls with surprise
that he has dined, though he has absolutely no notion how it has
happened. It has grown dark in the room; his soul is sad and empty; the
whole kingdom of fancies drops to pieces about him, drops to pieces
without a trace, without a sound, floats away like a dream, and he
cannot himself remember what he was dreaming. But a vague sensation
faintly stirs his heart and sets it aching, some new desire temptingly
tickles and excites his fancy, and imperceptibly evokes a swarm of fresh
phantoms. Stillness reigns in the little room; imagination is fostered
by solitude and idleness; it is faintly smouldering, faintly simmering,
like the water with which old Matrona is making her coffee as she moves
quietly about in the kitchen close by. Now it breaks out spasmodically;
and the book, picked up aimlessly and at random, drops from my dreamer's
hand before he has reached the third page. His imagination is again
stirred and at work, and again a new world, a new fascinating life opens
vistas before him. A fresh dream--fresh happiness! A fresh rush of
delicate, voluptuous poison! What is real life to him! To his corrupted
eyes we live, you and I, Nastenka, so torpidly, slowly, insipidly; in
his eyes we are all so dissatisfied with our fate, so exhausted by our
life! And, truly, see how at first sight everything is cold, morose, as
though ill-humoured among us.... Poor things! thinks our dreamer. And it
is no wonder that he thinks it! Look at these magic phantasms, which so
enchantingly, so whimsically, so carelessly and freely group before him
in such a magic, animated picture, in which the most prominent figure in
the foreground is of course himself, our dreamer, in his precious
person. See what varied adventures, what an endless swarm of ecstatic
dreams. You ask, perhaps, what he is dreaming of. Why ask that?--why, of
everything ... of the lot of the poet, first unrecognized, then crowned
with laurels; of friendship with Hoffmann, St. Bartholomew's Night, of
Diana Vernon, of playing the hero at the taking of Kazan by Ivan
Vassilyevitch, of Clara Mowbray, of Effie Deans, of the council of the
prelates and Huss before them, of the rising of the dead in 'Robert the
Devil' (do you remember the music, it smells of the churchyard!), of
Minna and Brenda, of the battle of Berezina, of the reading of a poem at
Countess V. D.'s, of Danton, of Cleopatra _ei suoi amanti_, of a
little house in Kolomna, of a little home of one's own and beside one a
dear creature who listens to one on a winter's evening, opening her
little mouth and eyes as you are listening to me now, my angel.... No,
Nastenka, what is there, what is there for him, voluptuous sluggard, in
this life, for which you and I have such a longing? He thinks that this
is a poor pitiful life, not foreseeing that for him too, maybe, sometime
the mournful hour may strike, when for one day of that pitiful life he
would give all his years of phantasy, and would give them not only for
joy and for happiness, but without caring to make distinctions in that
hour of sadness, remorse and unchecked grief. But so far that
threatening has not arrived--he desires nothing, because he is superior
to all desire, because he has everything, because he is satiated,
because he is the artist of his own life, and creates it for himself
every hour to suit his latest whim. And you know this fantastic world of
fairyland is so easily, so naturally created! As though it were not a
delusion! Indeed, he is ready to believe at some moments that all this
life is not suggested by feeling, is not mirage, not a delusion of the
imagination, but that it is concrete, real, substantial! Why is it,
Nastenka, why is it at such moments one holds one's breath? Why, by what
sorcery, through what incomprehensible caprice, is the pulse quickened,
does a tear start from the dreamer's eye, while his pale moist cheeks
glow, while his whole being is suffused with an inexpressible sense of
consolation? Why is it that whole sleepless nights pass like a flash in
inexhaustible gladness and happiness, and when the dawn gleams rosy at
the window and daybreak floods the gloomy room with uncertain, fantastic
light, as in Petersburg, our dreamer, worn out and exhausted, flings
himself on his bed and drops asleep with thrills of delight in his
morbidly overwrought spirit, and with a weary sweet ache in his heart?
Yes, Nastenka, one deceives oneself and unconsciously believes that real
true passion is stirring one's soul; one unconsciously believes that
there is something living, tangible in one's immaterial dreams! And is
it delusion? Here love, for instance, is bound up with all its
fathomless joy, all its torturing agonies in his bosom.... Only look at
him, and you will be convinced! Would you believe, looking at him, dear
Nastenka, that he has never known her whom he loves in his ecstatic
dreams? Can it be that he has only seen her in seductive visions, and
that this passion has been nothing but a dream? Surely they must have
spent years hand in hand together--alone the two of them, casting off
all the world and each uniting his or her life with the other's? Surely
when the hour of parting came she must have lain sobbing and grieving on
his bosom, heedless of the tempest raging under the sullen sky, heedless
of the wind which snatches and bears away the tears from her black
eyelashes? Can all of that have been a dream--and that garden, dejected,
forsaken, run wild, with its little moss-grown paths, solitary, gloomy,
where they used to walk so happily together, where they hoped, grieved,
loved, loved each other so long, "so long and so fondly?" And that queer
ancestral house where she spent so many years lonely and sad with her
morose old husband, always silent and splenetic, who frightened them,
while timid as children they hid their love from each other? What
torments they suffered, what agonies of terror, how innocent, how pure
was their love, and how (I need hardly say, Nastenka) malicious people
were! And, good Heavens! surely he met her afterwards, far from their
native shores, under alien skies, in the hot south in the divinely
eternal city, in the dazzling splendour of the ball to the crash of
music, in a _palazzo_ (it must be in a _palazzo_), drowned in
a sea of lights, on the balcony, wreathed in myrtle and roses, where,
recognizing him, she hurriedly removes her mask and whispering, 'I am
free,' flings herself trembling into his arms, and with a cry of
rapture, clinging to one another, in one instant they forget their
sorrow and their parting and all their agonies, and the gloomy house and
the old man and the dismal garden in that distant land, and the seat on
which with a last passionate kiss she tore herself away from his arms
numb with anguish and despair.... Oh, Nastenka, you must admit that one
would start, betray confusion, and blush like a schoolboy who has just
stuffed in his pocket an apple stolen from a neighbour's garden, when
your uninvited visitor, some stalwart, lanky fellow, a festive soul fond
of a joke, opens your door and shouts out as though nothing were
happening: 'My dear boy, I have this minute come from Pavlovsk.' My
goodness! the old count is dead, unutterable happiness is close at
hand--and people arrive from Pavlovsk!"

Finishing my pathetic appeal, I paused pathetically. I remembered that I
had an intense desire to force myself to laugh, for I was already
feeling that a malignant demon was stirring within me, that there was a
lump in my throat, that my chin was beginning to twitch, and that my
eyes were growing more and more moist.

I expected Nastenka, who listened to me opening her clever eyes, would
break into her childish, irrepressible laugh; and I was already
regretting that I had gone so far, that I had unnecessarily described
what had long been simmering in my heart, about which I could speak as
though from a written account of it, because I had long ago passed
judgment on myself and now could not resist reading it, making my
confession, without expecting to be understood; but to my surprise she
was silent, waiting a little, then she faintly pressed my hand and with
timid sympathy asked--

"Surely you haven't lived like that all your life?"

"All my life, Nastenka," I answered; "all my life, and it seems to me I
shall go on so to the end."

"No, that won't do," she said uneasily, "that must not be; and so,
maybe, I shall spend all my life beside grandmother. Do you know, it is
not at all good to live like that?"

"I know, Nastenka, I know!" I cried, unable to restrain my feelings
longer. "And I realize now, more than ever, that I have lost all my best
years! And now I know it and feel it more painfully from recognizing
that God has sent me you, my good angel, to tell me that and show it.
Now that I sit beside you and talk to you it is strange for me to think
of the future, for in the future--there is loneliness again, again this
musty, useless life; and what shall I have to dream of when I have been
so happy in reality beside you! Oh, may you be blessed, dear girl, for
not having repulsed me at first, for enabling me to say that for two
evenings, at least, I have lived."

"Oh, no, no!" cried Nastenka and tears glistened in her eyes. "No, it
mustn't be so any more; we must not part like that! what are two
evenings?"

"Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! Do you know how far you have reconciled me to
myself? Do you know now that I shall not think so ill of myself, as I
have at some moments? Do you know that, maybe, I shall leave off
grieving over the crime and sin of my life? for such a life is a crime
and a sin. And do not imagine that I have been exaggerating
anything--for goodness' sake don't think that, Nastenka: for at times
such misery comes over me, such misery.... Because it begins to seem to
me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life,
because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch, all instinct for
the actual, the real; because at last I have cursed myself; because
after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety, which
are awful! Meanwhile, you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the
vortex of life around you; you hear, you see, men living in reality; you
see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float
away like a dream, like a vision; that their life is being eternally
renewed, eternally youthful, and not one hour of it is the same as
another; while fancy is so spiritless, monotonous to vulgarity and
easily scared, the slave of shadows, of the idea, the slave of the first
cloud that shrouds the sun, and overcasts with depression the true
Petersburg heart so devoted to the sun--and what is fancy in depression!
One feels that this _inexhaustible_ fancy is weary at last and worn
out with continual exercise, because one is growing into manhood,
outgrowing one's old ideals: they are being shattered into fragments,
into dust; if there is no other life one must build one up from the
fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else!
And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though seeking a
spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, to warm his chilled
heart by the rekindled fire, and to rouse up in it again all that was so
sweet, that touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears
from his eyes, and so luxuriously deceived him! Do you know, Nastenka,
the point I have reached? Do you know that I am forced now to celebrate
the anniversary of my own sensations, the anniversary of that which was
once so sweet, which never existed in reality--for this anniversary is
kept in memory of those same foolish, shadowy dreams--and to do this
because those foolish dreams are no more, because I have nothing to earn
them with; you know even dreams do not come for nothing! Do you know
that I love now to recall and visit at certain dates the places where I
was once happy in my own way? I love to build up my present in harmony
with the irrevocable past, and I often wander like a shadow, aimless,
sad and dejected, about the streets and crooked lanes of Petersburg.
What memories they are! To remember, for instance, that here just a year
ago, just at this time, at this hour, on this pavement, I wandered just
as lonely, just as dejected as to-day. And one remembers that then one's
dreams were sad, and though the past was no better one feels as though
it had somehow been better, and that life was more peaceful, that one
was free from the black thoughts that haunt one now; that one was free
from the gnawing of conscience--the gloomy, sullen gnawing which now
gives me no rest by day or by night. And one asks oneself where are
one's dreams. And one shakes one's head and says how rapidly the years
fly by! And again one asks oneself what has one done with one's years.
Where have you buried your best days? Have you lived or not? Look, one
says to oneself, look how cold the world is growing. Some more years
will pass, and after them will come gloomy solitude; then will come old
age trembling on its crutch, and after it misery and desolation. Your
fantastic world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die and will
fall like the yellow leaves from the trees.... Oh, Nastenka! you know it
will be sad to be left alone, utterly alone, and to have not even
anything to regret--nothing, absolutely nothing ... for all that you
have lost, all that, all was nothing, stupid, simple nullity, there has
been nothing but dreams!"

"Come, don't work on my feelings any more," said Nastenka, wiping away a
tear which was trickling down her cheek. "Now it's over! Now we shall be
two together. Now, whatever happens to me, we will never part. Listen; I
am a simple girl, I have not had much education, though grandmother did
get a teacher for me, but truly I understand you, for all that you have
described I have been through myself, when grandmother pinned me to her
dress. Of course, I should not have described it so well as you have; I
am not educated," she added timidly, for she was still feeling a sort of
respect for my pathetic eloquence and lofty style; "but I am very glad
that you have been quite open with me. Now I know you thoroughly, all of
you. And do you know what? I want to tell you my history too, all
without concealment, and after that you must give me advice. You are a
very clever man; will you promise to give me advice?"

"Ah, Nastenka," I cried, "though I have never given advice, still less
sensible advice, yet I see now that if we always go on like this that it
will be very sensible, and that each of us will give the other a great
deal of sensible advice! Well, my pretty Nastenka, what sort of advice
do you want? Tell me frankly; at this moment I am so gay and happy, so
bold and sensible, that it won't be difficult for me to find words."

"No, no!" Nastenka interrupted, laughing. "I don't only want sensible
advice, I want warm brotherly advice, as though you had been fond of me
all your life!"

"Agreed, Nastenka, agreed!" I cried delighted; "and if I had been fond
of you for twenty years, I couldn't have been fonder of you than I am
now."

"Your hand," said Nastenka.

"Here it is," said I, giving her my hand.

"And so let us begin my history!"


NASTENKA'S HISTORY

"Half my story you know already--that is, you know that I have an old
grandmother...."

"If the other half is as brief as that ..." I interrupted, laughing.

"Be quiet and listen. First of all you must agree not to interrupt me,
or else, perhaps I shall get in a muddle! Come, listen quietly.

"I have an old grandmother. I came into her hands when I was quite a
little girl, for my father and mother are dead. It must be supposed that
grandmother was once richer, for now she recalls better days. She taught
me French, and then got a teacher for me. When I was fifteen (and now I
am seventeen) we gave up having lessons. It was at that time that I got
into mischief; what I did I won't tell you; it's enough to say that it
wasn't very important. But grandmother called me to her one morning and
said that as she was blind she could not look after me; she took a pin
and pinned my dress to hers, and said that we should sit like that for
the rest of our lives if, of course, I did not become a better girl. In
fact, at first it was impossible to get away from her: I had to work, to
read and to study all beside grandmother. I tried to deceive her once,
and persuaded Fekla to sit in my place. Fekla is our charwoman, she is
deaf. Fekla sat there instead of me; grandmother was asleep in her
armchair at the time, and I went off to see a friend close by. Well, it
ended in trouble. Grandmother woke up while I was out, and asked some
questions; she thought I was still sitting quietly in my place. Fekla
saw that grandmother was asking her something, but could not tell what
it was; she wondered what to do, undid the pin and ran away...."

At this point Nastenka stopped and began laughing. I laughed with her.
She left off at once.

"I tell you what, don't you laugh at grandmother. I laugh because it's
funny.... What can I do, since grandmother is like that; but yet I am
fond of her in a way. Oh, well, I did catch it that time. I had to sit
down in my place at once, and after that I was not allowed to stir.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that our house belongs to us, that is to
grandmother; it is a little wooden house with three windows as old as
grandmother herself, with a little upper storey; well, there moved into
our upper storey a new lodger."

"Then you had an old lodger," I observed casually.

"Yes, of course," answered Nastenka, "and one who knew how to hold his
tongue better than you do. In fact, he hardly ever used his tongue at
all. He was a dumb, blind, lame, dried-up little old man, so that at
last he could not go on living, he died; so then we had to find a new
lodger, for we could not live without a lodger--the rent, together with
grandmother's pension, is almost all we have. But the new lodger, as
luck would have it, was a young man, a stranger not of these parts. As
he did not haggle over the rent, grandmother accepted him, and only
afterwards she asked me: 'Tell me, Nastenka, what is our lodger like--is
he young or old?' I did not want to lie, so I told grandmother that he
wasn't exactly young and that he wasn't old.

"'And is he pleasant looking?' asked grandmother.

"Again I did not want to tell a lie: 'Yes, he is pleasant looking,
grandmother,' I said. And grandmother said: 'Oh, what a nuisance, what a
nuisance! I tell you this, grandchild, that you may not be looking after
him. What times these are! Why a paltry lodger like this, and he must be
pleasant looking too; it was very different in the old days!'"

"Grandmother was always regretting the old days--she was younger in old
days, and the sun was warmer in old days, and cream did not turn so sour
in old days--it was always the old days! I would sit still and hold my
tongue and think to myself: why did grandmother suggest it to me? Why
did she ask whether the lodger was young and good-looking? But that was
all, I just thought it, began counting my stitches again, went on
knitting my stocking, and forgot all about it.

"Well, one morning the lodger came in to see us; he asked about a
promise to paper his rooms. One thing led to another. Grandmother was
talkative, and she said: 'Go, Nastenka, into my bedroom and bring me my
reckoner.' I jumped up at once; I blushed all over, I don't know why,
and forgot I was sitting pinned to grandmother; instead of quietly
undoing the pin, so that the lodger should not see--I jumped so that
grandmother's chair moved. When I saw that the lodger knew all about me
now, I blushed, stood still as though I had been shot, and suddenly
began to cry--I felt so ashamed and miserable at that minute, that I
didn't know where to look! Grandmother called out, 'What are you waiting
for?' and I went on worse than ever. When the lodger saw, saw that I was
ashamed on his account, he bowed and went away at once!

"After that I felt ready to die at the least sound in the passage. 'It's
the lodger,' I kept thinking; I stealthily undid the pin in case. But it
always turned out not to be, he never came. A fortnight passed; the
lodger sent word through Fyokla that he had a great number of French
books, and that they were all good books that I might read, so would not
grandmother like me to read them that I might not be dull? Grandmother
agreed with gratitude, but kept asking if they were moral books, for if
the books were immoral it would be out of the question, one would learn
evil from them."

"'And what should I learn, grandmother? What is there written in them?'

"'Ah,' she said, 'what's described in them, is how young men seduce
virtuous girls; how, on the excuse that they want to marry them, they
carry them off from their parents' houses; how afterwards they leave
these unhappy girls to their fate, and they perish in the most pitiful
way. I read a great many books,' said grandmother, 'and it is all so
well described that one sits up all night and reads them on the sly. So
mind you don't read them, Nastenka,' said she. 'What books has he sent?'

"'They are all Walter Scott's novels, grandmother.'

"'Walter Scott's novels! But stay, isn't there some trick about it?
Look, hasn't he stuck a love-letter among them?'

"'No, grandmother,' I said, 'there isn't a love-letter.'

"'But look under the binding; they sometimes stuff it under the
bindings, the rascals!'

"'No, grandmother, there is nothing under the binding.'

"'Well, that's all right.'

"So we began reading Walter Scott, and in a month or so we had read
almost half. Then he sent us more and more. He sent us Pushkin, too; so
that at last I could not get on without a book and left off dreaming of
how fine it would be to marry a Chinese Prince.

"That's how things were when I chanced one day to meet our lodger on the
stairs. Grandmother had sent me to fetch something. He stopped, I
blushed and he blushed; he laughed, though, said good-morning to me,
asked after grandmother, and said, 'Well, have you read the books?' I
answered that I had. 'Which did you like best?' he asked. I said,
'Ivanhoe, and Pushkin best of all,' and so our talk ended for that time.

"A week later I met him again on the stairs. That time grandmother had
not sent me, I wanted to get something for myself. It was past two, and
the lodger used to come home at that time. 'Good-afternoon,' said he. I
said good-afternoon, too.

"'Aren't you dull,' he said, 'sitting all day with your grandmother?'

"When he asked that, I blushed, I don't know why; I felt ashamed, and
again I felt offended--I suppose because other people had begun to ask
me about that. I wanted to go away without answering, but I hadn't the
strength.

"'Listen,' he said, 'you are a good girl. Excuse my speaking to you like
that, but I assure you that I wish for your welfare quite as much as
your grandmother. Have you no friends that you could go and visit?'

"I told him I hadn't any, that I had had no friend but Mashenka, and she
had gone away to Pskov.

"'Listen,' he said, 'would you like to go to the theatre with me?'

"'To the theatre. What about grandmother?'

"'But you must go without your grandmother's knowing it,' he said.

"'No,' I said, 'I don't want to deceive grandmother. Good-bye.'

"'Well, good-bye,' he answered, and said nothing more.

"Only after dinner he came to see us; sat a long time talking to
grandmother; asked her whether she ever went out anywhere, whether she
had acquaintances, and suddenly said: 'I have taken a box at the opera
for this evening; they are giving _The Barber of Seville_. My friends
meant to go, but afterwards refused, so the ticket is left on my hands.'
'_The Barber of Seville_,' cried grandmother; 'why, the same they used
to act in old days?'

"'Yes, it's the same barber,' he said, and glanced at me. I saw what it
meant and turned crimson, and my heart began throbbing with suspense.

"'To be sure, I know it,' said grandmother; 'why, I took the part of
Rosina myself in old days, at a private performance!'

"'So wouldn't you like to go to-day?' said the lodger. 'Or my ticket
will be wasted.'

"'By all means let us go,' said grandmother; why shouldn't we? And my
Nastenka here has never been to the theatre.'

"My goodness, what joy! We got ready at once, put on our best clothes,
and set off. Though grandmother was blind, still she wanted to hear the
music; besides, she is a kind old soul, what she cared most for was to
amuse me, we should never have gone of ourselves.

"What my impressions of _The Barber of Seville_ were I won't tell you;
but all that evening our lodger looked at me so nicely, talked so
nicely, that I saw at once that he had meant to test me in the morning
when he proposed that I should go with him alone. Well, it was joy! I
went to bed so proud, so gay, my heart beat so that I was a little
feverish, and all night I was raving about _The Barber of Seville_.

"I expected that he would come and see us more and more often after
that, but it wasn't so at all. He almost entirely gave up coming. He
would just come in about once a month, and then only to invite us to the
theatre. We went twice again. Only I wasn't at all pleased with that; I
saw that he was simply sorry for me because I was so hardly treated by
grandmother, and that was all. As time went on, I grew more and more
restless, I couldn't sit still, I couldn't read, I couldn't work;
sometimes I laughed and did something to annoy grandmother, at another
time I would cry. At last I grew thin and was very nearly ill. The opera
season was over, and our lodger had quite given up coming to see us;
whenever we met--always on the same staircase, of course--he would bow
so silently, so gravely, as though he did not want to speak, and go down
to the front door, while I went on standing in the middle of the stairs,
as red as a cherry, for all the blood rushed to my head at the sight of
him.

"Now the end is near. Just a year ago, in May, the lodger came to us and
said to grandmother that he had finished his business here, and that he
must go back to Moscow for a year. When I heard that, I sank into a
chair half dead; grandmother did not notice anything; and having
informed us that he should be leaving us, he bowed and went away.

"What was I to do? I thought and thought and fretted and fretted, and at
last I made up my mind. Next day he was to go away, and I made up my
mind to end it all that evening when grandmother went to bed. And so it
happened. I made up all my clothes in a parcel--all the linen I
needed--and with the parcel in my hand, more dead than alive, went
upstairs to our lodger. I believe I must have stayed an hour on the
staircase. When I opened his door he cried out as he looked at me. He
thought I was a ghost, and rushed to give me some water, for I could
hardly stand up. My heart beat so violently that my head ached, and I
did not know what I was doing. When I recovered I began by laying my
parcel on his bed, sat down beside it, hid my face in my hands and went
into floods of tears. I think he understood it all at once, and looked
at me so sadly that my heart was torn.

"'Listen,' he began, 'listen, Nastenka, I can't do anything; I am a poor
man, for I have nothing, not even a decent berth. How could we live, if
I were to marry you?'

"We talked a long time; but at last I got quite frantic, I said I could
not go on living with grandmother, that I should run away from her, that
I did not want to be pinned to her, and that I would go to Moscow if he
liked, because I could not live without him. Shame and pride and love
were all clamouring in me at once, and I fell on the bed almost in
convulsions, I was so afraid of a refusal.

"He sat for some minutes in silence, then got up, came up to me and took
me by the hand.

"'Listen, my dear good Nastenka, listen; I swear to you that if I am
ever in a position to marry, you shall make my happiness. I assure you
that now you are the only one who could make me happy. Listen, I am
going to Moscow and shall be there just a year; I hope to establish my
position. When I come back, if you still love me, I swear that we will
be happy. Now it is impossible, I am not able, I have not the right to
promise anything. Well, I repeat, if it is not within a year it will
certainly be some time; that is, of course, if you do not prefer any one
else, for I cannot and dare not bind you by any sort of promise.'

"That was what he said to me, and next day he went away. We agreed
together not to say a word to grandmother: that was his wish. Well, my
history is nearly finished now. Just a year has past. He has arrived; he
has been here three days, and, and----"

"And what?" I cried, impatient to hear the end.

"And up to now has not shown himself!" answered Nastenka, as though
screwing up all her courage. "There's no sign or sound of him."

Here she stopped, paused for a minute, bent her head, and covering her
face with her hands broke into such sobs that it sent a pang to my heart
to hear them. I had not in the least expected such a _denouement_.

"Nastenka," I began timidly in an ingratiating voice, "Nastenka! For
goodness' sake don't cry! How do you know? Perhaps he is not here
yet...."

"He is, he is," Nastenka repeated. "He is here, and I know it. We _made
an agreement_ at the time, that evening, before he went away: when we
said all that I have told you, and had come to an understanding, then we
came out here for a walk on this embankment. It was ten o'clock; we sat
on this seat. I was not crying then; it was sweet to me to hear what he
said.... And he said that he would come to us directly he arrived, and
if I did not refuse him, then we would tell grandmother about it all.
Now he is here, I know it, and yet he does not come!"

And again she burst into tears.

"Good God, can I do nothing to help you in your sorrow?" I cried jumping
up from the seat in utter despair. "Tell me, Nastenka, wouldn't it be
possible for me to go to him?"

"Would that be possible?" she asked suddenly, raising her head.

"No, of course not," I said pulling myself up; "but I tell you what,
write a letter."

"No, that's impossible, I can't do that," she answered with decision,
bending her head and not looking at me.

"How impossible--why is it impossible?" I went on, clinging to my idea.
"But, Nastenka, it depends what sort of letter; there are letters and
letters and.... Ah, Nastenka, I am right; trust to me, trust to me, I
will not give you bad advice. It can all be arranged! You took the first
step--why not now?"

"I can't. I can't! It would seem as though I were forcing myself on
him...."

"Ah, my good little Nastenka," I said, hardly able to conceal a smile;
"no, no, you have a right to, in fact, because he made you a promise.
Besides, I can see from everything that he is a man of delicate feeling;
that he behaved very well," I went on, more and more carried away by the
logic of my own arguments and convictions. "How did he behave? He bound
himself by a promise: he said that if he married at all he would marry
no one but you; he gave you full liberty to refuse him at once.... Under
such circumstances you may take the first step; you have the right; you
are in the privileged position--if, for instance, you wanted to free him
from his promise...."

"Listen; how would you write?"

"Write what?"

"This letter."

"I tell you how I would write: 'Dear Sir.'..."

"Must I really begin like that, 'Dear Sir'?"

"You certainly must! Though, after all, I don't know, I imagine...."

"Well, well, what next?"

"'Dear Sir,--I must apologize for----' But, no, there's no need to
apologize; the fact itself justifies everything. Write simply:--

    "'I am writing to you. Forgive me my impatience; but I have
    been happy for a whole year in hope; am I to blame for being
    unable to endure a day of doubt now? Now that you have come,
    perhaps you have changed your mind. If so, this letter is to
    tell you that I do not repine, nor blame you. I do not blame
    you because I have no power over your heart, such is my
    fate!

    "'You are an honourable man. You will not smile or be vexed
    at these impatient lines. Remember they are written by a
    poor girl; that she is alone; that she has no one to direct
    her, no one to advise her, and that she herself could never
    control her heart. But forgive me that a doubt has
    stolen--if only for one instant--into my heart. You are not
    capable of insulting, even in thought, her who so loved and
    so loves you.'"

"Yes, yes; that's exactly what I was thinking!" cried Nastenka, and her
eyes beamed with delight. "Oh, you have solved my difficulties: God has
sent you to me! Thank you, thank you!"

"What for? What for? For God's sending me?" I answered, looking
delighted at her joyful little face. "Why, yes; for that too."

"Ah, Nastenka! Why, one thanks some people for being alive at the same
time with one; I thank you for having met me, for my being able to
remember you all my life!"

"Well, enough, enough! But now I tell you what, listen: we made an
agreement then that as soon as he arrived he would let me know, by
leaving a letter with some good simple people of my acquaintance who
know nothing about it; or, if it were impossible to write a letter to
me, for a letter does not always tell everything, he would be here at
ten o'clock on the day he arrived, where we had arranged to meet. I know
he has arrived already; but now it's the third day, and there's no sign
of him and no letter. It's impossible for me to get away from
grandmother in the morning. Give my letter to-morrow to those kind
people I spoke to you about: they will send it on to him, and if there
is an answer you bring it to-morrow at ten o'clock."

"But the letter, the letter! You see, you must write the letter first!
So perhaps it must all be the day after to-morrow."

"The letter ..." said Nastenka, a little confused, "the letter ...
but...."

But she did not finish. At first she turned her little face away from
me, flushed like a rose, and suddenly I felt in my hand a letter which
had evidently been written long before, all ready and sealed up. A
familiar sweet and charming reminiscence floated through my mind.

"R, o--Ro; s, i--si; n, a--na," I began.

"Rosina!" we both hummed together; I almost embracing her with delight,
while she blushed as only she could blush, and laughed through the tears
which gleamed like pearls on her black eyelashes.

"Come, enough, enough! Good-bye now," she said speaking rapidly. "Here
is the letter, here is the address to which you are to take it.
Good-bye, till we meet again! Till to-morrow!"

She pressed both my hands warmly, nodded her head, and flew like an
arrow down her side street. I stood still for a long time following her
with my eyes.

"Till to-morrow! till to-morrow!" was ringing in my ears as she vanished
from my sight.


THIRD NIGHT

To-day was a gloomy, rainy day without a glimmer of sunlight, like the
old age before me. I am oppressed by such strange thoughts, such gloomy
sensations; questions still so obscure to me are crowding into my
brain--and I seem to have neither power nor will to settle them. It's
not for me to settle all this!

To-day we shall not meet. Yesterday, when we said good-bye, the clouds
began gathering over the sky and a mist rose. I said that to-morrow it
would be a bad day; she made no answer, she did not want to speak
against her wishes; for her that day was bright and clear, not one cloud
should obscure her happiness.

"If it rains we shall not see each other," she said, "I shall not come."

I thought that she would not notice to-day's rain, and yet she has not
come.

Yesterday was our third interview, our third white night....

But how fine joy and happiness makes any one! How brimming over with
love the heart is! One seems longing to pour out one's whole heart; one
wants everything to be gay, everything to be laughing. And how
infectious that joy is! There was such a softness in her words, such a
kindly feeling in her heart towards me yesterday.... How solicitous and
friendly she was; how tenderly she tried to give me courage! Oh, the
coquetry of happiness! While I ... I took it all for the genuine thing,
I thought that she....

But, my God, how could I have thought it? How could I have been so
blind, when everything had been taken by another already, when nothing
was mine; when, in fact, her very tenderness to me, her anxiety, her
love ... yes, love for me, was nothing else but joy at the thought of
seeing another man so soon, desire to include me, too, in her
happiness?... When he did not come, when we waited in vain, she frowned,
she grew timid and discouraged. Her movements, her words, were no longer
so light, so playful, so gay; and, strange to say, she redoubled her
attentiveness to me, as though instinctively desiring to lavish on me
what she desired for herself so anxiously, if her wishes were not
accomplished. My Nastenka was so downcast, so dismayed, that I think she
realized at last that I loved her, and was sorry for my poor love. So
when we are unhappy we feel the unhappiness of others more; feeling is
not destroyed but concentrated....

I went to meet her with a full heart, and was all impatience. I had no
presentiment that I should feel as I do now, that it would not all end
happily. She was beaming with pleasure; she was expecting an answer. The
answer was himself. He was to come, to run at her call. She arrived a
whole hour before I did. At first she giggled at everything, laughed at
every word I said. I began talking, but relapsed into silence.

"Do you know why I am so glad," she said, "so glad to look at you?--why
I like you so much to-day?"

"Well?" I asked, and my heart began throbbing.

"I like you because you have not fallen in love with me. You know that
some men in your place would have been pestering and worrying me, would
have been sighing and miserable, while you are so nice!"

Then she wrung my hand so hard that I almost cried out. She laughed.

"Goodness, what a friend you are!" she began gravely a minute later.
"God sent you to me. What would have happened to me if you had not been
with me now? How disinterested you are! How truly you care for me! When
I am married we will be great friends, more than brother and sister; I
shall care almost as I do for him...."

I felt horribly sad at that moment, yet something like laughter was
stirring in my soul.

"You are very much upset," I said; "you are frightened; you think he
won't come."

"Oh dear!" she answered; "if I were less happy, I believe I should cry
at your lack of faith, at your reproaches. However, you have made me
think and have given me a lot to think about; but I shall think later,
and now I will own that you are right. Yes, I am somehow not myself; I
am all suspense, and feel everything as it were too lightly. But hush!
that's enough about feelings...."

At that moment we heard footsteps, and in the darkness we saw a figure
coming towards us. We both started; she almost cried out; I dropped her
hand and made a movement as though to walk away. But we were mistaken,
it was not he.

"What are you afraid of? Why did you let go of my hand?" she said,
giving it to me again. "Come, what is it? We will meet him together; I
want him to see how fond we are of each other."

"How fond we are of each other!" I cried. ("Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka," I
thought, "how much you have told me in that saying! Such fondness at
_certain_ moments makes the heart cold and the soul heavy. Your hand is
cold, mine burns like fire. How blind you are, Nastenka!... Oh, how
unbearable a happy person is sometimes! But I could not be angry with
you!")

At last my heart was too full.

"Listen, Nastenka!" I cried. "Do you know how it has been with me all
day."

"Why, how, how? Tell me quickly! Why have you said nothing all this
time?"

"To begin with, Nastenka, when I had carried out all your commissions,
given the letter, gone to see your good friends, then ... then I went
home and went to bed."

"Is that all?" she interrupted, laughing.

"Yes, almost all," I answered restraining myself, for foolish tears were
already starting into my eyes. "I woke an hour before our appointment,
and yet, as it were, I had not been asleep. I don't know what happened
to me. I came to tell you all about it, feeling as though time were
standing still, feeling as though one sensation, one feeling must remain
with me from that time for ever; feeling as though one minute must go on
for all eternity, and as though all life had come to a standstill for
me.... When I woke up it seemed as though some musical motive long
familiar, heard somewhere in the past, forgotten and voluptuously sweet,
had come back to me now. It seemed to me that it had been clamouring at
my heart all my life, and only now...."

"Oh my goodness, my goodness," Nastenka interrupted, "what does all that
mean? I don't understand a word."

"Ah, Nastenka, I wanted somehow to convey to you that strange
impression...." I began in a plaintive voice, in which there still lay
hid a hope, though a very faint one.

"Leave off. Hush!" she said, and in one instant the sly puss had
guessed.

Suddenly she became extraordinarily talkative, gay, mischievous; she
took my arm, laughed, wanted me to laugh too, and every confused word I
uttered evoked from her prolonged ringing laughter.... I began to feel
angry, she had suddenly begun flirting.

"Do you know," she began, "I feel a little vexed that you are not in
love with me? There's no understanding human nature! But all the same,
Mr. Unapproachable, you cannot blame me for being so simple; I tell you
everything, everything, whatever foolish thought comes into my head."

"Listen! That's eleven, I believe," I said as the slow chime of a bell
rang out from a distant tower. She suddenly stopped, left off laughing
and began to count.

"Yes, it's eleven," she said at last in a timid, uncertain voice.

I regretted at once that I had frightened her, making her count the
strokes, and I cursed myself for my spiteful impulse; I felt sorry for
her, and did not know how to atone for what I had done.

I began comforting her, seeking for reasons for his not coming,
advancing various arguments, proofs. No one could have been easier to
deceive than she was at that moment; and, indeed, any one at such a
moment listens gladly to any consolation, whatever it may be, and is
overjoyed if a shadow of excuse can be found.

"And indeed it's an absurd thing," I began, warming to my task and
admiring the extraordinary clearness of my argument, "why, he could not
have come; you have muddled and confused me, Nastenka, so that I too,
have lost count of the time.... Only think: he can scarcely have
received the letter; suppose he is not able to come, suppose he is going
to answer the letter, could not come before to-morrow. I will go for it
as soon as it's light to-morrow and let you know at once. Consider,
there are thousands of possibilities; perhaps he was not at home when
the letter came, and may not have read it even now! Anything may happen,
you know."

"Yes, yes!" said Nastenka. "I did not think of that. Of course anything
may happen?" she went on in a tone that offered no opposition, though
some other far-away thought could be heard like a vexatious discord in
it. "I tell you what you must do," she said, "you go as early as
possible to-morrow morning, and if you get anything let me know at once.
You know where I live, don't you?"

And she began repeating her address to me.

Then she suddenly became so tender, so solicitous with me. She seemed to
listen attentively to what I told her; but when I asked her some
question she was silent, was confused, and turned her head away. I
looked into her eyes--yes, she was crying.

"How can you? How can you? Oh, what a baby you are! what
childishness!... Come, come!"

She tried to smile, to calm herself, but her chin was quivering and her
bosom was still heaving.

"I was thinking about you," she said after a minute's silence. "You are
so kind that I should be a stone if I did not feel it. Do you know what
has occurred to me now? I was comparing you two. Why isn't he you? Why
isn't he like you? He is not as good as you, though I love him more than
you."

I made no answer. She seemed to expect me to say something.

"Of course, it may be that I don't understand him fully yet. You know I
was always as it were afraid of him; he was always so grave, as it were
so proud. Of course I know it's only that he seems like that, I know
there is more tenderness in his heart than in mine.... I remember how he
looked at me when I went in to him--do you remember?--with my bundle;
but yet I respect him too much, and doesn't that show that we are not
equals?"

"No, Nastenka, no," I answered, "it shows that you love him more than
anything in the world, and far more than yourself."

"Yes, supposing that is so," answered Nastenka naively. "But do you know
what strikes me now? Only I am not talking about him now, but speaking
generally; all this came into my mind some time ago. Tell me, how is it
that we can't all be like brothers together? Why is it that even the
best of men always seem to hide something from other people and to keep
something back? Why not say straight out what is in one's heart, when
one knows that one is not speaking idly? As it is every one seems
harsher than he really is, as though all were afraid of doing injustice
to their feelings, by being too quick to express them."

"Oh, Nastenka, what you say is true; but there are many reasons for
that," I broke in suppressing my own feelings at that moment more than
ever.

"No, no!" she answered with deep feeling. "Here you, for instance, are
not like other people! I really don't know how to tell you what I feel;
but it seems to me that you, for instance ... at the present moment ...
it seems to me that you are sacrificing something for me," she added
timidly, with a fleeting glance at me. "Forgive me for saying so, I am a
simple girl you know. I have seen very little of life, and I really
sometimes don't know how to say things," she added in a voice that
quivered with some hidden feeling, while she tried to smile; "but I only
wanted to tell you that I am grateful, that I feel it all too.... Oh,
may God give you happiness for it! What you told me about your dreamer
is quite untrue now--that is, I mean, it's not true of you. You are
recovering, you are quite a different man from what you described. If
you ever fall in love with some one, God give you happiness with her! I
won't wish anything for her, for she will be happy with you. I know, I
am a woman myself, so you must believe me when I tell you so."

She ceased speaking, and pressed my hand warmly. I too could not speak
without emotion. Some minutes passed.

"Yes, it's clear he won't come to-night," she said at last raising her
head. "It's late."

"He will come to-morrow," I said in the most firm and convincing tone.

"Yes," she added with no sign of her former depression. "I see for
myself now that he could not come till to-morrow. Well, good-bye, till
to-morrow. If it rains perhaps I shall not come. But the day after
to-morrow, I shall come. I shall come for certain, whatever happens; be
sure to be here, I want to see you, I will tell you everything."

And then when we parted she gave me her hand and said, looking at me
candidly: "We shall always be together, shan't we?"

Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! If only you knew how lonely I am now!

As soon as it struck nine o'clock I could not stay indoors, but put on
my things, and went out in spite of the weather. I was there, sitting on
our seat. I went to her street, but I felt ashamed, and turned back
without looking at their windows, when I was two steps from her door. I
went home more depressed than I had ever been before. What a damp,
dreary day! If it had been fine I should have walked about all night....

But to-morrow, to-morrow! To-morrow she will tell me everything. The
letter has not come to-day, however. But that was to be expected. They
are together by now....


FOURTH NIGHT

My God, how it has all ended! What it has all ended in! I arrived at
nine o'clock. She was already there. I noticed her a good way off; she
was standing as she had been that first time, with her elbows on the
railing, and she did not hear me coming up to her.

"Nastenka!" I called to her, suppressing my agitation with an effort.

She turned to me quickly.

"Well?" she said. "Well? Make haste!"

I looked at her in perplexity.

"Well, where is the letter? Have you brought the letter?" she repeated
clutching at the railing.

"No, there is no letter," I said at last. "Hasn't he been to you yet?"
She turned fearfully pale and looked at me for a long time without
moving. I had shattered her last hope.

"Well, God be with him," she said at last in a breaking voice; "God be
with him if he leaves me like that."

She dropped her eyes, then tried to look at me and could not. For
several minutes she was struggling with her emotion. All at once she
turned away, leaning her elbows against the railing and burst into
tears.

"Oh don't, don't!" I began; but looking at her I had not the heart to go
on, and what was I to say to her?

"Don't try and comfort me," she said; "don't talk about him; don't tell
me that he will come, that he has not cast me off so cruelly and so
inhumanly as he has. What for--what for? Can there have been something
in my letter, that unlucky letter?"

At that point sobs stifled her voice; my heart was torn as I looked at
her.

"Oh, how inhumanly cruel it is!" she began again. "And not a line, not a
line! He might at least have written that he does not want me, that he
rejects me--but not a line for three days! How easy it is for him to
wound, to insult a poor, defenceless girl, whose only fault is that she
loves him! Oh, what I've suffered during these three days! Oh, dear!
When I think that I was the first to go to him, that I humbled myself
before him, cried, that I begged of him a little love!... and after
that! Listen," she said, turning to me, and her black eyes flashed, "it
isn't so! It can't be so; it isn't natural. Either you are mistaken or
I; perhaps he has not received the letter? Perhaps he still knows
nothing about it? How could any one--judge for yourself, tell me, for
goodness' sake explain it to me, I can't understand it--how could any
one behave with such barbarous coarseness as he has behaved to me? Not
one word! Why, the lowest creature on earth is treated more
compassionately. Perhaps he has heard something, perhaps some one has
told him something about me," she cried, turning to me inquiringly:
"What do you think?"

"Listen, Nastenka, I shall go to him to-morrow in your name."

"Yes?"

"I will question him about everything; I will tell him everything."

"Yes, yes?"

"You write a letter. Don't say no, Nastenka, don't say no! I will make
him respect your action, he shall hear all about it, and if----"

"No, my friend, no," she interrupted. "Enough! Not another word, not
another line from me--enough! I don't know him; I don't love him any
more. I will ... forget him."

She could not go on.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself! Sit here, Nastenka," I said, making her
sit down on the seat.

"I am calm. Don't trouble. It's nothing! It's only tears, they will soon
dry. Why, do you imagine I shall do away with myself, that I shall throw
myself into the river?"

My heart was full: I tried to speak, but I could not.

"Listen," she said taking my hand. "Tell me: you wouldn't have behaved
like this, would you? You would not have abandoned a girl who had come
to you of herself, you would not have thrown into her face a shameless
taunt at her weak foolish heart? You would have taken care of her? You
would have realized that she was alone, that she did not know how to
look after herself, that she could not guard herself from loving you,
that it was not her fault, not her fault--that she had done nothing....
Oh dear, oh dear!"

"Nastenka!" I cried at last, unable to control my emotion. "Nastenka,
you torture me! You wound my heart, you are killing me, Nastenka! I
cannot be silent! I must speak at last, give utterance to what is
surging in my heart!"

As I said this I got up from the seat. She took my hand and looked at me
in surprise.

"What is the matter with you?" she said at last.

"Listen," I said resolutely. "Listen to me, Nastenka! What I am going to
say to you now is all nonsense, all impossible, all stupid! I know that
this can never be, but I cannot be silent. For the sake of what you are
suffering now, I beg you beforehand to forgive me!"

"What is it? What is it?" she said drying her tears and looking at me
intently, while a strange curiosity gleamed in her astonished eyes.
"What is the matter?"

"It's impossible, but I love you, Nastenka! There it is! Now everything
is told," I said with a wave of my hand. "Now you will see whether you
can go on talking to me as you did just now, whether you can listen to
what I am going to say to you."...

"Well, what then?" Nastenka interrupted me. "What of it? I knew you
loved me long ago, only I always thought that you simply liked me very
much.... Oh dear, oh dear!"

"At first it was simply liking, Nastenka, but now, now! I am just in the
same position as you were when you went to him with your bundle. In a
worse position than you, Nastenka, because he cared for no one else as
you do."

"What are you saying to me! I don't understand you in the least. But
tell me, what's this for; I don't mean what for, but why are you ... so
suddenly.... Oh dear, I am talking nonsense! But you...."

And Nastenka broke off in confusion. Her cheeks flamed; she dropped her
eyes.

"What's to be done, Nastenka, what am I to do? I am to blame. I have
abused your.... But no, no, I am not to blame, Nastenka; I feel that, I
know that, because my heart tells me I am right, for I cannot hurt you
in any way, I cannot wound you! I was your friend, but I am still your
friend, I have betrayed no trust. Here my tears are falling, Nastenka.
Let them flow, let them flow--they don't hurt anybody. They will dry,
Nastenka."

"Sit down, sit down," she said, making me sit down on the seat. "Oh, my
God!"

"No, Nastenka, I won't sit down; I cannot stay here any longer, you
cannot see me again; I will tell you everything and go away. I only want
to say that you would never have found out that I loved you. I should
have kept my secret. I would not have worried you at such a moment with
my egoism. No! But I could not resist it now; you spoke of it yourself,
it is your fault, your fault and not mine. You cannot drive me away from
you."...

"No, no, I don't drive you away, no!" said Nastenka, concealing her
confusion as best she could, poor child.

"You don't drive me away? No! But I meant to run from you myself. I will
go away, but first I will tell you all, for when you were crying here I
could not sit unmoved, when you wept, when you were in torture at
being--at being--I will speak of it, Nastenka--at being forsaken, at
your love being repulsed, I felt that in my heart there was so much love
for you, Nastenka, so much love! And it seemed so bitter that I could
not help you with my love, that my heart was breaking and I ... I could
not be silent, I had to speak, Nastenka, I had to speak!"

"Yes, yes! tell me, talk to me," said Nastenka with an indescribable
gesture. "Perhaps you think it strange that I talk to you like this, but
... speak! I will tell you afterwards! I will tell you everything."

"You are sorry for me, Nastenka, you are simply sorry for me, my dear
little friend! What's done can't be mended. What is said cannot be taken
back. Isn't that so? Well, now you know. That's the starting-point. Very
well. Now it's all right, only listen. When you were sitting crying I
thought to myself (oh, let me tell you what I was thinking!), I thought,
that (of course it cannot be, Nastenka), I thought that you ... I
thought that you somehow ... quite apart from me, had ceased to love
him. Then--I thought that yesterday and the day before yesterday,
Nastenka--then I would--I certainly would--have succeeded in making you
love me; you know, you said yourself, Nastenka, that you almost loved
me. Well, what next? Well, that's nearly all I wanted to tell you; all
that is left to say is how it would be if you loved me, only that,
nothing more! Listen, my friend--for any way you are my friend--I am, of
course, a poor, humble man, of no great consequence; but that's not the
point (I don't seem to be able to say what I mean, Nastenka, I am so
confused), only I would love you, I would love you so, that even if you
still loved him, even if you went on loving the man I don't know, you
would never feel that my love was a burden to you. You would only feel
every minute that at your side was beating a grateful, grateful heart, a
warm heart ready for your sake.... Oh Nastenka, Nastenka! What have you
done to me?"

"Don't cry; I don't want you to cry," said Nastenka getting up quickly
from the seat. "Come along, get up, come with me, don't cry, don't cry,"
she said, drying her tears with her handkerchief; "let us go now; maybe
I will tell you something.... If he has forsaken me now, if he has
forgotten me, though I still love him (I do not want to deceive you) ...
but listen, answer me. If I were to love you, for instance, that is, if
I only.... Oh my friend, my friend! To think, to think how I wounded
you, when I laughed at your love, when I praised you for not falling in
love with me. Oh dear! How was it I did not foresee this, how was it I
did not foresee this, how could I have been so stupid? But.... Well, I
have made up my mind, I will tell you."

"Look here, Nastenka, do you know what? I'll go away, that's what I'll
do. I am simply tormenting you. Here you are remorseful for having
laughed at me, and I won't have you ... in addition to your sorrow....
Of course it is my fault, Nastenka, but good-bye!"

"Stay, listen to me: can you wait?"

"What for? How?"

"I love him; but I shall get over it, I must get over it, I cannot fail
to get over it; I am getting over it, I feel that.... Who knows? Perhaps
it will all end to-day, for I hate him, for he has been laughing at me,
while you have been weeping here with me, for you have not repulsed me
as he has, for you love me while he has never loved me, for in fact, I
love you myself.... Yes, I love you! I love you as you love me; I have
told you so before, you heard it yourself--I love you because you are
better than he is, because you are nobler than he is, because, because
he----"

The poor girl's emotion was so violent that she could not say more; she
laid her head upon my shoulder, then upon my bosom, and wept bitterly. I
comforted her, I persuaded her, but she could not stop crying; she kept
pressing my hand, and saying between her sobs: "Wait, wait, it will be
over in a minute! I want to tell you ... you mustn't think that these
tears--it's nothing, it's weakness, wait till it's over."... At last she
left off crying, dried her eyes and we walked on again. I wanted to
speak, but she still begged me to wait. We were silent.... At last she
plucked up courage and began to speak.

"It's like this," she began in a weak and quivering voice, in which,
however, there was a note that pierced my heart with a sweet pang;
"don't think that I am so light and inconstant, don't think that I can
forget and change so quickly. I have loved him for a whole year, and I
swear by God that I have never, never, even in thought, been unfaithful
to him.... He has despised me, he has been laughing at me--God forgive
him! But he has insulted me and wounded my heart. I ... I do not love
him, for I can only love what is magnanimous, what understands me, what
is generous; for I am like that myself and he is not worthy of me--well,
that's enough of him. He has done better than if he had deceived my
expectations later, and shown me later what he was.... Well, it's over!
But who knows, my dear friend," she went on pressing my hand, "who
knows, perhaps my whole love was a mistaken feeling, a delusion--perhaps
it began in mischief, in nonsense, because I was kept so strictly by
grandmother? Perhaps I ought to love another man, not him, a different
man, who would have pity on me and ... and.... But don't let us say any
more about that," Nastenka broke off, breathless with emotion, "I only
wanted to tell you ... I wanted to tell you that if, although I love him
(no, did love him), if, in spite of this you still say.... If you feel
that your love is so great that it may at last drive from my heart my
old feeling--if you will have pity on me--if you do not want to leave me
alone to my fate, without hope, without consolation--if you are ready to
love me always as you do now--I swear to you that gratitude ... that my
love will be at last worthy of your love.... Will you take my hand?"

"Nastenka!" I cried breathless with sobs. "Nastenka, oh Nastenka!"

"Enough, enough! Well, now it's quite enough," she said, hardly able to
control herself. "Well, now all has been said, hasn't it! Hasn't it? You
are happy--I am happy too. Not another word about it, wait; spare me ...
talk of something else, for God's sake."

"Yes, Nastenka, yes! Enough about that, now I am happy. I---- Yes,
Nastenka, yes, let us talk of other things, let us make haste and talk.
Yes! I am ready."

And we did not know what to say: we laughed, we wept, we said thousands
of things meaningless and incoherent; at one moment we walked along the
pavement, then suddenly turned back and crossed the road; then we
stopped and went back again to the embankment; we were like children.

"I am living alone now, Nastenka," I began, "but to-morrow! Of course
you know, Nastenka, I am poor, I have only got twelve hundred roubles,
but that doesn't matter."

"Of course not, and granny has her pension, so she will be no burden. We
must take granny."

"Of course we must take granny. But there's Matrona."

"Yes, and we've got Fyokla too!"

"Matrona is a good woman, but she has one fault: she has no imagination,
Nastenka, absolutely none; but that doesn't matter."

"That's all right--they can live together; only you must move to us
to-morrow."

"To you? How so? All right, I am ready."

"Yes, hire a room from us. We have a top floor, it's empty. We had an
old lady lodging there, but she has gone away; and I know granny would
like to have a young man. I said to her, 'Why a young man?' And she
said, 'Oh, because I am old; only don't you fancy, Nastenka, that I want
him as a husband for you.' So I guessed it was with that idea."

"Oh, Nastenka!"

And we both laughed.

"Come, that's enough, that's enough. But where do you live? I've
forgotten."

"Over that way, near X bridge, Barannikov's Buildings."

"It's that big house?"

"Yes, that big house."

"Oh, I know, a nice house; only you know you had better give it up and
come to us as soon as possible."

"To-morrow, Nastenka, to-morrow; I owe a little for my rent there but
that doesn't matter. I shall soon get my salary."

"And do you know I will perhaps give lessons; I will learn something
myself and then give lessons."

"Capital! And I shall soon get a bonus."

"So by to-morrow you will be my lodger."

"And we will go to _The Barber of Seville_, for they are soon going to
give it again."

"Yes, we'll go," said Nastenka, "but better see something else and not
_The Barber of Seville_."

"Very well, something else. Of course that will be better, I did not
think----"

As we talked like this we walked along in a sort of delirium, a sort of
intoxication, as though we did not know what was happening to us. At one
moment we stopped and talked for a long time at the same place; then we
went on again, and goodness knows where we went; and again tears and
again laughter. All of a sudden Nastenka would want to go home, and I
would not dare to detain her but would want to see her to the house; we
set off, and in a quarter of an hour found ourselves at the embankment
by our seat. Then she would sigh, and tears would come into her eyes
again; I would turn chill with dismay.... But she would press my hand
and force me to walk, to talk, to chatter as before.

"It's time I was home at last; I think it must be very late," Nastenka
said at last. "We must give over being childish."

"Yes, Nastenka, only I shan't sleep to-night; I am not going home."

"I don't think I shall sleep either; only see me home."

"I should think so!"

"Only this time we really must get to the house."

"We must, we must."

"Honour bright? For you know one must go home some time!"

"Honour bright," I answered laughing.

"Well, come along!"

"Come along! Look at the sky, Nastenka. Look! To-morrow it will be a
lovely day; what a blue sky, what a moon! Look; that yellow cloud is
covering it now, look, look! No, it has passed by. Look, look!"

But Nastenka did not look at the cloud; she stood mute as though turned
to stone; a minute later she huddled timidly close up to me. Her hand
trembled in my hand; I looked at her. She pressed still more closely to
me.

At that moment a young man passed by us. He suddenly stopped, looked at
us intently, and then again took a few steps on. My heart began
throbbing.

"Who is it, Nastenka?" I said in an undertone.

"It's he," she answered in a whisper, huddling up to me, still more
closely, still more tremulously.... I could hardly stand on my feet.

"Nastenka, Nastenka! It's you!" I heard a voice behind us and at the
same moment the young man took several steps towards us.

My God, how she cried out! How she started! How she tore herself out of
my arms and rushed to meet him! I stood and looked at them, utterly
crushed. But she had hardly given him her hand, had hardly flung herself
into his arms, when she turned to me again, was beside me again in a
flash, and before I knew where I was she threw both arms round my neck
and gave me a warm, tender kiss. Then, without saying a word to me, she
rushed back to him again, took his hand, and drew him after her.

I stood a long time looking after them. At last the two vanished from my
sight.


MORNING

My night ended with the morning. It was a wet day. The rain was falling
and beating disconsolately upon my window pane; it was dark in the room
and grey outside. My head ached and I was giddy; fever was stealing over
my limbs.

"There's a letter for you, sir; the postman brought it," Matrona said
stooping over me.

"A letter? From whom?" I cried jumping up from my chair.

"I don't know, sir, better look--maybe it is written there whom it is
from."

I broke the seal. It was from her!

       *     *     *     *     *

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I beg you on my knees to forgive me! I
deceived you and myself. It was a dream, a mirage.... My heart aches for
you to-day; forgive me, forgive me!

"Don't blame me, for I have not changed to you in the least. I told you
that I would love you, I love you now, I more than love you. Oh, my God!
If only I could love you both at once! Oh, if only you were he!"

["Oh, if only he were you," echoed in my mind. I remembered your words,
Nastenka!]

"God knows what I would do for you now! I know that you are sad and
dreary. I have wounded you, but you know when one loves a wrong is soon
forgotten. And you love me.

"Thank you, yes, thank you for that love! For it will live in my memory
like a sweet dream which lingers long after awakening; for I shall
remember for ever that instant when you opened your heart to me like a
brother and so generously accepted the gift of my shattered heart to
care for it, nurse it, and heal it.... If you forgive me, the memory of
you will be exalted by a feeling of everlasting gratitude which will
never be effaced from my soul.... I will treasure that memory: I will be
true to it, I will not betray it, I will not betray my heart: it is too
constant. It returned so quickly yesterday to him to whom it has always
belonged.

"We shall meet, you will come to us, you will not leave us, you will be
for ever a friend, a brother to me. And when you see me you will give me
your hand ... yes? You will give it to me, you have forgiven me, haven't
you? You love me _as before_?

"Oh, love me, do not forsake me, because I love you so at this moment,
because I am worthy of your love, because I will deserve it ... my dear!
Next week I am to be married to him. He has come back in love, he has
never forgotten me. You will not be angry at my writing about him. But I
want to come and see you with him; you will like him, won't you?

          "Forgive me, remember and love your
                        "NASTENKA."

       *     *     *     *     *

I read that letter over and over again for a long time; tears gushed to
my eyes. At last it fell from my hands and I hid my face.

"Dearie! I say, dearie----" Matrona began.

"What is it, Matrona?"

"I have taken all the cobwebs off the ceiling; you can have a wedding or
give a party."

I looked at Matrona. She was still a hearty, _youngish_ old woman, but I
don't know why all at once I suddenly pictured her with lustreless eyes,
a wrinkled face, bent, decrepit.... I don't know why I suddenly pictured
my room grown old like Matrona. The walls and the floors looked
discoloured, everything seemed dingy; the spiders' webs were thicker
than ever. I don't know why, but when I looked out of the window it
seemed to me that the house opposite had grown old and dingy too, that
the stucco on the columns was peeling off and crumbling, that the
cornices were cracked and blackened, and that the walls, of a vivid deep
yellow, were patchy.

Either the sunbeams suddenly peeping out from the clouds for a moment
were hidden again behind a veil of rain, and everything had grown dingy
again before my eyes; or perhaps the whole vista of my future flashed
before me so sad and forbidding, and I saw myself just as I was now,
fifteen years hence, older, in the same room, just as solitary, with the
same Matrona grown no cleverer for those fifteen years.

But to imagine that I should bear you a grudge, Nastenka! That I should
cast a dark cloud over your serene, untroubled happiness; that by my
bitter reproaches I should cause distress to your heart, should poison
it with secret remorse and should force it to throb with anguish at the
moment of bliss; that I should crush a single one of those tender
blossoms which you have twined in your dark tresses when you go with him
to the altar.... Oh never, never! May your sky be clear, may your sweet
smile be bright and untroubled, and may you be blessed for that moment
of blissful happiness which you gave to another, lonely and grateful
heart!

My God, a whole moment of happiness! Is that too little for the whole of
a man's life?




  NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND[1]
  A NOVEL

  PART I
  UNDERGROUND


I

I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I
believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my
disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a
doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and
doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to
respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be
superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor
from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand
it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am
mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I
cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than
any one that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But
still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad,
well--let it get worse!

    [Footnote 1: The author of the diary and the diary itself
    are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that
    such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but
    positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the
    circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I
    have tried to expose to the view of the public more
    distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of
    the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a
    generation still living. In this fragment, entitled
    "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views,
    and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which
    he has made his appearance and was bound to make his
    appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are
    added the actual notes of this person concerning certain
    events in his life.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.]

I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am
forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a
spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not
take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at
least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking
it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only
wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on
purpose!)

When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I
sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I
succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost always did succeed. For
the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were
petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular
I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword
in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months
over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking
it. That happened in my youth, though.

But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite?
Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that
continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly
conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an
embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing
myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play
with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be
appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should
grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame
for months after. That was my way.

I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was
lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and
with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was
conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely
opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite
elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and
craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let
them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I
was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at last, how
they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am
expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness
for something? I am sure you are fancying that.... However, I assure you
I do not care if you are....

It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to
become anything: neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an
honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life
in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation
that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only
the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must
and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of
character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my
conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty
years is a whole life-time; you know it is extreme old age. To live
longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does
live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly. I will tell you
who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their
face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend
seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say
so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty!...
Stay, let me take breath....

You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are
mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you
imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble
(and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who am
I--then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service
that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and
when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his
will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my
corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled
down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the
town. My servant is an old country-woman, ill-natured from stupidity,
and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that
the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is
very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all
these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I am
remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not
going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am
going away or not going away.

But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?

Answer: Of himself.

Well, so I will talk about myself.


II

I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not,
why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have
many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that.
I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a real
thorough-going illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been
quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or
a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of
our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal
ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional
town on the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and
unintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, for instance, to
have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of
action live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to
be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is more, that from
ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But,
gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger
over them?

Though, after all, every one does do that; people do pride themselves on
their diseases, and I do, may be, more than any one. We will not dispute
it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great
deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a
disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me
this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when
I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "good and
beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of
design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such
that.... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which,
as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most
conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was
of goodness and of all that was "good and beautiful," the more deeply I
sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But
the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me,
but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most
normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at
last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It
ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was
perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what
agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same
with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a
secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the
point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in
returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely
conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that
what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing,
gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the
bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at
last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment!
I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know
for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the
enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own
degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last
barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that
there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different
man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into
something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you
did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality
there was nothing for you to change into.

And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in
accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and
with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that
consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely
nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness,
that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any
consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realize that he
actually is a scoundrel. But enough.... Ech, I have talked a lot of
nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be
explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That
is why I have taken up my pen....

I, for instance, have a great deal of _amour propre_. I am as suspicious
and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I
sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the
face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in
earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that
a peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but
in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is
very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when
one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being rubbed
into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at
it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the most to
blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to blame for
no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the
first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of the people
surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of
the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have
been positively ashamed of it. At any rate, I have all my life, as it
were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the
face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I
should only have had more suffering from the sense of its uselessness. I
should certainly have never been able to do anything from being
magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have
slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of
nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of nature,
it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be
anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary to revenge myself
on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for
anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do
anything, even if I had been able to. Why should I not have made up my
mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words.


III

With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for
themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed, let
us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is
nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a
gentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull
with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way:
facing the wall, such gentlemen--that is, the "direct" persons and men
of action--are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion,
as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an
excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad,
though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are
nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something
tranquillizing, morally soothing, final--maybe even something mysterious
... but of the wall later.)

Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his
tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him
into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face.
He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should
be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I
am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the
fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man,
that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not
out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism,
gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes
so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his
exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and
not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse,
while the other is a man, and therefore, et caetera, et caetera. And the
worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a
mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point. Now let
us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it
feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants
to revenge itself, too. There may even be a greater accumulation of
spite in it than in _l'homme de la nature et de la verite_. The base and
nasty desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even
more nastily in it than in _l'homme de la nature et de la verite_. For
through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as
justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness
the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the
deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental
nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many
other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one
question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up
around it a sort of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts,
emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action
who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it
till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is
to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed
contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously
into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our
insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold,
malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years together it
will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious details,
and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious,
spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It
will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all,
it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things
against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will
forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it
were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito,
without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in the
success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it
will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself,
while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed it
will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the
years and....

But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in
that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld for
forty years, in that acutely recognized and yet partly doubtful
hopelessness of one's position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires
turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determined
for ever and repented of again a minute later--that the savour of that
strange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so
difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even
simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of
it. "Possibly," you will add on your own account with a grin, "people
will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the
face," and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too,
perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and
so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set
your minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face,
though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me what you may
think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so
few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another word on
that subject of such extreme interest to you.

I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not
understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certain
circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, though
this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said
already, confronted with the impossible they subside at once. The
impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the
laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon
as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a
monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When they
prove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to
you than a hundred thousand of your fellow creatures, and that this
conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and duties and
all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there
is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try
refuting it.

"Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a
case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, she
has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or
dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently
all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so
on."

Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and
arithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the fact that
twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by
battering my head against it if I really have not the strength to knock
it down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it is
a stone wall and I have not the strength.

As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really did
contain some word of conciliation, simply because it is as true as twice
two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better it is to
understand it all, to recognize it all, all the impossibilities and the
stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and
stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the
most inevitable, logical combinations to reach the most revolting
conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you
are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you
are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in
silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact
that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you
have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it
is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it
is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of
all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you,
and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.


IV

"Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next," you cry,
with a laugh.

"Well? Even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I had toothache
for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people
are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans,
they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The
enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not
feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example,
gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place
all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your
consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit
disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while
she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to
punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all
possible Vagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if
some one wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does
not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if
you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for
your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your
fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal
insults, these jeers on the part of some one unknown, end at last in an
enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness.
I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man
of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or
third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned
on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just
as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and European
civilization, a man who is "divorced from the soil and the national
elements," as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty,
disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of
course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with
his moans; he knows better than any one that he is only lacerating and
harassing himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the
audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family,
listen to him with loathing, do not put a ha'porth of faith in him, and
inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without
trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that
from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and
disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he
would say: "I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping
every one in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel
every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I
tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so
be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you
to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you
have a nastier flourish in a minute...." You do not understand even now,
gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go
further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh?
Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky,
involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do
not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all?


V

Come, can a man who attempts to find enjoyment in the very feeling of
his own degradation possibly have a spark of respect for himself? I am
not saying this now from any mawkish kind of remorse. And, indeed, I
could never endure saying, "Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again," not
because I am incapable of saying that--on the contrary, perhaps just
because I have been too capable of it, and in what a way, too! As though
of design I used to get into trouble in cases when I was not to blame in
any way. That was the nastiest part of it. At the same time I was
genuinely touched and penitent, I used to shed tears and, of course,
deceived myself, though I was not acting in the least and there was a
sick feeling in my heart at the time.... For that one could not blame
even the laws of nature, though the laws of nature have continually all
my life offended me more than anything. It is loathsome to remember it
all, but it was loathsome even then. Of course, a minute or so later I
would realize wrathfully that it was all a lie, a revolting lie, an
affected lie, that is, all this penitence, this emotion, these vows of
reform. You will ask why did I worry myself with such antics: answer,
because it was very dull to sit with one's hands folded, and so one
began cutting capers. That is really it. Observe yourselves more
carefully, gentlemen, then you will understand that it is so. I invented
adventures for myself and made up a life, so as at least to live in some
way. How many times it has happened to me--well, for instance, to take
offence simply on purpose, for nothing; and one knows oneself, of
course, that one is offended at nothing, that one is putting it on, but
yet one brings oneself, at last to the point of being really offended.
All my life I have had an impulse to play such pranks, so that in the
end I could not control it in myself. Another time, twice, in fact, I
tried hard to be in love. I suffered, too, gentlemen, I assure you. In
the depth of my heart there was no faith in my suffering, only a faint
stir of mockery, but yet I did suffer, and in the real, orthodox way; I
was jealous, beside myself ... and it was all from _ennui_, gentlemen,
all from _ennui_; inertia overcame me. You know the direct, legitimate
fruit of consciousness is inertia, that is, conscious
sitting-with-the-hands-folded. I have referred to this already. I
repeat, I repeat with emphasis: all "direct" persons and men of action
are active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that? I
will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate
and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade
themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have
found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are
at ease and you know that is the chief thing. To begin to act, you know,
you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace of doubt
left in it. Why, how am I, for example to set my mind at rest? Where are
the primary causes on which I am to build? Where are my foundations?
Where am I to get them from? I exercise myself in reflection, and
consequently with me every primary cause at once draws after itself
another still more primary, and so on to infinity. That is just the
essence of every sort of consciousness and reflection. It must be a case
of the laws of nature again. What is the result of it in the end? Why,
just the same. Remember I spoke just now of vengeance. (I am sure you
did not take it in.) I said that a man revenges himself because he sees
justice in it. Therefore he has found a primary cause, that is, justice.
And so he is at rest on all sides, and consequently he carries out his
revenge calmly and successfully, being persuaded that he is doing a just
and honest thing. But I see no justice in it, I find no sort of virtue
in it either, and consequently if I attempt to revenge myself, it is
only out of spite. Spite, of course, might overcome everything, all my
doubts, and so might serve quite successfully in place of a primary
cause, precisely because it is not a cause. But what is to be done if I
have not even spite (I began with that just now, you know)? In
consequence again of those accursed laws of consciousness, anger in me
is subject to chemical disintegration. You look into it, the object
flies off into air, your reasons evaporate, the criminal is not to be
found, the wrong becomes not a wrong but a phantom, something like the
toothache, for which no one is to blame, and consequently there is only
the same outlet left again--that is, to beat the wall as hard as you
can. So you give it up with a wave of the hand because you have not
found a fundamental cause. And try letting yourself be carried away by
your feelings, blindly, without reflection, without a primary cause,
repelling consciousness at least for a time; hate or love, if only not
to sit with your hands folded. The day after to-morrow, at the latest,
you will begin despising yourself for having knowingly deceived
yourself. Result: a soap-bubble and inertia. Oh, gentlemen, do you know,
perhaps I consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I
have been able neither to begin nor to finish anything. Granted I am a
babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be
done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is babble,
that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve?


VI

Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness! Heavens, how I should
have respected myself, then. I should have respected myself because I
should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least
have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could have
believed myself. Question: What is he? Answer: A sluggard; how very
pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself! It would mean that
I was positively defined, it would mean that there was something to say
about me. "Sluggard"--why, it is a calling and vocation, it is a career.
Do not jest, it is so. I should then be a member of the best club by
right, and should find my occupation in continually respecting myself. I
knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a connoisseur
of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted
himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil, but with a triumphant,
conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a
career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a
simple one, but, for instance, one with sympathies for everything good
and beautiful. How do you like that? I have long had visions of it. That
"good and beautiful" weighs heavily on my mind at forty. But that is at
forty; then--oh, then it would have been different! I should have found
for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise,
drinking to the health of everything "good and beautiful." I should have
snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to
drain it to all that is "good and beautiful." I should then have turned
everything into the good and the beautiful; in the nastiest,
unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the good and the
beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for
instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health
of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all
that is "good and beautiful." An author has written _As you will_: at
once I drink to the health of "any one you will" because I love all that
is "good and beautiful."

I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute any one who
would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with
dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round
belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established,
what a ruby nose I should have  for myself, so that every one
would have said, looking at me: "Here is an asset! Here is something
real and solid!" And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear
such remarks about oneself in this negative age.


VII

But these are all golden dreams. Oh, tell me, who was it first
announced, who was it first proclaimed, that man only does nasty things
because he does not know his own interests; and that if he were
enlightened, if his eyes were opened to his real normal interests, man
would at once cease to do nasty things, would at once become good and
noble because, being enlightened and understanding his real advantage,
he would see his own advantage in the good and nothing else, and we all
know that not one man can, consciously, act against his own interests,
consequently, so to say, through necessity, he would begin doing good?
Oh, the babe! Oh, the pure, innocent child! Why, in the first place,
when in all these thousands of years has there been a time when man has
acted only from his own interest? What is to be done with the millions
of facts that bear witness that men, _consciously_, that is fully
understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and
have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril and danger,
compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were,
simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately, wilfully,
struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the
darkness. So, I suppose, this obstinacy and perversity were pleasanter
to them than any advantage.... Advantage! What is advantage? And will
you take it upon yourself to define with perfect accuracy in what the
advantage of man consists? And what if it so happens that a man's
advantage, _sometimes_, not only may, but even must, consist in his
desiring in certain cases what is harmful to himself and not
advantageous? And if so, if there can be such a case, the whole
principle falls into dust. What do you think--are there such cases? You
laugh; laugh away, gentlemen, but only answer me: have man's advantages
been reckoned up with perfect certainty? Are there not some which not
only have not been included but cannot possibly be included under any
classification? You see, you gentlemen have, to the best of my
knowledge, taken your whole register of human advantages from the
averages of statistical figures and politico-economical formulas. Your
advantages are prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace--and so on, and so on.
So that the man who should, for instance, go openly and knowingly in
opposition to all that list would, to your thinking, and indeed mine,
too, of course, be an obscurantist or an absolute madman: would not he?
But, you know, this is what is surprising: why does it so happen that
all these statisticians, sages and lovers of humanity, when they reckon
up human advantages invariably leave out one? They don't even take it
into their reckoning in the form in which it should be taken, and the
whole reckoning depends upon that. It would be no great matter, they
would simply have to take it, this advantage, and add it to the list.
But the trouble is, that this strange advantage does not fall under any
classification and is not in place in any list. I have a friend for
instance.... Ech! gentlemen, but of course he is your friend, too; and
indeed there is no one, no one, to whom he is not a friend! When he
prepares for any undertaking this gentleman immediately explains to you,
elegantly and clearly, exactly how he must act in accordance with the
laws of reason and truth. What is more, he will talk to you with
excitement and passion of the true normal interests of man; with irony
he will upbraid the shortsighted fools who do not understand their own
interests, nor the true significance of virtue; and, within a quarter of
an hour, without any sudden outside provocation, but simply through
something inside him which is stronger than all his interests, he will
go off on quite a different tack--that is, act in direct opposition to
what he has just been saying about himself, in opposition to the laws of
reason, in opposition to his own advantage, in fact in opposition to
everything.... I warn you that my friend is a compound personality, and
therefore it is difficult to blame him as an individual. The fact is,
gentlemen, it seems there must really exist something that is dearer to
almost every man than his greatest advantages, or (not to be illogical)
there is a most advantageous advantage (the very one omitted of which we
spoke just now) which is more important and more advantageous than all
other advantages, for the sake of which a man if necessary is ready to
act in opposition to all laws; that is, in opposition to reason, honour,
peace, prosperity--in fact, in opposition to all those excellent and
useful things if only he can attain that fundamental, most advantageous
advantage which is dearer to him than all. "Yes, but it's advantage all
the same" you will retort. But excuse me, I'll make the point clear, and
it is not a case of playing upon words. What matters is, that this
advantage is remarkable from the very fact that it breaks down all our
classifications, and continually shatters every system constructed by
lovers of mankind for the benefit of mankind. In fact, it upsets
everything. But before I mention this advantage to you, I want to
compromise myself personally, and therefore I boldly declare that all
these fine systems, all these theories for explaining to mankind their
real normal interests, in order that inevitably striving to pursue these
interests they may at once become good and noble--are, in my opinion, so
far, mere logical exercises! Yes, logical exercises. Why, to maintain
this theory of the regeneration of mankind by means of the pursuit of
his own advantage is to my mind almost the same thing as ... as to
affirm, for instance, following Buckle, that through civilization
mankind becomes softer, and consequently less bloodthirsty and less
fitted for warfare. Logically it does seem to follow from his arguments.
But man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that
he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the
evidence of his senses only to justify his logic. I take this example
because it is the most glaring instance of it. Only look about you:
blood is being spilt in streams, and in the merriest way, as though it
were champagne. Take the whole of the nineteenth century in which Buckle
lived. Take Napoleon--the Great and also the present one. Take North
America--the eternal union. Take the farce of Schleswig-Holstein.... And
what is it that civilization softens in us? The only gain of
civilization for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of
sensations--and absolutely nothing more. And through the development of
this many-sidedness man may come to finding enjoyment in bloodshed. In
fact, this has already happened to him. Have you noticed that it is the
most civilized gentlemen who have been the subtlest slaughterers, to
whom the Attilas and Stenka Razins could not hold a candle, and if they
are not so conspicuous as the Attilas and Stenka Razins it is simply
because they are so often met with, are so ordinary and have become so
familiar to us. In any case civilization has made mankind if not more
bloodthirsty, at least more vilely, more loathsomely bloodthirsty. In
old days he saw justice in bloodshed and with his conscience at peace
exterminated those he thought proper. Now we do think bloodshed
abominable and yet we engage in this abomination, and with more energy
than ever. Which is worse? Decide that for yourselves. They say that
Cleopatra (excuse an instance from Roman history) was fond of sticking
gold pins into her slave-girls' breasts and derived gratification from
their screams and writhings. You will say that that was in the
comparatively barbarous times; that these are barbarous times too,
because also, comparatively speaking, pins are stuck in even now; that
though man has now learned to see more clearly than in barbarous ages,
he is still far from having learnt to act as reason and science would
dictate. But yet you are fully convinced that he will be sure to learn
when he gets rid of certain old bad habits, and when common sense and
science have completely re-educated human nature and turned it in a
normal direction. You are confident that then man will cease from
_intentional_ error and will, so to say, be compelled not to want to set
his will against his normal interests. That is not all; then, you say,
science itself will teach man (though to my mind it's a superfluous
luxury) that he never has really had any caprice or will of his own, and
that he himself is something of the nature of a piano-key or the stop of
an organ, and that there are, besides, things called the laws of nature;
so that everything he does is not done by his willing it, but is done of
itself, by the laws of nature. Consequently we have only to discover
these laws of nature, and man will no longer have to answer for his
actions and life will become exceedingly easy for him. All human actions
will then, of course, be tabulated according to these laws,
mathematically, like tables of logarithms up to 108,000, and entered in
an index; or, better still, there would be published certain edifying
works of the nature of encyclopaedic lexicons, in which everything will
be so clearly calculated and explained that there will be no more
incidents or adventures in the world.

Then--this is all what you say--new economic relations will be
established, all ready-made and worked out with mathematical exactitude,
so that every possible question will vanish in the twinkling of an eye,
simply because every possible answer to it will be provided. Then the
"Palace of Crystal" will be built. Then.... In fact, those will be
halcyon days. Of course there is no guaranteeing (this is my comment)
that it will not be, for instance, frightfully dull then (for what will
one have to do when everything will be calculated and tabulated?), but on
the other hand everything will be extraordinarily rational. Of course
boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden
pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my
comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold
pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is
not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find
another like him in all creation. I, for instance, would not be in the
least surprised if all of a sudden, _a propos_ of nothing, in the midst
of general prosperity a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a
reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his
arms akimbo, say to us all: "I say, gentlemen, hadn't we better kick
over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send
these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our
own sweet foolish will!" That again would not matter; but what is
annoying is that he would be sure to find followers--such is the nature
of man. And all that for the most foolish reason, which, one would
think, was hardly worth mentioning: that is, that man everywhere and at
all times, whoever he may be, has preferred to act as he chose and not
in the least as his reason and advantage dictated. And one may choose
what is contrary to one's own interests, and sometimes one _positively
ought_ (that is my idea). One's own free unfettered choice, one's own
caprice, however wild it may be, one's own fancy worked up at times to
frenzy--is that very "most advantageous advantage" which we have
overlooked, which comes under no classification and against which all
systems and theories are continually being shattered to atoms. And how
do these wiseacres know that man wants a normal, a virtuous choice? What
has made them conceive that man must want a rationally advantageous
choice? What man wants is simply _independent_ choice, whatever that
independence may cost and wherever it may lead. And choice, of course,
the devil only knows what choice....


VIII

"Ha! ha! ha! But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality,
say what you like," you will interpose with a chuckle. "Science has
succeeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and
what is called freedom of will is nothing else than----"

Stay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself. I confess, I was
rather frightened. I was just going to say that the devil only knows
what choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing, but
I remembered the teaching of science ... and pulled myself up. And here
you have begun upon it. Indeed, if there really is some day discovered a
formula for all our desires and caprices--that is, an explanation of
what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they develop, what
they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on, that is a real
mathematical formula--then, most likely, man will at once cease to feel
desire, indeed, he will be certain to. For who would want to choose by
rule? Besides, he will at once be transformed from a human being into an
organ-stop or something of the sort; for what is a man without desires,
without free will and without choice, if not a stop in an organ? What do
you think? Let us reckon the chances--can such a thing happen or not?

"H'm!" you decide. "Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of
our advantage. We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our
foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a
supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on
paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and senseless
to suppose that some laws of nature man will never understand), then
certainly so-called desires will no longer exist. For if a desire should
come into conflict with reason we shall then reason and not desire,
because it will be impossible retaining our reason to be _senseless_ in
our desires, and in that way knowingly act against reason and desire to
injure ourselves. And as all choice and reasoning can be really
calculated--because there will some day be discovered the laws of our
so-called free will--so, joking apart, there may one day be something
like a table constructed of them, so that we really shall choose in
accordance with it. If, for instance, some day they calculate and prove
to me that I made a long nose at some one because I could not help
making a long nose at him and that I had to do it in that particular
way, what _freedom_ is left me, especially if I am a learned man and
have taken my degree somewhere? Then I should be able to calculate my
whole life for thirty years beforehand. In short, if this could be
arranged there would be nothing left for us to do; anyway, we should
have to understand that. And, in fact, we ought unwearyingly to repeat
to ourselves that at such and such a time and in such and such
circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have got to take
her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if we really
aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even ... to the
chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort too,
or else it will be accepted without our consent...."

Yes, but here I come to a stop! Gentlemen, you must excuse me for being
over-philosophical; it's the result of forty years underground! Allow me
to indulge my fancy. You see, gentlemen, reason is an excellent thing,
there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but reason and
satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will is a
manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life
including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this
manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply
extracting square roots. Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to
live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my
capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity
for life. What does reason know? Reason only knows what it has succeeded
in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn; this is a poor
comfort, but why not say so frankly?) and human nature acts as a whole,
with everything that is in it, consciously or unconsciously, and, even
if it goes wrong, it lives. I suspect, gentlemen, that you are looking
at me with compassion; you tell me again that an enlightened and
developed man, such, in short, as the future man will be, cannot
consciously desire anything disadvantageous to himself, that that can be
proved mathematically. I thoroughly agree, it can--by mathematics. But I
repeat for the hundredth time, there is one case, one only, when man may
consciously, purposely, desire what is injurious to himself, what is
stupid, very stupid--simply in order to have the right to desire for
himself even what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to
desire only what is sensible. Of course, this very stupid thing, this
caprice of ours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us
than anything else on earth, especially in certain cases. And in
particular it may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it
does us obvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our
reason concerning our advantage--for in any circumstances it preserves
for us what is most precious and most important--that is, our
personality, our individuality. Some, you see, maintain that this really
is the most precious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it
chooses, be in agreement with reason; and especially if this be not
abused but kept within bounds. It is profitable and sometimes even
praiseworthy. But very often, and even most often, choice is utterly and
stubbornly opposed to reason ... and ... and ... do you know that that,
too, is profitable, sometimes even praiseworthy? Gentlemen, let us
suppose that man is not stupid. (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose
that, if only from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then
who is wise?) But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful!
Phenomenally ungrateful. In fact, I believe that the best definition of
man is the ungrateful biped. But that is not all, that is not his worst
defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity,
perpetual--from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period.
Moral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long
been accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than
moral obliquity. Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the history
of mankind. What will you see? Is it a grand spectacle? Grand, if you
like. Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's worth something.
With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that some say that it is
the work of man's hands, while others maintain that it has been created
by nature herself. Is it many-? May be it is many-, too:
if one takes the dress uniforms, military and civilian, of all peoples
in all ages--that alone is worth something, and if you take the undress
uniforms you will never get to the end of it; no historian would be
equal to the job. Is it monotonous? May be it's monotonous too: it's
fighting and fighting; they are fighting now, they fought first and they
fought last--you will admit, that it is almost too monotonous. In short,
one may say anything about the history of the world--anything that might
enter the most disordered imagination. The only thing one can't say is
that it's rational. The very word sticks in one's throat. And, indeed,
this is the odd thing that is continually happening: there are
continually turning up in life moral and rational persons, sages and
lovers of humanity who make it their object to live all their lives as
morally and rationally as possible, to be, so to speak, a light to their
neighbours simply in order to show them that it is possible to live
morally and rationally in this world. And yet we all know that those
very people sooner or later have been false to themselves, playing some
queer trick, often a most unseemly one. Now I ask you: what can be
expected of man since he is a being endowed with such strange qualities?
Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness,
so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give
him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but
sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species,
and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you
some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately
desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply
to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic
element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will
desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself--as though that
were so necessary--that men still are men and not the keys of a piano,
which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one
will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar. And that is not all:
even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if this were
proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then he would not
become reasonable, but would purposely do something perverse out of
simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find
means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will contrive sufferings
of all sorts, only to gain his point! He will launch a curse upon the
world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary
distinction between him and other animals), may be by his curse alone he
will attain his object--that is, convince himself that he is a man and
not a piano-key! If you say that all this, too, can be calculated and
tabulated--chaos and darkness and curses, so that the mere possibility
of calculating it all beforehand would stop it all, and reason would
reassert itself, then man would purposely go mad in order to be rid of
reason and gain his point! I believe in it, I answer for it, for the
whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to
himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano-key! It may be at
the cost of his skin, it may be by cannibalism! And this being so, can
one help being tempted to rejoice that it has not yet come off, and that
desire still depends on something we don't know?

You will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one
is touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my
will should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own normal
interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic.

Good Heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to
tabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make
four? Twice two makes four without my will. As if free will meant that!


IX

Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not
brilliant, but you know one can't take everything as a joke. I am,
perhaps, jesting against the grain. Gentlemen, I am tormented by
questions; answer them for me. You, for instance, want to cure men of
their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and
good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also
that it is _desirable_, to reform man in that way? And what leads you to
the conclusion that man's inclinations _need_ reforming? In short, how
do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man? And to go
to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that not
to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the conclusions
of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous for man and
must always be a law for mankind? So far, you know, this is only your
supposition. It may be the law of logic, but not the law of humanity.
You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad? Allow me to defend myself.
I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal, predestined to
strive consciously for an object and to engage in engineering--that is,
incessantly and eternally to make new roads, _wherever they may lead_.
But the reason why he wants sometimes to go off at a tangent may just be
that he is _predestined_ to make the road, and perhaps, too, that
however stupid the "direct" practical man may be, the thought sometimes
will occur to him that the road almost always does lead _somewhere_, and
that the destination it leads to is less important than the process of
making it, and that the chief thing is to save the well-conducted child
from despising engineering, and so giving way to the fatal idleness,
which, as we all know, is the mother of all the vices. Man likes to make
roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such
a passionate love for destruction and chaos also? Tell me that! But on
that point I want to say a couple of words myself. May it not be that he
loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does
sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his
object and completing the edifice he is constructing? Who knows, perhaps
he only loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love
with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does
not want to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use
of _les animaux domestiques_--such as the ants, the sheep, and so on.
Now the ants have quite a different taste. They have a marvellous
edifice of that pattern which endures for ever--the ant-heap.

With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the
ant-heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to their
perseverance and good sense. But man is a frivolous and incongruous
creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the process of the
game, not the end of it. And who knows (there is no saying with
certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving
lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other words, in life
itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must always be
expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four, and such
positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death.
Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I
am afraid of it now. Granted that man does nothing but seek that
mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices his life in the
quest, but to succeed, really to find it, he dreads, I assure you. He
feels that when he has found it there will be nothing for him to look
for. When workmen have finished their work they do at least receive
their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to the
police-station--and there is occupation for a week. But where can man
go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when he has
attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but does not
quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In
fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it
all. But yet mathematical certainty is, after all, something
insufferable. Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of
insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms
akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four
is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice
two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too.

And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the
normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to
welfare--is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards
advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being?
Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as
great a benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily,
passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no
need to appeal to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if
you are a man and have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is
concerned, to care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred.
Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash
things. I hold no brief for suffering nor for well-being either. I am
standing for ... my caprice, and for its being guaranteed to me when
necessary. Suffering would be out of place in vaudevilles, for instance;
I know that. In the "Palace of Crystal" it is unthinkable; suffering
means doubt, negation, and what would be the good of a "palace of
crystal" if there could be any doubt about it? And yet I think man will
never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Why,
suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did lay it down
at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man,
yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any satisfaction.
Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes
four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do
or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five
senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to
consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least
flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up.
Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing.


X

You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a palace
at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a long
nose on the sly. And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this
edifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one
cannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly.

You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into it
to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a palace
out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in
such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion. Yes, I answer,
if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain.

But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not
the only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live
in a mansion. That is my choice, my desire. You will only eradicate it
when you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure me with
something else, give me another ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a
hen-house for a mansion. The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it
may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have
invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old-fashioned
irrational habits of my generation. But what does it matter to me that
it is inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my
desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist. Perhaps you are
laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any mockery rather than
pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry. I know, anyway, that I
will not be put off with a compromise, with a recurring zero, simply
because it is consistent with the laws of nature and actually exists. I
will not accept as the crown of my desires a block of buildings with
tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand years, and perhaps with
a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy my desires, eradicate my
ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you. You will say,
perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble; but in that case I can give
you the same answer. We are discussing things seriously; but if you
won't deign to give me your attention, I will drop your acquaintance. I
can retreat into my underground hole.

But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were
withered off than bring one brick to such a building! Don't remind me
that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason that
one cannot put out one's tongue at it. I did not say because I am so
fond of putting my tongue out. Perhaps the thing I resented was, that of
all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not put out
one's tongue. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off out of
gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose all desire
to put it out. It is not my fault that things cannot be so arranged, and
that one must be satisfied with model flats. Then why am I made with
such desires? Can I have been constructed simply in order to come to the
conclusion that all my construction is a cheat? Can this be my whole
purpose? I do not believe it.

But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to
be kept on a curb. Though we may sit forty years underground without
speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we
talk and talk and talk....


XI

The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do
nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though
I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet
I should not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall
not cease envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is more
advantageous. There, at any rate, one can.... Oh, but even now I am
lying! I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that
is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am
thirsting, but which I cannot find! Damn underground!

I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I
myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you,
gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written
that I really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same
time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler.

"Then why have you written all this?" you will say to me.

"I ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to do
and then come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have
reached! How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?"

"Isn't that shameful, isn't that humiliating?" you will say, perhaps,
wagging your heads contemptuously. "You thirst for life and try to
settle the problems of life by a logical tangle. And how persistent, how
insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in!
You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent things and
are in continual alarm and apologizing for them. You declare that you
are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in
our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at
the same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us. You know that your
witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with
their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you
have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity, but you
have no modesty; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to
publicity and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide
your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to
utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence. You boast of
consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind
works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt, and you cannot have a
full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive you
are, how you insist and grimace! Lies, lies, lies!"

Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is
from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a
crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing
else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and
it has taken a literary form....

But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all
this and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call
you "gentlemen," why do I address you as though you really were my
readers? Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor
given to other people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for
that, and I don't see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred
to me and I want to realize it at all costs. Let me explain.

Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to every one, but
only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not
reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But
there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself,
and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his
mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in
his mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my
early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a
certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have
actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the
experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not
take fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that
Heine says that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and
that man is bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau
certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even
intentionally lied, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I
quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute
regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind
of vanity. But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the
public. I write only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all
that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply
because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an
empty form--I shall never have readers. I have made this plain
already....

I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of my
notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down
as I remember them.

But here, perhaps, some one will catch at the word and ask me: if you
really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with
yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system
or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on, and
so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologize?

Well, there it is, I answer.

There is a whole psychology in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply
that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience
before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write. There are
perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely in
writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not
simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on
paper?

Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something more
impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticize myself and improve
my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing.
To-day, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a
distant past. It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and has
remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of.
And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such
reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and
oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should
get rid of it. Why not try?

Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a
sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well,
here is a chance for me, anyway.

Snow is falling to-day, yellow and dingy. It fell yesterday, too, and a
few days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that
incident which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story _a
propos_ of the falling snow.




  PART II

  A PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW


  When from dark error's subjugation
  My words of passionate exhortation
    Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free;
  And writhing prone in thine affliction
  Thou didst recall with malediction
    The vice that had encompassed thee:
  And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting
    By recollection's torturing flame,
  Thou didst reveal the hideous setting
    Of thy life's current ere I came:
  When suddenly I saw thee sicken,
    And weeping, hide thine anguished face,
  Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken,
    At memories of foul disgrace.

                   NEKRASSOV (_translated by Juliet Soskice_).


I

At that time I was only twenty-four. My life was even then gloomy,
ill-regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage. I made friends with
no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more
in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at any one, and I was
perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a
queer fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with a
sort of loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except me
fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerks had a
most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively villainous. I
believe I should not have dared to look at any one with such an
unsightly countenance. Another had such a very dirty old uniform that
there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet not one of these
gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness--either about their
clothes or their countenance or their character in any way. Neither of
them ever imagined that they were looked at with repulsion; if they had
imagined it they would not have minded--so long as their superiors did
not look at them in that way. It is clear to me now that, owing to my
unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often
looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and
so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to every one. I hated my face,
for instance: I thought it disgusting, and even suspected that there was
something base in my expression, and so every day when I turned up at
the office I tried to behave as independently as possible, and to assume
a lofty expression, so that I might not be suspected of being abject.
"My face may be ugly," I thought, "but let it be lofty, expressive, and,
above all, _extremely_ intelligent." But I was positively and painfully
certain that it was impossible for my countenance ever to express those
qualities. And what was worst of all, I thought it actually stupid
looking, and I would have been quite satisfied if I could have looked
intelligent. In fact, I would even have put up with looking base if, at
the same time, my face could have been thought strikingly intelligent.

Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them
all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it
happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It
somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them
and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot
be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and
without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments. But
whether I despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes
almost every time I met any one. I even made experiments whether I could
face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my
eyes. This worried me to distraction. I had a sickly dread, too, of
being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the conventional in
everything external. I loved to fall into the common rut, and had a
whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity in myself. But how
could I live up to it? I was morbidly sensitive, as a man of our age
should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many
sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a
coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly
developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I
was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest
embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave.
That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made
and constructed to that very end. And not only at the present time owing
to some casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is
bound to be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent
people all over the earth. If any one of them happens to be valiant
about something, he need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he
would show the white feather just the same before something else. That
is how it invariably and inevitably ends. Only donkeys and mules are
valiant, and they only till they are pushed up to the wall. It is not
worth while to pay attention to them for they really are of no
consequence.

Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no
one like me and I was unlike any one else. "I am alone and they are
_every one_," I thought--and pondered.

From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.

The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to go
to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.
But all at once, _a propos_ of nothing, there would come a phase of
scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I
would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would
reproach myself with being _romantic_. At one time I was unwilling to
speak to any one, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to
the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my
fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who
knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been
affected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question even
now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played
preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions.... But here let me make a
digression.

We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish
transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom
nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France
perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not
even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing
their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are
fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what
distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental
natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they
are is due to our "realistic" journalists and critics of that day,
always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and
foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our
romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or
France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our "romantics" are
absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and
no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of
this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much respected word which has
done good service and is familiar to all). The characteristics of our
romantic are to understand everything, _to see everything and to see it
often incomparably more clearly than our most realistic minds see it_;
to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to
despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose
sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the
government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that
object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at
the same time to preserve "the good and the beautiful" inviolate within
them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also,
incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only
for the benefit of "the good and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man
of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure
you.... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if
he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always
intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had
foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the
flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve
their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there--by
preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.

I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly
abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it.
Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather
go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely happens--than
take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is
never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as
"the King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin,
fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable "romantics"
attain later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their
many-sidedness is remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most
contradictory sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those
days, and I am of the same opinion now. That is why there are so many
"broad natures" among us who never lose their ideal even in the depths
of degradation; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal,
though they are arrant thieves and knaves, yet they tearfully cherish
their first ideal and are extraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is
only among us that the most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and
loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I
repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I
use the term "rascals" affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of
reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the
public generally can only ejaculate in amazement.

Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may
develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is
not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful
patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am
joking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary, and you are convinced that I
really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an
honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.

I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and
soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I
even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations.
That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone.

In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to
stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external
impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of
course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But
at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of
everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome
vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting,
from my continual, sickly irritability. I had hysterical impulses, with
tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there
was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted
me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving
for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said
all this to justify myself.... But, no! I am lying. I did want to
justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit,
gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not.

And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy
vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most
loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.
Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully
afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognized. I visited
various obscure haunts.

One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some
gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of
window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted, but I was
in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman thrown
out of window--and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern
and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll have a fight,
too, and they'll throw me out of window."

I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man to
such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not
even equal to being thrown out of window and I went away without having
my fight.

An officer put me in my place from the first moment.

I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up the
way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a
word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was
standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me.
I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me
without noticing me.

Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a more
decent, a more _literary_ one, so to speak. I had been treated like a
fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little
fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I
certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my
mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.

I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the
next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more
furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in
my eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was
cowardice made me slink away from the officer: I never have been a
coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be
in a hurry to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all.

Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to
fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long
extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant
Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would
have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly
procedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as
something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were
quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot.

I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded vanity.
I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and
being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage
enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid
of was that every one present, from the insolent marker down to the
lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at
me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in
literary language. For of the point of honour--not of honour, but of the
point of honour (_point d'honneur_)--one cannot speak among us except in
literary language. You can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary
language. I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all
my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with
laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is,
without insulting me, but would certainly <DW8> me in the back with his
knee, kick me round the billiard table, and only then perhaps have pity
and drop me out of the window.

Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often
met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very
carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognized me, I imagine not;
I judge from certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite and hatred
and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper
with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries about this
officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one
day I heard some one shout his surname in the street as I was following
him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so I learnt his
surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks
learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey, whether he
lived alone or with others, and so on--in fact, everything one could
learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never tried my hand with
the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire on this officer in
the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. I wrote the novel
with relish. I did unmask his villainy, I even exaggerated it; at first
I so altered his surname that it could easily be recognized, but on
second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the
_Otetchestvenniya Zapiski_. But at that time such attacks were not the
fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me.

Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined
to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming letter
to him, imploring him to apologize to me, and hinting rather plainly at
a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the
officer had had the least understanding of the good and the beautiful he
would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me his
friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have got on
together! "He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I could
have improved his mind with my culture, and, well ... my ideas, and all
sorts of things might have happened." Only fancy, this was two years
after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a ridiculous
anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity of my letter in disguising
and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank
the Almighty with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him.
Cold shivers run down my back when I think of what might have happened
if I had sent it.

And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of
genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on
holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four
o'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a
series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no
doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most
unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for
generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At
such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I
used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the
wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my
little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual,
intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant
and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this
world, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highly developed,
more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but a fly that was
continually making way for every one, insulted and injured by every one.
Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I
don't know. I felt simply drawn there at every possible opportunity.

Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I
spoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even
more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most
frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on
holidays. He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of
high rank, and he, too, wriggled between them like an eel; but people,
like me, or even better dressed like me, he simply walked over; he made
straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space before
him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my
resentment watching him and ... always resentfully made way for him. It
exasperated me that even in the street I could not be on an even footing
with him.

"Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept asking
myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the
morning. "Why is it you and not he? There's no regulation about it;
there's no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually is
when refined people meet: he moves half-way and you move half-way; you
pass with mutual respect."

But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not even
notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright idea dawned
upon me! "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move on one side?
What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up against him?
How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a hold on me that it
gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly, and I
purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture more
vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This
intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible.

"Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already more
good-natured in my joy. "I will simply not turn aside, will run up
against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other--just
as much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as he
pushes against me." At last I made up my mind completely. But my
preparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carried
out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I had
to think of my get-up. "In case of emergency, if, for instance, there
were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of the most
_recherche_: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all the
literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires respect
and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of society."

With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought at
Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black gloves seemed
to me both more dignified and _bon ton_ than the lemon- ones
which I had contemplated at first. "The colour is too gaudy, it looks as
though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not take the
lemon- ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt, with
white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me back. The
coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it was wadded
and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of vulgarity. I had to
change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a beaver one like an
officer's. For this purpose I began visiting the Gostiny Dvor and after
several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap German beaver. Though
these German beavers soon grow shabby and look wretched, yet at first
they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it for one occasion. I
asked the price; even so, it was too expensive. After thinking it over
thoroughly I decided to sell my raccoon collar. The rest of the money--a
considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow from Anton Antonitch
Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming person, though grave
and judicious. He never lent money to any one, but I had, on entering
the service, been specially recommended to him by an important personage
who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried. To borrow from Anton
Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I did not sleep for two
or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at that time, I was in a
fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else a sudden throbbing,
throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was surprised at first, then he
frowned, then he reflected, and did after all lend me the money,
receiving from me a written authorization to take from my salary a
fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.

In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced
the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It
would never have done to act off-hand, at random; the plan had to be
carried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after many
efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I
made every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though we
should run into one another directly--and before I knew what I was doing
I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without noticing me.
I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me determination.
One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended in my stumbling
and falling at his feet because at the very last instant when I was six
inches from him my courage failed me. He very calmly stepped over me,
while I flew on one side like a ball. That night I was ill again,
feverish and delirious.

And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my
mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with that
object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I would
abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I unexpectedly made
up my mind--I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt, shoulder to
shoulder, against one another! I did not budge an inch and passed him on
a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not
to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am convinced of that. I am
convinced of that to this day! Of course, I got the worst of it--he was
stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained
my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had
put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home
feeling that I was fully avenged for everything. I was delighted. I was
triumphant and sang Italian arias. Of course, I will not describe to you
what happened to me three days later; if you have read my first chapter
you can guess that for yourself. The officer was afterwards transferred;
I have not seen him now for fourteen years. What is the dear fellow
doing now? Whom is he walking over?


II

But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick
afterwards. It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away: I felt
too sick. By degrees, however, I grew used to that too. I grew used to
everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring it. But
I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was to find
refuge in "the good and the beautiful," in dreams, of course. I was a
terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on end, tucked away in
my corner, and you may believe me that at those moments I had no
resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation of his chicken
heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great coat. I suddenly
became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if
he had called on me. I could not even picture him before me then. What
were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself with them--it is hard to
say now, but at the time I was satisfied with them. Though, indeed, even
now, I am to some extent satisfied with them. Dreams were particularly
sweet and vivid after a spell of dissipation; they came with remorse and
with tears, with curses and transports. There were moments of such
positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the
faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope,
love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some
external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that
suddenly a vista of suitable activity--beneficent, good, and, above all,
_ready made_ (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing
was that it should be all ready for me)--would rise up before me--and I
should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and
crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not
conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly
occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the
mud--there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the
mud I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a
hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was
shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly
defiled, and so he might defile himself. It is worth noting that these
attacks of the "good and the beautiful" visited me even during the
period of dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the
bottom. They came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of
themselves, but did not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On
the contrary, they seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only
sufficiently present to serve as an appetizing sauce. That sauce was
made up of contradictions and sufferings, of agonizing inward analysis
and all these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a
significance to my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose
of an appetizing sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. And
I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct
debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it. What
could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the
street? No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times
in those dreams of mine! in those "flights into the good and the
beautiful;" though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied to
anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that one
did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality; that
would have been superfluous. Everything, however, passed satisfactorily
by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of art, that is,
into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely stolen from the
poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. I, for
instance, was triumphant over every one; every one, of course, was in
dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to recognize my
superiority, and I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman,
I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and immediately devoted
them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed before all the people
my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not merely shameful, but had
in them much that was "good and beautiful," something in the Manfred
style. Every one would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if
they did not), while I should go barefoot and hungry preaching new ideas
and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against the obscurantists. Then the
band would play a march, an amnesty would be declared, the Pope would
agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then there would be a ball for the
whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the shores of the Lake of Como,
the Lake of Como being for that purpose transferred to the neighbourhood
of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on--as
though you did not know all about it? You will say that it is vulgar and
contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and
transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible?
Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider
than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of
these fancies were by no means badly composed.... It did not all happen
on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right--it really is vulgar
and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am
attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than
that is my making this remark now. But that's enough, or there will be
no end to it: each step will be more contemptible than the last....

I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without
feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into
society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch
Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my
life, and wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to see him when
that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of
bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my fellows and all
mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one human being,
actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch, however, on
Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my passionate desire
to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday.

This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five
Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a
particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and
their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was
thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was
awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling
together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather
couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a
colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more
than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about the
excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about
promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him,
and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for
four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to say
to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupified, several times I
felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis; but this
was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for a time my
desire to embrace all mankind.

I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old
schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows indeed in Petersburg, but
I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them in
the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in
simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my
hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years of
penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as I
got out into the world. There were two or three left to whom I nodded in
the street. One of them was Simonov, who had been in no way
distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I
discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty.
I don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid. I had at one time
spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not lasted
long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over. He was evidently
uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy, always afraid
that I might take up the same tone again. I suspected that he had an
aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him, not being quite
certain of it.

And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that as
it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of
Simonov. Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man
disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him. But as it
always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely,
to put myself into a false position, I went in. It was almost a year
since I had last seen Simonov.


III

I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be
discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice of
my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years.
Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common fly.
I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all hated
me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack of
success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low, going
about badly dressed and so on--which seemed to them a sign of my
incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt.
Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he
had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I
sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they
were saying.

They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell
dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of
theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a
distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me
too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the
lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody
liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because
he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and
got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good
certificate, as he had powerful interest. During his last year at school
he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all of us
were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar in the
extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even in his
swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham notions of
honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled before
Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any
interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he had been
favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an
accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact
and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I
hated the abrupt self-confident tone of his voice, his admiration of his
own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold
in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I
would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the
free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the "'forties." I hated the
way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did
not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes
of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and
boasted of the duels he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I,
invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day
talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future
relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the
sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village
girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his _droit de seigneur_, and
that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and
double the tax on them, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble
applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion for the girls and
their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I
got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he
was lively and impudent, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that
my victory was not really complete: the laugh was on his side. He got
the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice,
jestingly, casually. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and
would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did
not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite
naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a
lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other
rumours--of his successes in the service. By then he had taken to
cutting me in the street, and I suspected that he was afraid of
compromising himself by greeting a personage as insignificant as me. I
saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was
wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and twirling about,
ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient General. In three
years he had gone off considerably, though he was still rather handsome
and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty he would be
corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to
give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him for those
three years, though privately they did not consider themselves on an
equal footing with him, I am convinced of that.

Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianized German--a
little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always
deriding every one, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the
lower forms--a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most
sensitive feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a
wretched little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of
Zverkov who made up to the latter from interested motives, and often
borrowed money from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a
person in no way remarkable--a tall young fellow, in the army, with a
cold face, fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every sort,
and was only capable of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of
distant relation of Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him a
certain importance among us. He always thought me of no consequence
whatever; his behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was
tolerable.

"Well, with seven roubles each," said Trudolyubov, "twenty-one roubles
between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner.
Zverkov, of course, won't pay."

"Of course not, since we are inviting him," Simonov decided.

"Can you imagine," Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like
some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations,
"can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from
delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne."

"Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?" observed Trudolyubov,
taking notice only of the half dozen.

"So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at
the Hotel de Paris at five o'clock to-morrow," Simonov, who had been
asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally.

"How twenty-one roubles?" I asked in some agitation, with a show of
being offended; "if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but
twenty-eight roubles."

It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly would
be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at once and
would look at me with respect.

"Do you want to join, too?" Simonov observed, with no appearance of
pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and
through.

It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly.

"Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I must
own I feel hurt that you have left me out," I said, boiling over again.

"And where were we to find you?" Ferfitchkin put in roughly.

"You never were on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added,
frowning.

But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up.

"It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that," I
retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had
happened. "Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I
have not always been on good terms with him."

"Oh, there's no making you out ... with these refinements," Trudolyubov
jeered.

"We'll put your name down," Simonov decided, addressing me. "To-morrow
at five o'clock at the Hotel de Paris."

"What about the money?" Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating me
to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed.

"That will do," said Trudolyubov, getting up. "If he wants to come so
much, let him."

"But it's a private thing, between us friends," Ferfitchkin said
crossly, as he, too, picked up his hat. "It's not an official
gathering."

"We do not want at all, perhaps...."

They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went out,
Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left _tete-a-tete_,
was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly. He
did not sit down and did not ask me to.

"H'm ... yes ... to-morrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I
just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed crimson, and as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov
fifteen roubles for ages--which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though I
had not paid it.

"You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came
here.... I am very much vexed that I have forgotten...."

"All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay to-morrow after
the dinner. I simply wanted to know.... Please don't...."

He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked he
began to stamp with his heels.

"Am I keeping you?" I asked, after two minutes of silence.

"Oh!" he said, starting, "that is--to be truthful--yes. I have to go and
see some one ... not far from here," he added in an apologetic voice,
somewhat abashed.

"My goodness, why didn't you say so?" I cried, seizing my cap, with an
astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have
expected of myself.

"It's close by ... not two paces away," Simonov repeated, accompanying
me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all. "So
five o'clock, punctually, to-morrow," he called down the stairs after
me. He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury.

"What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them?" I
wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, "for a
scoundrel, a pig like that Zverkov! Of course, I had better not go; of
course, I must just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any way.
I'll send Simonov a note by to-morrow's post...."

But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go,
that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more
unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go.

And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had
was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant, Apollon,
for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him--he had to keep himself.

Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will
talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time.

However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages.

That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening I
had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I
could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant relations,
upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing since--they
sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by their
reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage distrust
at every one. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes
because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts;
I could not give in to them with the ignoble readiness with which they
gave in to one another. I hated them from the first, and shut myself
away from every one in timid, wounded and disproportionate pride. Their
coarseness revolted me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my clumsy
figure; and yet what stupid faces they had themselves. In our school the
boys' faces seemed in a special way to degenerate and grow stupider. How
many fine-looking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive.
Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by
the pettiness of their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their
games, their conversations. They had no understanding of such essential
things, they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects,
that I could not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not
wounded vanity that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust
upon me your hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that "I was only a
dreamer," while they even then had an understanding of life. They
understood nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that that
was what made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the most
obvious, striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity and
even at that time were accustomed to respect success. Everything that
was just, but oppressed and looked down upon, they laughed at
heartlessly and shamefully. They took rank for intelligence; even at
sixteen they were already talking about a snug berth. Of course, a great
deal of it was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with which
they had always been surrounded in their childhood and boyhood. They
were monstrously depraved. Of course a great deal of that, too, was
superficial and an assumption of cynicism; of course there were glimpses
of youth and freshness even in their depravity; but even that freshness
was not attractive, and showed itself in a certain rakishness. I hated
them horribly, though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They repaid
me in the same way, and did not conceal their aversion for me. But by
then I did not desire their affection: on the contrary I continually
longed for their humiliation. To escape from their derision I purposely
began to make all the progress I could with my studies and forced my way
to the very top. This impressed them. Moreover, they all began by
degrees to grasp that I had already read books none of them could read,
and understood things (not forming part of our school curriculum) of
which they had not even heard. They took a savage and sarcastic view of
it, but were morally impressed, especially as the teachers began to
notice me on those grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility
remained, and cold and strained relations became permanent between us.
In the end I could not put up with it: with years a craving for society,
for friends, developed in me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with
some of my schoolfellows; but somehow or other my intimacy with them was
always strained and soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a
friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise
unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil into him a contempt for his
surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with
those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate affection; I
reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul;
but when he devoted himself to me entirely I began to hate him
immediately and repulsed him--as though all I needed him for was to win
a victory over him, to subjugate him and nothing else. But I could not
subjugate all of them; my friend was not at all like them either, he
was, in fact, a rare exception. The first thing I did on leaving school
was to give up the special job for which I had been destined so as to
break all ties, to curse my past and shake the dust from off my feet....
And goodness knows why, after all that, I should go trudging off to
Simonov's!

Early next morning I roused myself and jumped out of bed with
excitement, as though it were all about to happen at once. But I
believed that some radical change in my life was coming, and would
inevitably come that day. Owing to its rarity, perhaps, any external
event, however trivial, always made me feel as though some radical
change in my life were at hand. I went to the office, however, as usual,
but sneaked away home two hours earlier to get ready. The great thing, I
thought, is not to be the first to arrive, or they will think I am
overjoyed at coming. But there were thousands of such great points to
consider, and they all agitated and overwhelmed me. I polished my boots
a second time with my own hands; nothing in the world would have induced
Apollon to clean them twice a day, as he considered that it was more
than his duties required of him. I stole the brushes to clean them from
the passage, being careful he should not detect it, for fear of his
contempt. Then I minutely examined my clothes and thought that
everything looked old, worn and threadbare. I had let myself get too
slovenly. My uniform, perhaps, was tidy, but I could not go out to
dinner in my uniform. The worst of it was that on the knee of my
trousers was a big yellow stain. I had a foreboding that that stain
would deprive me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I knew, too,
that it was very poor to think so. "But this is no time for thinking:
now I am in for the real thing," I thought, and my heart sank. I knew,
too, perfectly well even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating the
facts. But how could I help it? I could not control myself and was
already shaking with fever. With despair I pictured to myself how coldly
and disdainfully that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what
dull-witted, invincible contempt the blockhead Trudolyubov would look at
me; with what impudent rudeness the insect Ferfitchkin would snigger at
me in order to curry favour with Zverkov; how completely Simonov would
take it all in, and how he would despise me for the abjectness of my
vanity and lack of spirit--and, worst of all, how paltry, _unliterary_,
commonplace it would all be. Of course, the best thing would be not to
go at all. But that was most impossible of all: if I feel impelled to do
anything, I seem to be pitchforked into it. I should have jeered at
myself ever afterwards: "So you funked it, you funked it, you funked the
_real thing_!" On the contrary, I passionately longed to show all that
"rabble" that I was by no means such a spiritless creature as I seemed
to myself. What is more, even in the acutest paroxysm of this cowardly
fever, I dreamed of getting the upper hand, of dominating them, carrying
them away, making them like me--if only for my "elevation of thought and
unmistakable wit." They would abandon Zverkov, he would sit on one side,
silent and ashamed, while I should crush him. Then, perhaps, we would be
reconciled and drink to our everlasting friendship; but what was most
bitter and most humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully
and for certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did
not really want to crush, to subdue, to attract them, and that I did not
care a straw really for the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how I
prayed for the day to pass quickly! In unutterable anguish I went to the
window, opened the movable pane and looked out into the troubled
darkness of the thickly falling wet snow. At last my wretched little
clock hissed out five. I seized my hat and trying not to look at
Apollon, who had been all day expecting his month's wages, but in his
foolishness was unwilling to be the first to speak about it, I slipt
between him and the door and jumping into a high-class sledge, on which
I spent my last half rouble, I drove up in grand style to the Hotel de
Paris.


IV

I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive.
But it was not a question of being the first to arrive. Not only were
they not there, but I had difficulty in finding our room. The table was
not laid even. What did it mean? After a good many questions I elicited
from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for five, but for
six o'clock. This was confirmed at the buffet too. I felt really ashamed
to go on questioning them. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. If
they changed the dinner hour they ought at least to have let me
know--that is what the post is for, and not to have put me in an absurd
position in my own eyes and ... and even before the waiters. I sat down;
the servant began laying the table; I felt even more humiliated when he
was present. Towards six o'clock they brought in candles, though there
were lamps burning in the room. It had not occurred to the waiter,
however, to bring them in at once when I arrived. In the next room two
gloomy, angry-looking persons were eating their dinners in silence at
two different tables. There was a great deal of noise, even shouting, in
a room further away; one could hear the laughter of a crowd of people,
and nasty little shrieks in French: there were ladies at the dinner. It
was sickening, in fact. I rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much
so that when they did arrive all together punctually at six I was
overjoyed to see them, as though they were my deliverers, and even
forgot that it was incumbent upon me to show resentment.

Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading
spirit. He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew
himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather
jaunty bend from the waist. He shook hands with me in a friendly, but
not over-friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like
that of a General, as though in giving me his hand he were warding off
something. I had imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would
at once break into his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making
his insipid jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing for them ever
since the previous day, but I had not expected such condescension, such
high-official courtesy. So, then, he felt himself ineffably superior to
me in every respect! If he only meant to insult me by that high-official
tone, it would not matter, I thought--I could pay him back for it one
way or another. But what if, in reality, without the least desire to be
offensive, that sheepshead had a notion in earnest that he was superior
to me and could only look at me in a patronizing way? The very
supposition made me gasp.

"I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us," he began, lisping
and drawling, which was something new. "You and I seem to have seen
nothing of one another. You fight shy of us. You shouldn't. We are not
such terrible people as you think. Well, anyway, I am glad to renew our
acquaintance."

And he turned carelessly to put down his hat on the window.

"Have you been waiting long?" Trudolyubov inquired.

"I arrived at five o'clock as you told me yesterday," I answered aloud,
with an irritability that threatened an explosion.

"Didn't you let him know that we had changed the hour?" said Trudolyubov
to Simonov.

"No, I didn't. I forgot," the latter replied, with no sign of regret,
and without even apologizing to me he went off to order the _hors
d'oeuvres_.

"So you've been here a whole hour? Oh, poor fellow!" Zverkov cried
ironically, for to his notions this was bound to be extremely funny.
That rascal Ferfitchkin followed with his nasty little snigger like a
puppy yapping. My position struck him, too, as exquisitely ludicrous and
embarrassing.

"It isn't funny at all!" I cried to Ferfitchkin, more and more
irritated. "It wasn't my fault, but other people's. They neglected to
let me know. It was ... it was ... it was simply absurd."

"It's not only absurd, but something else as well," muttered
Trudolyubov, naively taking my part. "You are not hard enough upon it.
It was simply rudeness--unintentional, of course. And how could Simonov
... h'm!"

"If a trick like that had been played on me," observed Ferfitchkin, "I
should...."

"But you should have ordered something for yourself," Zverkov
interrupted, "or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us."

"You will allow that I might have done that without your permission," I
rapped out. "If I waited, it was...."

"Let us sit down, gentlemen," cried Simonov, coming in. "Everything is
ready; I can answer for the champagne; it is capitally frozen.... You
see, I did not know your address, where was I to look for you?" he
suddenly turned to me, but again he seemed to avoid looking at me.
Evidently he had something against me. It must have been what happened
yesterday.

All sat down; I did the same. It was a round table. Trudolyubov was on
my left, Simonov on my right. Zverkov was sitting opposite, Ferfitchkin
next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.

"Tell me, are you ... in a government office?" Zverkov went on attending
to me. Seeing that I was embarrassed he seriously thought that he ought
to be friendly to me, and, so to speak, cheer me up.

"Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head?" I thought, in a fury.
In my novel surroundings I was unnaturally ready to be irritated.

"In the N---- office," I answered jerkily, with my eyes on my plate.

"And ha-ave you a go-od berth? I say, what ma-a-de you leave your
original job?"

"What ma-a-de me was that I wanted to leave my original job," I drawled
more than he, hardly able to control myself. Ferfitchkin went off into a
guffaw. Simonov looked at me ironically. Trudolyubov left off eating and
began looking at me with curiosity.

Zverkov winced, but he tried not to notice it.

"And the remuneration?"

"What remuneration?"

"I mean, your sa-a-lary?"

"Why are you cross-examining me?" However, I told him at once what my
salary was. I turned horribly red.

"It is not very handsome," Zverkov observed majestically.

"Yes, you can't afford to dine at cafes on that," Ferfitchkin added
insolently.

"To my thinking it's very poor," Trudolyubov observed gravely.

"And how thin you have grown! How you have changed!" added Zverkov, with
a shade of venom in his voice, scanning me and my attire with a sort of
insolent compassion.

"Oh, spare his blushes," cried Ferfitchkin, sniggering.

"My dear sir, allow me to tell you I am not blushing," I broke out at
last; "do you hear? I am dining here, at this cafe, at my own expense,
not at other people's--note that, Mr. Ferfitchkin."

"Wha-at? Isn't every one here dining at his own expense? You would seem
to be...." Ferfitchkin flew out at me, turning as red as a lobster, and
looking me in the face with fury.

"Tha-at," I answered, feeling I had gone too far, "and I imagine it
would be better to talk of something more intelligent."

"You intend to show off your intelligence, I suppose?"

"Don't disturb yourself, that would be quite out of place here."

"Why are you clacking away like that, my good sir, eh? Have you gone out
of your wits in your office?"

"Enough, gentlemen, enough!" Zverkov cried, authoritatively.

"How stupid it is!" muttered Simonov.

"It really is stupid. We have met here, a company of friends, for a
farewell dinner to a comrade and you carry on an altercation," said
Trudolyubov, rudely addressing himself to me alone. "You invited
yourself to join us, so don't disturb the general harmony."

"Enough, enough!" cried Zverkov. "Give over, gentlemen, it's out of
place. Better let me tell you how I nearly got married the day before
yesterday...."

And then followed a burlesque narrative of how this gentleman had almost
been married two days before. There was not a word about the marriage,
however, but the story was adorned with generals, colonels and
kammer-junkers, while Zverkov almost took the lead among them. It was
greeted with approving laughter; Ferfitchkin positively squealed.

No one paid any attention to me, and I sat crushed and humiliated.

"Good Heavens, these are not the people for me!" I thought. "And what a
fool I have made of myself before them! I let Ferfitchkin go too far,
though. The brutes imagine they are doing me an honour in letting me sit
down with them. They don't understand that it's an honour to them and
not to me! I've grown thinner! My clothes! Oh, damn my trousers! Zverkov
noticed the yellow stain on the knee as soon as he came in.... But
what's the use! I must get up at once, this very minute, take my hat and
simply go without a word ... with contempt! And to-morrow I can send a
challenge. The scoundrels! As though I cared about the seven roubles.
They may think.... Damn it! I don't care about the seven roubles. I'll
go this minute!"

Of course I remained. I drank sherry and Lafitte by the glassful in my
discomfiture. Being unaccustomed to it, I was quickly affected. My
annoyance increased as the wine went to my head. I longed all at once to
insult them all in a most flagrant manner and then go away. To seize the
moment and show what I could do, so that they would say, "He's clever,
though he is absurd," and ... and ... in fact, damn them all!

I scanned them all insolently with my drowsy eyes. But they seemed to
have forgotten me altogether. They were noisy, vociferous, cheerful.
Zverkov was talking all the time. I began listening. Zverkov was talking
of some exuberant lady whom he had at last led on to declaring her love
(of course, he was lying like a horse), and how he had been helped in
this affair by an intimate friend of his, a Prince Kolya, an officer in
the hussars, who had three thousand serfs.

"And yet this Kolya, who has three thousand serfs, has not put in an
appearance here to-night to see you off," I cut in suddenly.

For a minute every one was silent. "You are drunk already." Trudolyubov
deigned to notice me at last, glancing contemptuously in my direction.
Zverkov, without a word, examined me as though I were an insect. I
dropped my eyes. Simonov made haste to fill up the glasses with
champagne.

Trudolyubov raised his glass, as did every one else but me.

"Your health and good luck on the journey!" he cried to Zverkov. "To old
times, to our future, hurrah!"

They all tossed off their glasses, and crowded round Zverkov to kiss
him. I did not move; my full glass stood untouched before me.

"Why, aren't you going to drink it?" roared Trudolyubov, losing patience
and turning menacingly to me.

"I want to make a speech separately, on my own account ... and then I'll
drink it, Mr. Trudolyubov."

"Spiteful brute!" muttered Simonov. I drew myself up in my chair and
feverishly seized my glass, prepared for something extraordinary, though
I did not know myself precisely what I was going to say.

"_Silence!_" cried Ferfitchkin. "Now for a display of wit!"

Zverkov waited very gravely, knowing what was coming.

"Mr. Lieutenant Zverkov," I began, "let me tell you that I hate phrases,
phrasemongers and men in corsets ... that's the first point, and there
is a second one to follow it."

There was a general stir.

"The second point is: I hate ribaldry and ribald talkers. Especially
ribald talkers! The third point: I love justice, truth and honesty." I
went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to shiver with horror
myself and had no idea how I came to be talking like this. "I love
thought, Monsieur Zverkov; I love true comradeship, on an equal footing
and not.... H'm ... I love.... But, however, why not? I will drink your
health, too, Mr. Zverkov. Seduce the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies
of the fatherland and ... and ... to your health, Monsieur Zverkov!"

Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed to me and said:

"I am very much obliged to you." He was frightfully offended and turned
pale.

"Damn the fellow!" roared Trudolyubov, bringing his fist down on the
table.

"Well, he wants a punch in the face for that," squealed Ferfitchkin.

"We ought to turn him out," muttered Simonov.

"Not a word, gentlemen, not a movement!" cried Zverkov solemnly,
checking the general indignation. "I thank you all, but I can show him
for myself how much value I attach to his words."

"Mr. Ferfitchkin, you will give me satisfaction to-morrow for your words
just now!" I said aloud, turning with dignity to Ferfitchkin.

"A duel, you mean? Certainly," he answered. But probably I was so
ridiculous as I challenged him and it was so out of keeping with my
appearance that everyone, including Ferfitchkin, was prostrate with
laughter.

"Yes, let him alone, of course! He is quite drunk," Trudolyubov said
with disgust.

"I shall never forgive myself for letting him join us," Simonov muttered
again.

"Now is the time to throw a bottle at their heads," I thought to myself.
I picked up the bottle ... and filled my glass.... "No, I'd better sit
on to the end," I went on thinking; "you would be pleased, my friends if
I went away. Nothing will induce me to go. I'll go on sitting here and
drinking to the end, on purpose, as a sign that I don't think you of the
slightest consequence. I will go on sitting and drinking, because this
is a public-house and I paid my entrance money. I'll sit here and drink,
for I look upon you as so many pawns, as inanimate pawns. I'll sit here
and drink ... and sing if I want to, yes, sing, for I have the right to
... to sing.... H'm!"

But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them. I assumed
most unconcerned attitudes and waited with impatience for them to speak
_first_. But alas, they did not address me! And oh, how I wished, how I
wished at that moment to be reconciled to them! It struck eight, at last
nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov stretched himself
on a lounge and put one foot on a round table. Wine was brought there.
He did, as a fact, order three bottles on his own account. I, of course,
was not invited to join them. They all sat round him on the sofa. They
listened to him, almost with reverence. It was evident that they were
fond of him. "What for? What for?" I wondered. From time to time they
were moved to drunken enthusiasm and kissed each other. They talked of
the Caucasus, of the nature of true passion, of snug berths in the
service, of the income of an hussar called Podharzhevsky, whom none of
them knew personally, and rejoiced in the largeness of it, of the
extraordinary grace and beauty of a Princess D., whom none of them had
ever seen; then it came to Shakespeare's being immortal.

I smiled contemptuously and walked up and down the other side of the
room, opposite the sofa, from the table to the stove and back again. I
tried my very utmost to show them that I could do without them, and yet
I purposely made a noise with my boots, thumping with my heels. But it
was all in vain. They paid no attention. I had the patience to walk up
and down in front of them from eight o'clock till eleven, in the same
place, from the table to the stove and back again. "I walk up and down
to please myself and no one can prevent me." The waiter who came into
the room stopped, from time to time, to look at me. I was somewhat giddy
from turning round so often; at moments it seemed to me that I was in
delirium. During those three hours I was three times soaked with sweat
and dry again. At times, with an intense, acute pang I was stabbed to
the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years would
pass, and that even in forty years I would remember with loathing and
humiliation those filthiest, most ludicrous, and most awful moments of
my life. No one could have gone out of his way to degrade himself more
shamelessly, and I fully realized it, fully, and yet I went on pacing up
and down from the table to the stove. "Oh, if you only knew what
thoughts and feelings I am capable of, how cultured I am!" I thought at
moments, mentally addressing the sofa on which my enemies were sitting.
But my enemies behaved as though I were not in the room. Once--only
once--they turned towards me, just when Zverkov was talking about
Shakespeare, and I suddenly gave a contemptuous laugh. I laughed in such
an affected and disgusting way that they all at once broke off their
conversation, and silently and gravely for two minutes watched me
walking up and down from the table to the stove, _taking no notice of
them_. But nothing came of it: they said nothing, and two minutes later
they ceased to notice me again. It struck eleven.

"Friends," cried Zverkov getting up from the sofa, "let us all be off
now, _there_!"

"Of course, of course," the others assented. I turned sharply to
Zverkov. I was so harassed, so exhausted, that I would have cut my
throat to put an end to it. I was in a fever; my hair, soaked with
perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples.

"Zverkov, I beg your pardon," I said abruptly and resolutely.
"Ferfitchkin, yours too, and every one's, every one's: I have insulted
you all!"

"Aha! A duel is not in your line, old man," Ferfitchkin hissed
venomously.

It sent a sharp pang to my heart.

"No, it's not the duel I am afraid of, Ferfitchkin! I am ready to fight
you to-morrow, after we are reconciled. I insist upon it, in fact, and
you cannot refuse. I want to show you that I am not afraid of a duel.
You shall fire first and I shall fire into the air."

"He is comforting himself," said Simonov.

"He's simply raving," said Trudolyubov.

"But let us pass. Why are you barring our way? What do you want?"
Zverkov answered disdainfully.

They were all flushed; their eyes were bright: they had been drinking
heavily.

"I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but...."

"Insulted? _You_ insulted _me_? Understand, sir, that you never, under
any circumstances, could possibly insult _me_."

"And that's enough for you. Out of the way!" concluded Trudolyubov.

"Olympia is mine, friends, that's agreed!" cried Zverkov.

"We won't dispute your right, we won't dispute your right," the others
answered, laughing.

I stood as though spat upon. The party went noisily out of the room.
Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov remained behind for a
moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him.

"Simonov! give me six roubles!" I said, with desperate resolution.

He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes. He, too, was
drunk.

"You don't mean you are coming with us?"

"Yes."

"I've no money," he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out
of the room.

I clutched at his overcoat. It was a nightmare.

"Simonov, I saw you had money. Why do you refuse me? Am I a scoundrel?
Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I am asking! My
whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!"

Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me.

"Take it, if you have no sense of shame!" he pronounced pitilessly, and
ran to overtake them.

I was left for a moment alone. Disorder, the remains of dinner, a broken
wine-glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and
delirium in my brain, an agonizing misery in my heart and finally the
waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking inquisitively into my
face.

"I am going there!" I cried. "Either they shall all go down on their
knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the
face!"


V

"So this is it, this is it at last--contact with real life," I muttered
as I ran headlong downstairs. "This is very different from the Pope's
leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake
Como!"

"You are a scoundrel," a thought flashed through my mind, "if you laugh
at this now."

"No matter!" I cried, answering myself. "Now everything is lost!"

There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference--I
knew where they had gone.

At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough
peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were
warm, snow. It was hot and steamy. The little shaggy piebald horse was
also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well. I made a
rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my foot to get
into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me six roubles
seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a sack.

"No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that," I cried. "But I
will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night. Start!"

We set off. There was a perfect whirl in my head.

"They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship. That is a
mirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical--that's
another ball on Lake Como. And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face! It
is my duty to. And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap in
the face. Hurry up!"

The driver tugged at the reins.

"As soon as I go in I'll give it him. Ought I before giving him the slap
to say a few words by way of preface? No. I'll simply go in and give it
him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with Olympia
on the sofa. That damned Olympia! She laughed at my looks on one
occasion and refused me. I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's ears!
No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room. Maybe they will
all begin beating me and will kick me out. That's most likely, indeed.
No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the initiative will be mine;
and by the laws of honour that is everything: he will be branded and
cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by nothing but a duel. He will be
forced to fight. And let them beat me now. Let them, the ungrateful
wretches! Trudolyubov will beat me hardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin
will be sure to catch hold sideways and tug at my hair. But no matter,
no matter! That's what I am going for. The blockheads will be forced at
last to see the tragedy of it all! When they drag me to the door I shall
call out to them that in reality they are not worth my little finger.
Get on, driver, get on!" I cried to the driver. He started and flicked
his whip, I shouted so savagely.

"We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing. I've done with the
office. Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now. But where can I get
pistols? Nonsense! I'll get my salary in advance and buy them. And
powder, and bullets? That's the second's business. And how can it all be
done by daybreak? And where am I to get a second? I have no friends.
Nonsense!" I cried, lashing myself up more and more. "It's of no
consequence! the first person I meet in the street is bound to be my
second, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water.
The most eccentric things may happen. Even if I were to ask the director
himself to be my second to-morrow, he would be bound to consent, if only
from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret! Anton Antonitch...."

The fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my
plan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to my
imagination than it could be to any one on earth. But....

"Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!"

"Ugh, sir!" said the son of toil.

Cold shivers suddenly ran down me. Wouldn't it be better ... to go
straight home? My God, my God! Why did I invite myself to this dinner
yesterday? But no, it's impossible. And my walking up and down for three
hours from the table to the stove? No, they, they and no one else must
pay for my walking up and down! They must wipe out this dishonour! Drive
on!

And what if they give me into custody? They won't dare! They'll be
afraid of the scandal. And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he
refuses to fight a duel? He is sure to; but in that case I'll show them
... I will turn up at the posting station when he is setting off
to-morrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he
gets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him.
"See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!" He may hit me on
the head and they may belabour me from behind. I will shout to the
assembled multitude: "Look at this young puppy who is driving off to
captivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!"

Of course, after that everything will be over! The office will have
vanished off the face of the earth. I shall be arrested, I shall be
tried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to
Siberia. Never mind! In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I
will trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags. I shall find him in some
provincial town. He will be married and happy. He will have a grown-up
daughter.... I shall say to him: "Look, monster, at my hollow cheeks and
my rags! I've lost everything--my career, my happiness, art, science,
_the woman I loved_, and all through you. Here are pistols. I have come
to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive you. Then I shall fire
into the air and he will hear nothing more of me...."

I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at
that moment that all this was out of Pushkin's _Silvio_ and Lermontov's
_Masquerade_. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I
stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow in
the middle of the street. The driver gazed at me, sighing and
astonished.

What was I to do? I could not go on there--it was evidently stupid, and
I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as
though.... Heavens, how could I leave things! And after such insults!
"No!" I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again. "It is ordained!
It is fate! Drive on, drive on!"

And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the
neck.

"What are you up to? What are you hitting me for?" the peasant shouted,
but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking.

The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless
of it. I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the slap,
and felt with horror that it was going to happen _now, at once_, and
that _no force could stop it_. The deserted street lamps gleamed
sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral. The snow
drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted
there. I did not wrap myself up--all was lost, anyway.

At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps
and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak,
particularly in my legs and my knees. The door was opened quickly as
though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that
perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which
one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions. It was one of
those "millinery establishments" which were abolished by the police a
good time ago. By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had an
introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.

I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room,
where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement:
there was no one there. "Where are they?" I asked somebody. But by now,
of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a
stupid smile, the "madam" herself, who had seen me before. A minute
later a door opened and another person came in.

Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I
talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was
conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I
should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here
and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not
realize my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come
in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with
straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that
attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I
began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had
not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and
good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that
this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her.
She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall,
strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something
loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her.

I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as
revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair.
"No matter, I am glad of it," I thought; "I am glad that I shall seem
repulsive to her; I like that."


VI

... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though
oppressed by something, as though some one were strangling it. After an
unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it
were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though some one were suddenly jumping
forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep
but lying half conscious.

It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room,
cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and
all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burning
on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time.
In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at
once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon
me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed
continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams
moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to me
in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away
past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me,
rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed
surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw beside me
two wide open eyes scrutinizing me curiously and persistently. The look
in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly remote; it
weighed upon me.

A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a
horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and
mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes,
beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two
hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact,
considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some
reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realized vividly the hideous
idea--revolting as a spider--of vice, which, without love, grossly and
shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation.
For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop
her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last
I felt uncomfortable.

"What is your name?" I asked abruptly, to put an end to it.

"Liza," she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from
graciously, and she turned her eyes away.

I was silent.

"What weather! The snow ... it's disgusting!" I said, almost to myself,
putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the ceiling.

She made no answer. This was horrible.

"Have you always lived in Petersburg?" I asked a minute later, almost
angrily, turning my head slightly towards her.

"No."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Riga," she answered reluctantly.

"Are you a German?"

"No, Russian."

"Have you been here long?"

"Where?"

"In this house?"

"A fortnight."

She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could no longer
distinguish her face.

"Have you a father and mother?"

"Yes ... no ... I have."

"Where are they?"

"There ... in Riga."

"What are they?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Nothing? Why, what class are they?"

"Tradespeople."

"Have you always lived with them?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Why did you leave them?"

"Oh, for no reason."

That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad."

We were silent.

God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and
dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from
my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled
something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was
hurrying to the office.

"I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it,"
I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but
as it were by accident.

"A coffin?"

"Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar."

"From a cellar?"

"Not from a cellar, but from a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ...
from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round.... Egg-shells, litter
... a stench. It was loathsome."

Silence.

"A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.

"Nasty, in what way?"

"The snow, the wet." (I yawned.)

"It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence.

"No, it's horrid." (I yawned again.) "The gravediggers must have sworn
at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the
grave."

"Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but
speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

I suddenly began to feel provoked.

"Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can't
dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery."

"Why?"

"Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So they bury
them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times."

(I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had
only heard stories of it.)

"Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?"

"But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself.

"Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead
woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption."

"A wench would have died in hospital...." (She knows all about it
already: she said "wench," not "girl.")

"She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked by
the discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end, though
she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking
about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her.
They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to
her memory."

A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound
silence. She did not stir.

"And is it better to die in a hospital?"

"Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?" she added
irritably.

"If not now, a little later."

"Why a little later?"

"Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price.
But after another year of this life you will be very different--you will
go off."

"In a year?"

"Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly.
"You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year
later--to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to
a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it
would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and
caught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over an
illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid
of it. And so you would die."

"Oh, well, then I shall die," she answered, quite vindictively, and she
made a quick movement.

"But one is sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for life."

Silence.

"Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?"

"What's that to you?"

"Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It's nothing to me. Why are you so
cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me?
It's simply that I felt sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for you."

"No need," she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint
movement.

That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she....

"Why, do you think that you are on the right path?"

"I don't think anything."

"That's what's wrong, that you don't think. Realize it while there is
still time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking; you
might love, be married, be happy...."

"Not all married women are happy," she snapped out in the rude abrupt
tone she had used at first.

"Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here.
Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even without
happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one
lives. But here what is there but ... foulness. Phew!"

I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to
feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already
longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner.
Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before me.

"Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps,
worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though," I hastened,
however, to say in self-defence. "Besides, a man is no example for a
woman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am
not any one's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. I shake it
off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes,
a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to
break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to: you will be more and
more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage. I know it. I won't
speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand, but tell me: no
doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see," I added, though
she made no answer, but only listened in silence, entirely absorbed,
"that's a bondage for you! You will never buy your freedom. They will
see to that. It's like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides
... perhaps I, too, am just as unlucky--how do you know--and wallow in
the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know, men take to drink from
grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come, tell me, what is there
good here? Here you and I ... came together ... just now and did not say
one word to one another all the time, and it was only afterwards you
began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving?
Is that how one human being should meet another? It's hideous, that's
what it is!"

"Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly.

I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes." So the same
thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at
me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? "Damn it
all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!" I thought,
almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn a young soul like
that!

It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness
that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinizing me.
How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep
breathing.

"Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority already
in my voice.

"Oh, I don't know."

"But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm
and free; you have a home of your own."

"But what if it's worse than this?"

"I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind. "I may not get
far with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. I swear
she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And
cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

"Who denies it!" I hastened to answer. "Anything may happen. I am
convinced that some one has wronged you, and that you are more sinned
against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it's
not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination...."

"A girl like me?" she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it.

Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps it was a
good thing.... She was silent.

"See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from
childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. However bad
it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not
enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love of
you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and
perhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling."

I waited again. "Perhaps she doesn't understand," I thought, "and,
indeed, it is absurd--it's moralizing."

"If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my
daughter more than my sons, really," I began indirectly, as though
talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I
blushed.

"Why so?" she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

"I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but
used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands,
her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced at
parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her. He
was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at
night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of
the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy
to every one else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her
expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased
with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the
mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should
never let my daughters marry."

"What next?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss any
one else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It's
painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course every
father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let
her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all
her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself
loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the
father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from
that."

"Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them
honourably."

Ah, so that was it!

"Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there
is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no
love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true, but
I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your own
family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky. H'm!
... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty."

"And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest
people live happily."

"H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up
his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he
ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.
And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is
upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never
leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is
happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If
you marry _you will find out for yourself_. But think of the first years
of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there
sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing. In those early
days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up
quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew
a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she
would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a
man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that,
thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him
afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in
the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and
peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women who are jealous.
If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman, she couldn't restrain
herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out
where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And
the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she
suffers, but she loves--it's all through love. And how sweet it is to
make it up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive
him! And they are both so happy all at once--as though they had met
anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh.
And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if
they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them
they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and
tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy
mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens.
That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much
is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been
married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It
is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and
straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married
love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is
better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have
everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once
they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so
long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny
yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy. They will
love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the
children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them;
that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and
feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on
your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it
fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to
have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of
little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little
rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched,
seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling
and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so
tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they
understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with
its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself
away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as
though it were fearfully funny and falls to sucking again. Or it will
bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it
looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look, I am
biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three together,
husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of
such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one
blames others!"

"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought to
myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed
crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I
do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I
really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence
continued. I almost nudged her.

"Why are you----" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a
quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and
unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced
that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

"What?" I asked, with tender curiosity.

"Why, you...."

"What?"

"Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there was
a note of irony in her voice.

That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting.

I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that
this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when
the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that
their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and
shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to
have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly
approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with
an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of
me.

"Wait a bit!" I thought.


VII

"Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes
even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an
outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart.... Is it possible, is
it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently
habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with any one. Can you
seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be
good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say
nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here.... Though let me tell you
this about it--about your present life, I mean; here though you are
young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon
as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you!
One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else,
living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by
you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you,
let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my
knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an
honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought
about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you
have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your
wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman but
he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he
will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you
are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your
soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have
no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every
drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless
diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to
give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your
love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no
need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And
you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you
understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools,
they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a
farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are
taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of
yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be
called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did!
Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with
him? He laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to! You
are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too.
Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh
in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe
he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined
your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to
drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you
up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what
she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will
always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the
visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely
upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know. You
will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll
begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not
sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your
soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her,
robbed her. And don't expect any one to take your part: the others, your
companions, will attack you, too, to win her favour, for all are in
slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They
have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome,
and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything
here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at
twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will
be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are
thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no
work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would
think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't
dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here;
you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another
house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last
to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good
manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without
beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look
for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New
Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke,
to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much,
and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she
was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises,
her face was powdered, but she had a black eye, blood was trickling from
her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She
was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her
hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with
the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in
the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like
that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe
ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here
fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every
word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like
the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was
in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do
you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was
beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and
dishevelled--what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early
days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the
neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love
her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when
they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they
were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to die
soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman just
now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take you,
but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is a
queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the
last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself. And that just
suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your
soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But
when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you,
for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they will
reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over dying.
However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse: 'Whenever
are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep with your
moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have heard such
things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the filthiest corner
in the cellar--in the damp and darkness; what will your thoughts be,
lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will lay you out, with
grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no one will sigh for
you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may be; they will buy a
coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor woman to-day, and
celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave sleet, filth, wet
snow--no need to put themselves out for you--'Let her down, Vanuha; it's
just like her luck--even here, she is head-foremost, the hussy. Shorten
the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.' 'All right, is it?
Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature, after all! But, never
mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't care to waste much time
quarrelling over you. They will scatter the wet blue clay as quick as
they can and go off to the tavern ... and there your memory on earth
will end; other women have children to go to their graves, fathers,
husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh, nor remembrance; no one
in the whole world will ever come to you, your name will vanish from the
face of the earth--as though you had never existed, never been born at
all! Nothing but filth and mud, however you knock at your coffin lid at
night, when the dead arise, however you cry: 'Let me out, kind people,
to live in the light of day! My life was no life at all; my life has
been thrown away like a dish-clout; it was drunk away in the tavern at
the Haymarket; let me out, kind people, to live in the world again.'"

And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in my
throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay, and
bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart. I had
reason to be troubled.

I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and
rending her heart, and--and the more I was convinced of it, the more
eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as
possible. It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it
was not merely sport....

I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I
could not speak except "like a book." But that did not trouble me: I
knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness
might be an assistance. But now, having attained my effect, I was
suddenly panic-stricken. Never before had I witnessed such despair! She
was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching
it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was
shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her
bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed
closer into the pillow: she did not want any one here, not a living
soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her
hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers
into her dishevelled hair seemed rigid with the effort of restraint,
holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I began saying something,
begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare; and all at
once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began fumbling in the
dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go. It was dark: though I tried
my best I could not finish dressing quickly. Suddenly I felt a box of
matches and a candlestick with a whole candle in it. As soon as the room
was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in bed, and with a contorted
face, with a half insane smile, looked at me almost senselessly. I sat
down beside her and took her hands; she came to herself, made an
impulsive movement towards me, would have caught hold of me, but did not
dare, and slowly bowed her head before me.

"Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear," I began, but she
squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the
wrong thing and stopped.

"This is my address, Liza, come to me."

"I will come," she answered resolutely, her head still bowed.

"But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again."

I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a
shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled
herself in it to her chin. As she did this she gave another sickly
smile, blushed and looked at me strangely. I felt wretched; I was in
haste to get away--to disappear.

"Wait a minute," she said suddenly, in the passage just at the doorway,
stopping me with her hand on my overcoat. She put down the candle in hot
haste and ran off; evidently she had thought of something or wanted to
show me something. As she ran away she flushed, her eyes shone, and
there was a smile on her lips--what was the meaning of it? Against my
will I waited: she came back a minute later with an expression that
seemed to ask forgiveness for something. In fact, it was not the same
face, not the same look as the evening before: sullen, mistrustful and
obstinate. Her eyes now were imploring, soft, and at the same time
trustful, caressing, timid. The expression with which children look at
people they are very fond of, of whom they are asking a favour. Her eyes
were a light hazel, they were lovely eyes, full of life, and capable of
expressing love as well as sullen hatred.

Making no explanation, as though I, as a sort of higher being, must
understand everything without explanations, she held out a piece of
paper to me. Her whole face was positively beaming at that instant with
naive, almost childish, triumph. I unfolded it. It was a letter to her
from a medical student or some one of that sort--a very high-flown and
flowery, but extremely respectful, love-letter. I don't recall the words
now, but I remember well that through the high-flown phrases there was
apparent a genuine feeling, which cannot be feigned. When I had finished
reading it I met her glowing, questioning, and childishly impatient eyes
fixed upon me. She fastened her eyes upon my face and waited impatiently
for what I should say. In a few words, hurriedly, but with a sort of joy
and pride, she explained to me that she had been to a dance somewhere in
a private house, a family of "very nice people, _who knew nothing_,
absolutely nothing, for she had only come here so lately and it had all
happened ... and she hadn't made up her mind to stay and was certainly
going away as soon as she had paid her debt ... and at that party there
had been the student who had danced with her all the evening. He had
talked to her, and it turned out that he had known her in old days at
Riga when he was a child, they had played together, but a very long time
ago--and he knew her parents, but _about this_ he knew nothing, nothing
whatever, and had no suspicion! And the day after the dance (three days
ago) he had sent her that letter through the friend with whom she had
gone to the party ... and ... well, that was all."

She dropped her shining eyes with a sort of bashfulness as she finished.

The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure,
and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me
to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely
loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully. No doubt that letter
was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing. But none the less, I
am certain that she would keep it all her life as a precious treasure,
as her pride and justification, and now at such a minute she had thought
of that letter and brought it with naive pride to raise herself in my
eyes that I might see, that I, too, might think well of her. I said
nothing, pressed her hand and went out. I so longed to get away.... I
walked all the way home, in spite of the fact that the melting snow was
still falling in heavy flakes. I was exhausted, shattered, in
bewilderment. But behind the bewilderment the truth was already
gleaming. The loathsome truth.


VIII

It was some time, however, before I consented to recognize that truth.
Waking up in the morning after some hours of heavy, leaden sleep, and
immediately realizing all that had happened on the previous day, I was
positively amazed at my last night's _sentimentality_ with Liza, at all
those "outcries of horror and pity." "To think of having such an attack
of womanish hysteria, pah!" I concluded. And what did I thrust my
address upon her for? What if she comes? Let her come, though; it
doesn't matter.... But _obviously_, that was not now the chief and the
most important matter: I had to make haste and at all costs save my
reputation in the eyes of Zverkov and Simonov as quickly as possible;
that was the chief business. And I was so taken up that morning that I
actually forgot all about Liza.

First of all I had at once to repay what I had borrowed the day before
from Simonov. I resolved on a desperate measure: to borrow fifteen
roubles straight off from Anton Antonitch. As luck would have it he was
in the best of humours that morning, and gave it to me at once, on the
first asking. I was so delighted at this that, as I signed the I O U
with a swaggering air, I told him casually that the night before "I had
been keeping it up with some friends at the Hotel de Paris; we were
giving a farewell party to a comrade, in fact, I might say a friend of
my childhood, and you know--a desperate rake, fearfully spoilt--of
course, he belongs to a good family, and has considerable means, a
brilliant career; he is witty, charming, a regular Lovelace, you
understand; we drank an extra 'half-dozen' and...."

And it went off all right; all this was uttered very easily,
unconstrainedly and complacently.

On reaching home I promptly wrote to Simonov.

To this hour I am lost in admiration when I recall the truly
gentlemanly, good-humoured, candid tone of my letter. With tact and
good-breeding, and, above all, entirely without superfluous words, I
blamed myself for all that had happened. I defended myself, "if I really
may be allowed to defend myself," by alleging that being utterly
unaccustomed to wine, I had been intoxicated with the first glass, which
I said, I had drunk before they arrived, while I was waiting for them at
the Hotel de Paris between five and six o'clock. I begged Simonov's
pardon especially; I asked him to convey my explanations to all the
others, especially to Zverkov, whom "I seemed to remember as though in a
dream" I had insulted. I added that I would have called upon all of them
myself, but my head ached, and besides I had not the face to. I was
particularly pleased with a certain lightness, almost carelessness
(strictly within the bounds of politeness, however), which was apparent
in my style, and better than any possible arguments, gave them at once
to understand that I took rather an independent view of "all that
unpleasantness last night;" that I was by no means so utterly crushed as
you, my friends, probably imagine; but on the contrary, looked upon it
as a gentleman serenely respecting himself should look upon it. "On a
young hero's past no censure is cast!"

"There is actually an aristocratic playfulness about it!" I thought
admiringly, as I read over the letter. And it's all because I am an
intellectual and cultivated man! Another man in my place would not have
known how to extricate himself, but here I have got out of it and am as
jolly as ever again, and all because I am "a cultivated and educated man
of our day." And, indeed, perhaps, everything was due to the wine
yesterday. H'm! ... no, it was not the wine. I did not drink anything at
all between five and six when I was waiting for them. I had lied to
Simonov; I had lied shamelessly; and indeed I wasn't ashamed now....
Hang it all though, the great thing was that I was rid of it.

I put six roubles in the letter, sealed it up, and asked Apollon to take
it to Simonov. When he learned that there was money in the letter,
Apollon became more respectful and agreed to take it. Towards evening I
went out for a walk. My head was still aching and giddy after yesterday.
But as evening came on and the twilight grew denser, my impressions and,
following them, my thoughts, grew more and more different and confused.
Something was not dead within me, in the depths of my heart and
conscience it would not die, and it showed itself in acute depression.
For the most part I jostled my way through the most crowded business
streets, along Myeshtchansky Street, along Sadovy Street and in Yusupov
Garden. I always liked particularly sauntering along these streets in
the dusk, just when there were crowds of working people of all sorts
going home from their daily work, with faces looking cross with anxiety.
What I liked was just that cheap bustle, that bare prose. On this
occasion the jostling of the streets irritated me more than ever. I
could not make out what was wrong with me, I could not find the clue,
something seemed rising up continually in my soul, painfully, and
refusing to be appeased. I returned home completely upset, it was just
as though some crime were lying on my conscience.

The thought that Liza was coming worried me continually. It seemed queer
to me that of all my recollections of yesterday this tormented me, as it
were, especially, as it were, quite separately. Everything else I had
quite succeeded in forgetting by the evening; I dismissed it all and was
still perfectly satisfied with my letter to Simonov. But on this point I
was not satisfied at all. It was as though I were worried only by Liza.
"What if she comes," I thought incessantly, "well, it doesn't matter,
let her come! H'm! it's horrid that she should see, for instance, how I
live. Yesterday I seemed such a hero to her, while now, h'm! It's
horrid, though, that I have let myself go so, the room looks like a
beggar's. And I brought myself to go out to dinner in such a suit! And
my American leather sofa with the stuffing sticking out. And my
dressing-gown, which will not cover me, such tatters, and she will see
all this and she will see Apollon. That beast is certain to insult her.
He will fasten upon her in order to be rude to me. And I, of course,
shall be panic-stricken as usual, I shall begin bowing and scraping
before her and pulling my dressing-gown round me, I shall begin smiling,
telling lies. Oh, the beastliness! And it isn't the beastliness of it
that matters most! There is something more important, more loathsome,
viler! Yes, viler! And to put on that dishonest lying mask again!"...

When I reached that thought I fired up all at once.

"Why dishonest? How dishonest? I was speaking sincerely last night. I
remember there was real feeling in me, too. What I wanted was to excite
an honourable feeling in her.... Her crying was a good thing, it will
have a good effect."

Yet I could not feel at ease. All that evening, even when I had come
back home, even after nine o'clock, when I calculated that Liza could
not possibly come, she still haunted me, and what was worse, she came
back to my mind always in the same position. One moment out of all that
had happened last night stood vividly before my imagination; the moment
when I struck a match and saw her pale, distorted face, with its look of
torture. And what a pitiful, what an unnatural, what a distorted smile
she had at that moment! But I did not know then, that fifteen years
later I should still in my imagination see Liza, always with the
pitiful, distorted, inappropriate smile which was on her face at that
minute.

Next day I was ready again to look upon it all as nonsense, due to
over-excited nerves, and, above all, as _exaggerated_. I was always
conscious of that weak point of mine, and sometimes very much afraid of
it. "I exaggerate everything, that is where I go wrong," I repeated to
myself every hour. But, however, "Liza will very likely come all the
same," was the refrain with which all my reflections ended. I was so
uneasy that I sometimes flew into a fury: "She'll come, she is certain
to come!" I cried, running about the room, "if not to-day, she will come
to-morrow; she'll find me out! The damnable romanticism of these pure
hearts! Oh, the vileness--oh, the silliness--oh, the stupidity of these
'wretched sentimental souls!' Why, how fail to understand? How could one
fail to understand?..."

But at this point I stopped short, and in great confusion, indeed.

And how few, how few words, I thought, in passing, were needed; how
little of the idyllic (and affectedly, bookishly, artificially idyllic
too) had sufficed to turn a whole human life at once according to my
will. That's virginity, to be sure! Freshness of soil!

At times a thought occurred to me, to go to her, "to tell her all," and
beg her not to come to me. But this thought stirred such wrath in me
that I believed I should have crushed that "damned" Liza if she had
chanced to be near me at the time. I should have insulted her, have spat
at her, have turned her out, have struck her!

One day passed, however, another and another; she did not come and I
began to grow calmer. I felt particularly bold and cheerful after nine
o'clock, I even sometimes began dreaming, and rather sweetly: I, for
instance, became the salvation of Liza, simply through her coming to me
and my talking to her.... I develop her, educate her. Finally, I notice
that she loves me, loves me passionately. I pretend not to understand (I
don't know, however, why I pretend, just for effect, perhaps). At last
all confusion, transfigured, trembling and sobbing, she flings herself
at my feet and says that I am her saviour, and that she loves me better
than anything in the world. I am amazed, but.... "Liza," I say, "can you
imagine that I have not noticed your love, I saw it all, I divined it,
but I did not dare to approach you first, because I had an influence
over you and was afraid that you would force yourself, from gratitude,
to respond to my love, would try to rouse in your heart a feeling which
was perhaps absent, and I did not wish that ... because it would be
tyranny ... it would be indelicate (in short, I launch off at that point
into European, inexplicably lofty subtleties a la George Sand), but now,
now you are mine, you are my creation, you are pure, you are good, you
are my noble wife.

     'Into my house come bold and free,
      Its rightful mistress there to be.'"

Then we begin living together, go abroad and so on, and so on. In fact,
in the end it seemed vulgar to me myself, and I began putting out my
tongue at myself.

Besides, they won't let her out, "the hussy!" I thought. They don't let
them go out very readily, especially in the evening (for some reason I
fancied she would come in the evening, and at seven o'clock precisely).
Though she did say she was not altogether a slave there yet, and had
certain rights; so, h'm! Damn it all, she will come, she is sure to
come!

It was a good thing, in fact, that Apollon distracted my attention at
that time by his rudeness. He drove me beyond all patience! He was the
bane of my life, the curse laid upon me by Providence. We had been
squabbling continually for years, and I hated him. My God, how I hated
him! I believe I had never hated any one in my life as I hated him,
especially at some moments. He was an elderly, dignified man, who worked
part of his time as a tailor. But for some unknown reason he despised me
beyond all measure, and looked down upon me insufferably. Though,
indeed, he looked down upon every one. Simply to glance at that flaxen,
smoothly brushed head, at the tuft of hair he combed up on his forehead
and oiled with sunflower oil, at that dignified mouth, compressed into
the shape of the letter V, made one feel one was confronting a man who
never doubted of himself. He was a pedant, to the most extreme point,
the greatest pedant I had met on earth, and with that had a vanity only
befitting Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with every button on his
coat, every nail on his fingers--absolutely in love with them, and he
looked it! In his behaviour to me he was a perfect tyrant, he spoke very
little to me, and if he chanced to glance at me he gave me a firm,
majestically self-confident and invariably ironical look that drove me
sometimes to fury. He did his work with the air of doing me the greatest
favour. Though he did scarcely anything for me, and did not, indeed,
consider himself bound to do anything. There could be no doubt that he
looked upon me as the greatest fool on earth, and that "he did not get
rid of me" was simply that he could get wages from me every month. He
consented to do nothing for me for seven roubles a month. Many sins
should be forgiven me for what I suffered from him. My hatred reached
such a point that sometimes his very step almost threw me into
convulsions. What I loathed particularly was his lisp. His tongue must
have been a little too long or something of that sort, for he
continually lisped, and seemed to be very proud of it, imagining that it
greatly added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured tone, with
his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He maddened
me particularly when he read aloud the psalms to himself behind his
partition. Many a battle I waged over that reading! But he was awfully
fond of reading aloud in the evenings, in a slow, even, sing-song voice,
as though over the dead. It is interesting that that is how he has
ended: he hires himself out to read the psalms over the dead, and at the
same time he kills rats and makes blacking. But at that time I could not
get rid of him, it was as though he were chemically combined with my
existence. Besides, nothing would have induced him to consent to leave
me. I could not live in furnished lodgings: my lodging was my private
solitude, my shell, my cave, in which I concealed myself from all
mankind, and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of
that flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away.

To be two or three days behind with his wages, for instance, was
impossible. He would have made such a fuss, I should not have known
where to hide my head. But I was so exasperated with every one during
those days, that I made up my mind for some reason and with some object
to _punish_ Apollon and not to pay him for a fortnight the wages that
were owing him. I had for a long time--for the last two years--been
intending to do this, simply in order to teach him not to give himself
airs with me, and to show him that if I liked I could withhold his
wages. I purposed to say nothing to him about it, and was purposely
silent indeed, in order to score off his pride and force him to be the
first to speak of his wages. Then I would take the seven roubles out of
a drawer, show him I have the money put aside on purpose, but that I
won't, I won't, I simply won't pay him his wages, I won't just because
that is "what I wish," because "I am master, and it is for me to
decide," because he has been disrespectful, because he has been rude;
but if he were to ask respectfully I might be softened and give it to
him, otherwise he might wait another fortnight, another three weeks, a
whole month....

But angry as I was, yet he got the better of me. I could not hold out
for four days. He began as he always did begin in such cases, for there
had been such cases already, there had been attempts (and it may be
observed I knew all this beforehand, I knew his nasty tactics by heart).
He would begin by fixing upon me an exceedingly severe stare, keeping it
up for several minutes at a time, particularly on meeting me or seeing
me out of the house. If I held out and pretended not to notice these
stares, he would, still in silence, proceed to further tortures. All at
once, _a propos_ of nothing, he would walk softly and smoothly into my
room, when I was pacing up and down or reading, stand at the door, one
hand behind his back and one foot behind the other, and fix upon me a
stare more than severe, utterly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him
what he wanted, he would make me no answer, but continue staring at me
persistently for some seconds, then, with a peculiar compression of his
lips and a most significant air, deliberately turn round and
deliberately go back to his room. Two hours later he would come out
again and again present himself before me in the same way. It had
happened that in my fury I did not even ask him what he wanted, but
simply raised my head sharply and imperiously and began staring back at
him. So we stared at one another for two minutes; at last he turned with
deliberation and dignity and went back again for two hours.

If I were still not brought to reason by all this, but persisted in my
revolt, he would suddenly begin sighing while he looked at me, long,
deep sighs as though measuring by them the depths of my moral
degradation, and, of course, it ended at last by his triumphing
completely: I raged and shouted, but still was forced to do what he
wanted.

This time the usual staring manoeuvres had scarcely begun when I lost
my temper and flew at him in a fury. I was irritated beyond endurance
apart from him.

"Stay," I cried, in a frenzy, as he was slowly and silently turning,
with one hand behind his back, to go to his room, "stay! Come back, come
back, I tell you!" and I must have bawled so unnaturally, that he turned
round and even looked at me with some wonder. However, he persisted in
saying nothing, and that infuriated me.

"How dare you come and look at me like that without being sent for?
Answer!"

After looking at me calmly for half a minute, he began turning round
again.

"Stay!" I roared, running up to him, "don't stir! There. Answer, now:
what did you come in to look at?"

"If you have any order to give me it's my duty to carry it out," he
answered, after another silent pause, with a slow, measured lisp,
raising his eyebrows and calmly twisting his head from one side to
another, all this with exasperating composure.

"That's not what I am asking you about, you torturer!" I shouted,
turning crimson with anger. "I'll tell you why you came here myself: you
see, I don't give you your wages, you are so proud you don't want to bow
down and ask for it, and so you come to punish me with your stupid
stares, to worry me and you have no sus...pic...ion how stupid it
is--stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!"...

He would have turned round again without a word, but I seized him.

"Listen," I shouted to him. "Here's the money, do you see, here it is"
(I took it out of the table drawer); "here's the seven roubles complete,
but you are not going to have it, you ... are ... not ... going ... to
... have it until you come respectfully with bowed head to beg my
pardon. Do you hear?"

"That cannot be," he answered, with the most unnatural self-confidence.

"It shall be so," I said, "I give you my word of honour, it shall be!"

"And there's nothing for me to beg your pardon for," he went on, as
though he had not noticed my exclamations at all. "Why, besides, you
called me a 'torturer,' for which I can summon you at the police-station
at any time for insulting behaviour."

"Go, summon me," I roared, "go at once, this very minute, this very
second! You are a torturer all the same! a torturer!"

But he merely looked at me, then turned, and regardless of my loud calls
to him, he walked to his room with an even step and without looking
round.

"If it had not been for Liza nothing of this would have happened," I
decided inwardly. Then, after waiting a minute, I went myself behind his
screen with a dignified and solemn air, though my heart was beating
slowly and violently.

"Apollon," I said quietly and emphatically, though I was breathless, "go
at once without a minute's delay and fetch the police-officer."

He had meanwhile settled himself at his table, put on his spectacles and
taken up some sewing. But, hearing my order, he burst into a guffaw.

"At once, go this minute! Go on, or else you can't imagine what will
happen."

"You are certainly out of your mind," he observed, without even raising
his head, lisping as deliberately as ever and threading his needle.
"Whoever heard of a man sending for the police against himself? And as
for being frightened--you are upsetting yourself about nothing, for
nothing will come of it."

"Go!" I shrieked, clutching him by the shoulder. I felt I should strike
him in a minute.

But I did not notice the door from the passage softly and slowly open at
that instant and a figure come in, stop short, and begin staring at us
in perplexity. I glanced, nearly swooned with shame, and rushed back to
my room. There, clutching at my hair with both hands, I leaned my head
against the wall and stood motionless in that position.

Two minutes later I heard Apollon's deliberate footsteps. "There is some
woman asking for you," he said, looking at me with peculiar severity.
Then he stood aside and let in Liza. He would not go away, but stared at
us sarcastically.

"Go away, go away," I commanded in desperation. At that moment my clock
began whirring and wheezing and struck seven.


IX

     "Into my house come bold and free,
      Its rightful mistress there to be."

I stood before her crushed, crestfallen, revoltingly confused, and I
believe I smiled as I did my utmost to wrap myself in the skirts of my
ragged wadded dressing-gown--exactly as I had imagined the scene not
long before in a fit of depression. After standing over us for a couple
of minutes Apollon went away, but that did not make me more at ease.
What made it worse was that she, too, was overwhelmed with confusion,
more so, in fact, than I should have expected. At the sight of me, of
course.

"Sit down," I said mechanically, moving a chair up to the table, and I
sat down on the sofa. She obediently sat down at once and gazed at me
open-eyed, evidently expecting something from me at once. This naivete
of expectation drove me to fury, but I restrained myself.

She ought to have tried not to notice, as though everything had been as
usual, while instead of that, she ... and I dimly felt that I should
make her pay dearly for _all this_.

"You have found me in a strange position, Liza," I began, stammering and
knowing that this was the wrong way to begin. "No, no, don't imagine
anything," I cried, seeing that she had suddenly flushed. "I am not
ashamed of my poverty.... On the contrary I look with pride on my
poverty. I am poor but honourable.... One can be poor and honourable," I
muttered. "However ... would you like tea?"...

"No," she was beginning.

"Wait a minute."

I leapt up and ran to Apollon. I had to get out of the room somehow.

"Apollon," I whispered in feverish haste, flinging down before him the
seven roubles which had remained all the time in my clenched fist, "here
are your wages, you see I give them to you; but for that you must come
to my rescue: bring me tea and a dozen rusks from the restaurant. If you
won't go, you'll make me a miserable man! You don't know what this woman
is.... This is--everything! You may be imagining something.... But you
don't know what that woman is!"...

Apollon, who had already sat down to his work and put on his spectacles
again, at first glanced askance at the money without speaking or putting
down his needle; then, without paying the slightest attention to me or
making any answer he went on busying himself with his needle, which he
had not yet threaded. I waited before him for three minutes with my arms
crossed _a la Napoleon_. My temples were moist with sweat. I was pale, I
felt it. But, thank God, he must have been moved to pity, looking at me.
Having threaded his needle he deliberately got up from his seat,
deliberately moved back his chair, deliberately took off his spectacles,
deliberately counted the money, and finally asking me over his shoulder:
"Shall I get a whole portion?" deliberately walked out of the room. As I
was going back to Liza, the thought occurred to me on the way: shouldn't
I run away just as I was in my dressing-gown, no matter where, and then
let happen what would.

I sat down again. She looked at me uneasily. For some minutes we were
silent.

"I will kill him," I shouted suddenly, striking the table with my fist
so that the ink spurted out of the inkstand.

"What are you saying!" she cried, starting.

"I will kill him! kill him!" I shrieked, suddenly striking the table in
absolute frenzy, and at the same time fully understanding how stupid it
was to be in such a frenzy. "You don't know, Liza, what that torturer is
to me. He is my torturer.... He has gone now to fetch some rusks;
he...."

And suddenly I burst into tears. It was an hysterical attack. How
ashamed I felt in the midst of my sobs; but still I could not restrain
them.

She was frightened.

"What is the matter? What is wrong?" she cried, fussing about me.

"Water, give me water, over there!" I muttered in a faint voice, though
I was inwardly conscious that I could have got on very well without
water and without muttering in a faint voice. But I was, what is called,
_putting it on_, to save appearances, though the attack was a genuine
one.

She gave me water, looking at me in bewilderment. At that moment Apollon
brought in the tea. It suddenly seemed to me that this commonplace,
prosaic tea was horribly undignified and paltry after all that had
happened, and I blushed crimson. Liza looked at Apollon with positive
alarm. He went out without a glance at either of us.

"Liza, do you despise me?" I asked, looking at her fixedly, trembling
with impatience to know what she was thinking.

She was confused, and did not know what to answer.

"Drink your tea," I said to her angrily. I was angry with myself, but,
of course, it was she who would have to pay for it. A horrible spite
against her suddenly surged up in my heart; I believe I could have
killed her. To revenge myself on her I swore inwardly not to say a word
to her all the time. "She is the cause of it all," I thought.

Our silence lasted for five minutes. The tea stood on the table; we did
not touch it. I had got to the point of purposely refraining from
beginning in order to embarrass her further; it was awkward for her to
begin alone. Several times she glanced at me with mournful perplexity. I
was obstinately silent. I was, of course, myself the chief sufferer,
because I was fully conscious of the disgusting meanness of my spiteful
stupidity, and yet at the same time I could not restrain myself.

"I want to ... get away ... from there altogether," she began, to break
the silence in some way, but, poor girl, that was just what she ought
not to have spoken about at such a stupid moment to a man so stupid as I
was. My heart positively ached with pity for her tactless and
unnecessary straightforwardness. But something hideous at once stifled
all compassion in me; it even provoked me to greater venom. I did not
care what happened. Another five minutes passed.

"Perhaps I am in your way," she began timidly, hardly audibly, and was
getting up.

But as soon as I saw this first impulse of wounded dignity I positively
trembled with spite, and at once burst out.

"Why have you come to me, tell me that, please?" I began, gasping for
breath and regardless of logical connection in my words. I longed to
have it all out at once, at one burst; I did not even trouble how to
begin. "Why have you come? Answer, answer," I cried, hardly knowing what
I was doing. "I'll tell you, my good girl, why you have come. You've
come because I talked sentimental stuff to you then. So now you are soft
as butter and longing for fine sentiments again. So you may as well know
that I was laughing at you then. And I am laughing at you now. Why are
you shuddering? Yes, I was laughing at you! I had been insulted just
before, at dinner, by the fellows who came that evening before me. I
came to you, meaning to thrash one of them, an officer; but I didn't
succeed, I didn't find him; I had to avenge the insult on some one to
get back my own again; you turned up, I vented my spleen on you and
laughed at you. I had been humiliated, so I wanted to humiliate; I had
been treated like a rag, so I wanted to show my power.... That's what it
was, and you imagined I had come there on purpose to save you. Yes? You
imagined that? You imagined that?"

I knew that she would perhaps be muddled and not take it all in exactly,
but I knew, too, that she would grasp the gist of it, very well indeed.
And so, indeed, she did. She turned white as a handkerchief, tried to
say something, and her lips worked painfully; but she sank on a chair as
though she had been felled by an axe. And all the time afterwards she
listened to me with her lips parted and her eyes wide open, shuddering
with awful terror. The cynicism, the cynicism of my words overwhelmed
her....

"Save you!" I went on, jumping up from my chair and running up and down
the room before her. "Save you from what? But perhaps I am worse than
you myself. Why didn't you throw it in my teeth when I was giving you
that sermon: 'But what did you come here yourself for? was it to read us
a sermon?' Power, power was what I wanted then, sport was what I wanted,
I wanted to wring out your tears, your humiliation, your hysteria--that
was what I wanted then! Of course, I couldn't keep it up then, because I
am a wretched creature, I was frightened, and, the devil knows why, gave
you my address in my folly. Afterwards, before I got home, I was cursing
and swearing at you because of that address, I hated you already because
of the lies I had told you. Because I only like playing with words, only
dreaming, but, do you know, what I really want is that you should all go
to hell. That is what I want. I want peace; yes, I'd sell the whole
world for a farthing, straight off, so long as I was left in peace. Is
the world to go to pot, or am I to go without my tea? I say that the
world may go to pot for me so long as I always get my tea. Did you know
that, or not? Well, anyway, I know that I am a blackguard, a scoundrel,
an egoist, a sluggard. Here I have been shuddering for the last three
days at the thought of your coming. And do you know what has worried me
particularly for these three days? That I posed as such a hero to you,
and now you would see me in a wretched torn dressing-gown, beggarly,
loathsome. I told you just now that I was not ashamed of my poverty; so
you may as well know that I am ashamed of it; I am more ashamed of it
than of anything, more afraid of it than of being found out if I were a
thief, because I am as vain as though I had been skinned and the very
air blowing on me hurt. Surely by now you must realize that I shall
never forgive you for having found me in this wretched dressing-gown,
just as I was flying at Apollon like a spiteful cur. The saviour, the
former hero, was flying like a mangy, unkempt sheep-dog at his lackey,
and the lackey was jeering at him! And I shall never forgive you for the
tears I could not help shedding before you just now, like some silly
woman put to shame! And for what I am confessing to you now, I shall
never forgive _you_ either! Yes--you must answer for it all because you
turned up like this, because I am a blackguard, because I am the
nastiest, stupidest, absurdest and most envious of all the worms on
earth, who are not a bit better than I am, but, the devil knows why, are
never put to confusion; while I shall always be insulted by every louse,
that is my doom! And what is it to me that you don't understand a word
of this! And what do I care, what do I care about you, and whether you
go to ruin there or not? Do you understand? How I shall hate you now
after saying this, for having been here and listening. Why, it's not
once in a lifetime a man speaks out like this, and then it is in
hysterics!... What more do you want? Why do you still stand confronting
me, after all this? Why are you worrying me? Why don't you go?"

But at this point a strange thing happened. I was so accustomed to think
and imagine everything from books, and to picture everything in the
world to myself just as I had made it up in my dreams beforehand, that I
could not all at once take in this strange circumstance. What happened
was this: Liza, insulted and crushed by me, understood a great deal more
than I imagined. She understood from all this what a woman understands
first of all, if she feels genuine love, that is, that I was myself
unhappy.

The frightened and wounded expression on her face was followed first by
a look of sorrowful perplexity. When I began calling myself a scoundrel
and a blackguard and my tears flowed (the tirade was accompanied
throughout by tears) her whole face worked convulsively. She was on the
point of getting up and stopping me; when I finished she took no notice
of my shouting: "Why are you here, why don't you go away?" but realized
only that it must have been very bitter to me to say all this. Besides,
she was so crushed, poor girl; she considered herself infinitely beneath
me; how could she feel anger or resentment? She suddenly leapt up from
her chair with an irresistible impulse and held out her hands, yearning
towards me, though still timid and not daring to stir.... At this point
there was a revulsion in my heart, too. Then she suddenly rushed to me,
threw her arms round me and burst into tears. I, too, could not restrain
myself, and sobbed as I never had before.

"They won't let me.... I can't be good!" I managed to articulate; then I
went to the sofa, fell on it face downwards, and sobbed on it for a
quarter of an hour in genuine hysterics. She came close to me, put her
arms round me and stayed motionless in that position. But the trouble
was that the hysterics could not go on for ever, and (I am writing the
loathsome truth) lying face downwards on the sofa with my face thrust
into my nasty leather pillow, I began by degrees to be aware of a
far-away, involuntary but irresistible feeling that it would be awkward
now for me to raise my head and look Liza straight in the face. Why was
I ashamed? I don't know, but I was ashamed. The thought, too, came into
my overwrought brain that our parts now were completely changed, that
she was now the heroine, while I was just such a crushed and humiliated
creature as she had been before me that night--four days before.... And
all this came into my mind during the minutes I was lying on my face on
the sofa.

My God! surely I was not envious of her then.

I don't know, to this day I cannot decide, and at the time, of course, I
was still less able to understand what I was feeling than now. I cannot
get on without domineering and tyrannizing over some one, but ... there
is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to reason.

I conquered myself, however, and raised my head; I had to do so sooner
or later ... and I am convinced to this day that it was just because I
was ashamed to look at her that another feeling was suddenly kindled and
flamed up in my heart ... a feeling of mastery and possession. My eyes
gleamed with passion, and I gripped her hands tightly. How I hated her
and how I was drawn to her at that minute! The one feeling intensified
the other. It was almost like an act of vengeance. At first there was a
look of amazement, even of terror on her face, but only for one instant.
She warmly and rapturously embraced me.


X

A quarter of an hour later I was rushing up and down the room in
frenzied impatience, from minute to minute I went up to the screen and
peeped through the crack at Liza. She was sitting on the ground with her
head leaning against the bed, and must have been crying. But she did not
go away, and that irritated me. This time she understood it all. I had
insulted her finally, but ... there's no need to describe it. She
realized that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge, a fresh
humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred was added
now a _personal hatred_, born of envy.... Though I do not maintain
positively that she understood all this distinctly; but she certainly
did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what was worse,
incapable of loving her.

I know I shall be told that this is incredible--but it is incredible to
be as spiteful and stupid as I was; it may be added that it was strange
I should not love her, or at any rate, appreciate her love. Why is it
strange? In the first place, by then I was incapable of love, for I
repeat, with me loving meant tyrannizing and showing my moral
superiority. I have never in my life been able to imagine any other sort
of love, and have nowadays come to the point of sometimes thinking that
love really consists in the right--freely given by the beloved
object--to tyrannize over her.

Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a
struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral
subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated
object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in
so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with "real life," as
to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame
for having come to me to hear "fine sentiments"; and did not even guess
that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because
to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all
moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form.

I did not hate her so much, however, when I was running about the room
and peeping through the crack in the screen. I was only insufferably
oppressed by her being here. I wanted her to disappear. I wanted
"peace," to be left alone in my underground world. Real life oppressed
me with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe.

But several minutes passed and she still remained, without stirring, as
though she were unconscious. I had the shamelessness to tap softly at
the screen as though to remind her.... She started, sprang up, and flew
to seek her kerchief, her hat, her coat, as though making her escape
from me.... Two minutes later she came from behind the screen and looked
with heavy eyes at me. I gave a spiteful grin, which was forced,
however, to _keep up appearances_, and I turned away from her eyes.

"Good-bye," she said, going towards the door.

I ran up to her, seized her hand, opened it, thrust something in it and
closed it again. Then I turned at once and dashed away in haste to the
other corner of the room to avoid seeing, anyway....

I did mean a moment since to tell a lie--to write that I did this
accidentally, not knowing what I was doing through foolishness, through
losing my head. But I don't want to lie, and so I will say straight out
that I opened her hand and put the money in it ... from spite. It came
into my head to do this while I was running up and down the room and she
was sitting behind the screen. But this I can say for certain: though I
did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the heart,
but came from my evil brain. This cruelty was so affected, so purposely
made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books, that I could
not even keep it up a minute--first I dashed away to avoid seeing her,
and then in shame and despair rushed after Liza. I opened the door in
the passage and began listening.

"Liza! Liza!" I cried on the stairs, but in a low voice, not boldly.

There was no answer, but I fancied I heard her footsteps, lower down on
the stairs.

"Liza!" I cried, more loudly.

No answer. But at that minute I heard the stiff outer glass door open
heavily with a creak and slam violently, the sound echoed up the stairs.

She had gone. I went back to my room in hesitation. I felt horribly
oppressed.

I stood still at the table, beside the chair on which she had sat and
looked aimlessly before me. A minute passed, suddenly I started;
straight before me on the table I saw.... In short, I saw a crumpled
blue five-rouble note, the one I had thrust into her hand a minute
before. It was the same note; it could be no other, there was no other
in the flat. So she had managed to fling it from her hand on the table
at the moment when I had dashed into the further corner.

Well! I might have expected that she would do that. Might I have
expected it? No, I was such an egoist, I was so lacking in respect for
my fellow-creatures that I could not even imagine she would do so. I
could not endure it. A minute later I flew like a madman to dress,
flinging on what I could at random and ran headlong after her. She could
not have got two hundred paces away when I ran out into the street.

It was a still night and the snow was coming down in masses and falling
almost perpendicularly, covering the pavement and the empty street as
though with a pillow. There was no one in the street, no sound was to be
heard. The street lamps gave a disconsolate and useless glimmer. I ran
two hundred paces to the cross-roads and stopped short.

Where had she gone? And why was I running after her?

Why? To fall down before her, to sob with remorse, to kiss her feet, to
entreat her forgiveness! I longed for that, my whole breast was being
rent to pieces, and never, never shall I recall that minute with
indifference. But--what for? I thought. Should I not begin to hate her,
perhaps, even to-morrow, just because I had kissed her feet to-day?
Should I give her happiness? Had I not recognized that day, for the
hundredth time, what I was worth? Should I not torture her?

I stood in the snow, gazing into the troubled darkness and pondered
this.

"And will it not be better?" I mused fantastically, afterwards at home,
stifling the living pang of my heart with fantastic dreams. "Will it not
be better that she should keep the resentment of the insult for ever?
Resentment--why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and painful
consciousness! To-morrow I should have defiled her soul and have
exhausted her heart, while now the feeling of insult will never die in
her heart, and however loathsome the filth awaiting her--the feeling of
insult will elevate and purify her ... by hatred ... h'm! ... perhaps,
too, by forgiveness.... Will all that make things easier for her
though?..."

And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which
is better--cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better?

So I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead with the pain in
my soul. Never had I endured such suffering and remorse, yet could there
have been the faintest doubt when I ran out from my lodging that I
should turn back half-way? I never met Liza again and I have heard
nothing of her. I will add, too, that I remained for a long time
afterwards pleased with the phrase about the benefit from resentment and
hatred in spite of the fact that I almost fell ill from misery.

       *     *     *     *     *

Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory. I
have many evil memories now, but ... hadn't I better end my "Notes"
here? I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I
have felt ashamed all the time I've been writing this story; so it's
hardly literature so much as a corrective punishment. Why, to tell long
stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally rotting in
my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through divorce from
real life, and rankling spite in my underground world, would certainly
not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the traits for an
anti-hero are _expressly_ gathered together here, and what matters most,
it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all divorced from
life, we are all <DW36>s, every one of us, more or less. We are so
divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life,
and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to
looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all
privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume
sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don't know
what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers
were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little
more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity,
relax the control and we ... yes, I assure you ... we should be begging
to be under control again at once. I know that you will very likely be
angry with me for that, and will begin shouting and stamping. Speak for
yourself, you will say, and for your miseries in your underground holes,
and don't dare to say all of us--excuse me, gentlemen, I am not
justifying myself with that "all of us." As for what concerns me in
particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have
not dared to carry half-way, and what's more, you have taken your
cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving
yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in
you. Look into it more carefully! Why, we don't even know what living
means now, what it is, and what it is called? Leave us alone without
books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know
what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate,
what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men--men
with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it
a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalized
man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not
by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are
developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow
from an idea. But enough; I don't want to write more from "Underground."

    [_The notes of this paradoxalist do not end here, however.
    He could not refrain from going on with them, but it seems
    to us that we may stop here._]




A FAINT HEART

A STORY


Under the same roof in the same flat on the same fourth storey lived two
young men, colleagues in the service, Arkady Ivanovitch Nefedevitch and
Vasya Shumkov.... The author of course, feels the necessity of
explaining to the reader why one is given his full title, while the
other's name is abbreviated, if only that such a mode of expression may
not be regarded as unseemly and rather familiar. But, to do so, it would
first be necessary to explain and describe the rank and years and
calling and duty in the service, and even, indeed, the characters of the
persons concerned; and since there are so many writers who begin in that
way, the author of the proposed story, solely in order to be unlike them
(that is, some people will perhaps say, entirely on account of his
boundless vanity), decides to begin straightaway with action. Having
completed this introduction, he begins.

Towards six o'clock on New Year's Eve Shumkov returned home. Arkady
Ivanovitch, who was lying on the bed, woke up and looked at his friend
with half-closed eyes. He saw that Vasya had on his very best trousers
and a very clean shirt front. That, of course, struck him. "Where had
Vasya to go like that? And he had not dined at home either!" Meanwhile,
Shumkov had lighted a candle, and Arkady Ivanovitch guessed immediately
that his friend was intending to wake him accidentally. Vasya did, in
fact, clear his throat twice, walked twice up and down the room, and at
last, quite accidentally, let the pipe, which he had begun filling in
the corner by the stove, slip out of his hands. Arkady Ivanovitch
laughed to himself.

"Vasya, give over pretending!" he said.

"Arkasha, you are not asleep?"

"I really cannot say for certain; it seems to me I am not."

"Oh, Arkasha! How are you, dear boy? Well, brother! Well, brother!...
You don't know what I have to tell you!"

"I certainly don't know; come here."

As though expecting this, Vasya went up to him at once, not at all
anticipating, however, treachery from Arkady Ivanovitch. The other
seized him very adroitly by the arms, turned him over, held him down,
and began, as it is called, "strangling" his victim, and apparently this
proceeding afforded the lighthearted Arkady Ivanovitch great
satisfaction.

"Caught!" he cried. "Caught!"

"Arkasha, Arkasha, what are you about? Let me go. For goodness sake, let
me go, I shall crumple my dress coat!"

"As though that mattered! What do you want with a dress coat? Why were
you so confiding as to put yourself in my hands? Tell me, where have you
been? Where have you dined?"

"Arkasha, for goodness sake, let me go!"

"Where have you dined?"

"Why, it's about that I want to tell you."

"Tell away, then."

"But first let me go."

"Not a bit of it, I won't let you go till you tell me!"

"Arkasha! Arkasha! But do you understand, I can't--it is utterly
impossible!" cried Vasya, helplessly wriggling out of his friend's
powerful clutches, "you know there are subjects!"

"How--subjects?"...

"Why, subjects that you can't talk about in such a position without
losing your dignity; it's utterly impossible; it would make it
ridiculous, and this is not a ridiculous matter, it is important."

"Here, he's going in for being important! That's a new idea! You tell me
so as to make me laugh, that's how you must tell me; I don't want
anything important; or else you are no true friend of mine. Do you call
yourself a friend? Eh?"

"Arkasha, I really can't!"

"Well, I don't want to hear...."

"Well, Arkasha!" began Vasya, lying across the bed and doing his utmost
to put all the dignity possible into his words. "Arkasha! If you like, I
will tell you; only...."

"Well, what?..."

"Well, I am engaged to be married!"

Without uttering another word Arkady Ivanovitch took Vasya up in his
arms like a baby, though the latter was by no means short, but rather
long and thin, and began dexterously carrying him up and down the room,
pretending that he was hushing him to sleep.

"I'll put you in your swaddling clothes, Master Bridegroom," he kept
saying. But seeing that Vasya lay in his arms, not stirring or uttering
a word, he thought better of it at once, and reflecting that the joke
had gone too far, set him down in the middle of the room and kissed him
on the cheek in the most genuine and friendly way.

"Vasya, you are not angry?"

"Arkasha, listen...."

"Come, it's New Year's Eve."

"Oh, I'm all right; but why are you such a madman, such a scatterbrain?
How many times I have told you: Arkasha, it's really not funny, not
funny at all!"

"Oh, well, you are not angry?"

"Oh, I'm all right; am I ever angry with any one! But you have wounded
me, do you understand?"

"But how have I wounded you? In what way?"

"I come to you as to a friend, with a full heart, to pour out my soul to
you, to tell you of my happiness...."

"What happiness? Why don't you speak?..."

"Oh, well, I am going to get married!" Vasya answered with vexation, for
he really was a little exasperated.

"You! You are going to get married! So you really mean it?" Arkasha
cried at the top of his voice. "No, no ... but what's this? He talks
like this and his tears are flowing.... Vasya, my little Vasya, don't,
my little son! Is it true, really?" And Arkady Ivanovitch flew to hug
him again.

"Well, do you see, how it is now?" said Vasya. "You are kind, of course,
you are a friend, I know that. I come to you with such joy, such
rapture, and all of a sudden I have to disclose all the joy of my heart,
all my rapture struggling across the bed, in an undignified way.... You
understand, Arkasha," Vasya went on, half laughing. "You see, it made it
seem comic: and in a sense I did not belong to myself at that minute. I
could not let this be slighted.... What's more, if you had asked me her
name, I swear, I would sooner you killed me than have answered you."

"But, Vasya, why did you not speak! You should have told me all about it
sooner and I would not have played the fool!" cried Arkady Ivanovitch in
genuine despair.

"Come, that's enough, that's enough! Of course, that's how it is.... You
know what it all comes from--from my having a good heart. What vexes me
is, that I could not tell you as I wanted to, making you glad and happy,
telling you nicely and initiating you into my secret properly....
Really, Arkasha, I love you so much that I believe if it were not for
you I shouldn't be getting married, and, in fact, I shouldn't be living
in this world at all!"

Arkady Ivanovitch, who was excessively sentimental, cried and laughed at
once as he listened to Vasya. Vasya did the same. Both flew to embrace
one another again and forgot the past.

"How is it--how is it? Tell me all about it, Vasya! I am astonished,
excuse me, brother, but I am utterly astonished; it's a perfect
thunderbolt, by Jove! Nonsense, nonsense, brother, you have made it up,
you've really made it up, you are telling fibs!" cried Arkady
Ivanovitch, and he actually looked into Vasya's face with genuine
uncertainty, but seeing in it the radiant confirmation of a positive
intention of being married as soon as possible, threw himself on the bed
and began rolling from side to side in ecstasy till the walls shook.

"Vasya, sit here," he said at last, sitting down on the bed.

"I really don't know, brother, where to begin!"

They looked at one another in joyful excitement.

"Who is she, Vasya?"

"The Artemyevs!..." Vasya pronounced, in a voice weak with emotion.

"No?"

"Well, I did buzz into your ears about them at first, and then I shut
up, and you noticed nothing. Ah, Arkasha, if you knew how hard it was to
keep it from you; but I was afraid, afraid to speak! I thought it would
all go wrong, and you know I was in love, Arkasha! My God! my God! You
see this was the trouble," he began, pausing continually from agitation,
"she had a suitor a year ago, but he was suddenly ordered somewhere; I
knew him--he was a fellow, bless him! Well, he did not write at all, he
simply vanished. They waited and waited, wondering what it meant....
Four months ago he suddenly came back married, and has never set foot
within their doors! It was coarse--shabby! And they had no one to stand
up for them. She cried and cried, poor girl, and I fell in love with her
... indeed, I had been in love with her long before, all the time! I
began comforting her, and was always going there.... Well, and I really
don't know how it has all come about, only she came to love me; a week
ago I could not restrain myself, I cried, I sobbed, and told her
everything--well, that I love her--everything, in fact!... 'I am ready
to love you, too, Vassily Petrovitch, only I am a poor girl, don't make
a mock of me; I don't dare to love any one.' Well, brother, you
understand! You understand?... On that we got engaged on the spot. I
kept thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking, I said to her,
'How are we to tell your mother?' She said, 'It will be hard, wait a
little; she's afraid, and now maybe she would not let you have me; she
keeps crying, too.' Without telling her I blurted it out to her mother
to-day. Lizanka fell on her knees before her, I did the same ... well,
she gave us her blessing. Arkasha, Arkasha! My dear fellow! We will live
together. No, I won't part from you for anything."

"Vasya, look at you as I may, I can't believe it. I don't believe it, I
swear. I keep feeling as though.... Listen, how can you be engaged to be
married?... How is it I didn't know, eh? Do you know, Vasya, I will
confess it to you now. I was thinking of getting married myself; but now
since you are going to be married, it is just as good! Be happy, be
happy!..."

"Brother, I feel so lighthearted now, there is such sweetness in my soul
..." said Vasya, getting up and pacing about the room excitedly. "Don't
you feel the same? We shall be poor, of course, but we shall be happy;
and you know it is not a wild fancy; our happiness is not a fairy tale;
we shall be happy in reality!..."

"Vasya, Vasya, listen!"

"What?" said Vasya, standing before Arkady Ivanovitch.

"The idea occurs to me; I am really afraid to say it to you.... Forgive
me, and settle my doubts. What are you going to live on? You know I am
delighted that you are going to be married, of course, I am delighted,
and I don't know what to do with myself, but--what are you going to live
on? Eh?"

"Oh, good Heavens! What a fellow you are, Arkasha!" said Vasya, looking
at Nefedevitch in profound astonishment. "What do you mean? Even her old
mother, even she did not think of that for two minutes when I put it all
clearly before her. You had better ask what they are living on! They
have five hundred roubles a year between the three of them: the pension,
which is all they have, since the father died. She and her old mother
and her little brother, whose schooling is paid for out of that income
too--that is how they live! It's you and I are the capitalists! Some
good years it works out to as much as seven hundred for me."

"I say, Vasya, excuse me; I really ... you know I ... I am only thinking
how to prevent things going wrong. How do you mean, seven hundred? It's
only three hundred...."

"Three hundred!... And Yulian Mastakovitch? Have you forgotten him?"

"Yulian Mastakovitch? But you know that's uncertain, brother; that's not
the same thing as three hundred roubles of secure salary, where every
rouble is a friend you can trust. Yulian Mastakovitch, of course, he's a
great man, in fact, I respect him, I understand him, though he is so far
above us; and, by Jove, I love him, because he likes you and gives you
something for your work, though he might not pay you, but simply order a
clerk to work for him--but you will agree, Vasya.... Let me tell you,
too, I am not talking nonsense. I admit in all Petersburg you won't find
a handwriting like your handwriting, I am ready to allow that to you,"
Nefedevitch concluded, not without enthusiasm. "But, God forbid! you may
displease him all at once, you may not satisfy him, your work with him
may stop, he may take another clerk--all sorts of things may happen, in
fact! You know, Yulian Mastakovitch may be here to-day and gone
to-morrow...."

"Well, Arkasha, the ceiling might fall on our heads this minute."

"Oh, of course, of course, I mean nothing."

"But listen, hear what I have got to say--you know, I don't see how he
can part with me.... No, hear what I have to say! hear what I have to
say! You see, I perform all my duties punctually; you know how kind he
is, you know, Arkasha, he gave me fifty roubles in silver to-day!"

"Did he really, Vasya? A bonus for you?"

"Bonus, indeed, it was out of his own pocket. He said: 'Why, you have
had no money for five months, brother, take some if you want it; thank
you, I am satisfied with you.'... Yes, really! 'Yes, you don't work for
me for nothing,' said he. He did, indeed, that's what he said. It
brought tears into my eyes, Arkasha. Good Heavens, yes!"

"I say, Vasya, have you finished copying those papers?..."

"No.... I haven't finished them yet."

"Vas...ya! My angel! What have you been doing?"

"Listen, Arkasha, it doesn't matter, they are not wanted for another two
days, I have time enough...."

"How is it you have not done them?"

"That's all right, that's all right. You look so horror-stricken that
you turn me inside out and make my heart ache! You are always going on
at me like this! He's for ever crying out: Oh, oh, oh!!! Only consider,
what does it matter? Why, I shall finish it, of course I shall finish
it...."

"What if you don't finish it?" cried Arkady, jumping up, "and he has
made you a present to-day! And you going to be married.... Tut, tut,
tut!..."

"It's all right, it's all right," cried Shumkov, "I shall sit down
directly, I shall sit down this minute."

"How did you come to leave it, Vasya?"

"Oh, Arkasha! How could I sit down to work! Have I been in a fit state?
Why, even at the office I could scarcely sit still, I could scarcely
bear the beating of my heart.... Oh! oh! Now I shall work all night, and
I shall work all to-morrow night, and the night after, too--and I shall
finish it."

"Is there a great deal left?"

"Don't hinder me, for goodness' sake, don't hinder me; hold your
tongue."

Arkady Ivanovitch went on tip-toe to the bed and sat down, then suddenly
wanted to get up, but was obliged to sit down again, remembering that he
might interrupt him, though he could not sit still for excitement: it
was evident that the news had thoroughly upset him, and the first thrill
of delight had not yet passed off. He glanced at Shumkov; the latter
glanced at him, smiled, and shook his finger at him, then, frowning
severely (as though all his energy and the success of his work depended
upon it), fixed his eyes on the papers.

It seemed that he, too, could not yet master his emotion; he kept
changing his pen, fidgeting in his chair, re-arranging things, and
setting to work again, but his hand trembled and refused to move.

"Arkasha, I've talked to them about you," he cried suddenly, as though
he had just remembered it.

"Yes," cried Arkasha, "I was just wanting to ask you that. Well?"

"Well, I'll tell you everything afterwards. Of course, it is my own
fault, but it quite went out of my head that I didn't mean to say
anything till I had written four pages, but I thought of you and of
them. I really can't write, brother, I keep thinking about you...."

Vasya smiled.

A silence followed.

"Phew! What a horrid pen," cried Shumkov, flinging it on the table in
vexation. He took another.

"Vasya! listen! one word...."

"Well, make haste, and for the last time."

"Have you a great deal left to do?"

"Ah, brother!" Vasya frowned, as though there could be nothing more
terrible and murderous in the whole world than such a question. "A lot,
a fearful lot."

"Do you know, I have an idea----"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind, never mind; go on writing."

"Why, what? what?"

"It's past six, Vasya."

Here Nefedevitch smiled and winked slyly at Vasya, though with a certain
timidity, not knowing how Vasya would take it.

"Well, what is it?" said Vasya, throwing down his pen, looking him
straight in the face and actually turning pale with excitement.

"Do you know what?"

"For goodness sake, what is it?"

"I tell you what, you are excited, you won't get much done.... Stop,
stop, stop! I have it, I have it--listen," said Nefedevitch, jumping up
from the bed in delight, preventing Vasya from speaking and doing his
utmost to ward off all objections; "first of all you must get calm, you
must pull yourself together, mustn't you?"

"Arkasha, Arkasha!" cried Vasya, jumping up from his chair, "I will work
all night, I will, really."

"Of course, of course, you won't go to bed till morning."

"I won't go to bed, I won't go to bed at all."

"No, that won't do, that won't do: you must sleep, go to bed at five. I
will call you at eight. To-morrow is a holiday; you can sit and scribble
away all day long.... Then the night and--but have you a great deal left
to do?"

"Yes, look, look!"

Vasya, quivering with excitement and suspense, showed the manuscript:
"Look!"

"I say, brother, that's not much."

"My dear fellow, there's some more of it," said Vasya, looking very
timidly at Nefedevitch, as though the decision whether he was to go or
not depended upon the latter.

"How much?"

"Two signatures."

"Well, what's that? Come, I tell you what. We shall have time to finish
it, by Jove, we shall!"

"Arkasha!"

"Vasya, listen! To-night, on New Year's Eve, every one is at home with
his family. You and I are the only ones without a home or relations....
Oh, Vasya!"

Nefedevitch clutched Vasya and hugged him in his leonine arms.

"Arkasha, it's settled."

"Vasya, boy, I only wanted to say this. You see, Vasya--listen,
bandy-legs, listen!..."

Arkady stopped, with his mouth open, because he could not speak for
delight. Vasya held him by the shoulders, gazed into his face and moved
his lips, as though he wanted to speak for him.

"Well," he brought out at last.

"Introduce me to them to-day."

"Arkady, let us go to tea there. I tell you what, I tell you what. We
won't even stay to see in the New Year, we'll come away earlier," cried
Vasya, with genuine inspiration.

"That is, we'll go for two hours, neither more nor less...."

"And then separation till I have finished...."

"Vasya, boy!"

"Arkady!"

Three minutes later Arkady was dressed in his best. Vasya did nothing
but brush himself, because he had been in such haste to work that he had
not changed his trousers.

They hurried out into the street, each more pleased than the other.
Their way lay from the Petersburg Side to Kolomna. Arkady Ivanovitch
stepped out boldly and vigorously, so that from his walk alone one could
see how glad he was at the good fortune of his friend, who was more and
more radiant with happiness. Vasya trotted along with shorter steps,
though his deportment was none the less dignified. Arkady Ivanovitch, in
fact, had never seen him before to such advantage. At that moment he
actually felt more respect for him, and Vasya's physical defect, of
which the reader is not yet aware (Vasya was slightly deformed), which
always called forth a feeling of loving sympathy in Arkady Ivanovitch's
kind heart, contributed to the deep tenderness the latter felt for him
at this moment, a tenderness of which Vasya was in every way worthy.
Arkady Ivanovitch felt ready to weep with happiness, but he restrained
himself.

"Where are you going, where are you going, Vasya? It is nearer this
way," he cried, seeing that Vasya was making in the direction of
Voznesenky.

"Hold your tongue, Arkasha."

"It really is nearer, Vasya."

"Do you know what, Arkasha?" Vasya began mysteriously, in a voice
quivering with joy, "I tell you what, I want to take Lizanka a little
present."

"What sort of present?"

"At the corner here, brother, is Madame Leroux's, a wonderful shop."

"Well."

"A cap, my dear, a cap; I saw such a charming little cap to-day. I
inquired, I was told it was the _facon Manon Lescaut_--a delightful
thing. Cherry- ribbons, and if it is not dear ... Arkasha, even
if it is dear...."

"I think you are superior to any of the poets, Vasya. Come along."

They ran along, and two minutes later went into the shop. They were met
by a black-eyed Frenchwoman with curls, who, from the first glance at
her customers, became as joyous and happy as they, even happier, if one
may say so. Vasya was ready to kiss Madame Leroux in his delight....

"Arkasha," he said in an undertone, casting a casual glance at all the
grand and beautiful things on little wooden stands on the huge table,
"lovely things! What's that? What's this? This one, for instance, this
little sweet, do you see?" Vasya whispered, pointing to a charming cap
further away, which was not the one he meant to buy, because he had
already from afar descried and fixed his eyes upon the real, famous one,
standing at the other end. He looked at it in such a way that one might
have supposed some one was going to steal it, or as though the cap
itself might take wings and fly into the air just to prevent Vasya from
obtaining it.

"Look," said Arkady Ivanovitch, pointing to one, "I think that's
better."

"Well, Arkasha, that does you credit; I begin to respect you for your
taste," said Vasya, resorting to cunning with Arkasha in the tenderness
of his heart, "your cap is charming, but come this way."

"Where is there a better one, brother?"

"Look; this way."

"That," said Arkady, doubtfully.

But when Vasya, incapable of restraining himself any longer, took it
from the stand from which it seemed to fly spontaneously, as though
delighted at falling at last into the hands of so good a customer, and
they heard the rustle of its ribbons, ruches and lace, an unexpected cry
of delight broke from the powerful chest of Arkady Ivanovitch. Even
Madame Leroux, while maintaining her incontestable dignity and
pre-eminence in matters of taste, and remaining mute from condescension,
rewarded Vasya with a smile of complete approbation, everything in her
glance, gesture and smile saying at once: "Yes, you have chosen rightly,
and are worthy of the happiness which awaits you."

"It has been dangling its charms in coy seclusion," cried Vasya,
transferring his tender feelings to the charming cap. "You have been
hiding on purpose, you sly little pet!" And he kissed it, that is the
air surrounding it, for he was afraid to touch his treasure.

"Retiring as true worth and virtue," Arkady added enthusiastically,
quoting humorously from a comic paper he had read that morning. "Well,
Vasya?"

"Hurrah, Arkasha! You are witty to-day. I predict you will make a
sensation, as women say. Madame Leroux, Madame Leroux!"

"What is your pleasure?"

"Dear Madame Leroux."

Madame Leroux looked at Arkady Ivanovitch and smiled condescendingly.

"You wouldn't believe how I adore you at this moment.... Allow me to
give you a kiss...." And Vasya kissed the shopkeeper.

She certainly at that moment needed all her dignity to maintain her
position with such a madcap. But I contend that the innate, spontaneous
courtesy and grace with which Madame Leroux received Vasya's enthusiasm,
was equally befitting. She forgave him, and how tactfully, how
graciously, she knew how to behave in the circumstances. How could she
have been angry with Vasya?

"Madame Leroux, how much?"

"Five roubles in silver," she answered, straightening herself with a new
smile.

"And this one, Madame Leroux?" said Arkady Ivanovitch, pointing to his
choice.

"That one is eight roubles."

"There, you see--there, you see! Come, Madame Leroux, tell me which is
nicer, more graceful, more charming, which of them suits you best?"

"The second is richer, but your choice _c'est plus coquet_."

"Then we will take it."

Madame Leroux took a sheet of very delicate paper, pinned it up, and the
paper with the cap wrapped in it seemed even lighter than the paper
alone. Vasya took it carefully, almost holding his breath, bowed to
Madame Leroux, said something else very polite to her and left the shop.

"I am a lady's man, I was born to be a lady's man," said Vasya, laughing
a little noiseless, nervous laugh and dodging the passers-by, whom he
suspected of designs for crushing his precious cap.

"Listen, Arkady, brother," he began a minute later, and there was a note
of triumph, of infinite affection in his voice. "Arkady, I am so happy,
I am so happy!"

"Vasya! how glad I am, dear boy!"

"No, Arkasha, no. I know that there is no limit to your affection for
me; but you cannot be feeling one-hundredth part of what I am feeling at
this moment. My heart is so full, so full! Arkasha, I am not worthy of
such happiness. I feel that, I am conscious of it. Why has it come to
me?" he said, his voice full of stifled sobs. "What have I done to
deserve it? Tell me. Look what lots of people, what lots of tears, what
sorrow, what work-a-day life without a holiday, while I, I am loved by a
girl like that, I.... But you will see her yourself immediately, you
will appreciate her noble heart. I was born in a humble station, now I
have a grade in the service and an independent income--my salary. I was
born with a physical defect, I am a little deformed. See, she loves me
as I am. Yulian Mastakovitch was so kind, so attentive, so gracious
to-day; he does not often talk to me; he came up to me: 'Well, how goes
it, Vasya' (yes, really, he called me Vasya), 'are you going to have a
good time for the holiday, eh?' he laughed.

"'Well, the fact is, Your Excellency, I have work to do,' but then I
plucked up courage and said: 'and maybe I shall have a good time, too,
Your Excellency.' I really said it. He gave me the money, on the spot,
then he said a couple of words more to me. Tears came into my eyes,
brother, I actually cried, and he, too, seemed touched, he patted me on
the shoulder, and said: 'Feel always, Vasya, as you feel this now.'"

Vasya paused for an instant. Arkady Ivanovitch turned away, and he, too,
wiped away a tear with his fist.

"And, and ..." Vasya went on, "I have never spoken to you of this,
Arkady.... Arkady, you make me so happy with your affection, without you
I could not live,--no, no, don't say anything, Arkady, let me squeeze
your hand, let me ... tha...ank ... you...." Again Vasya could not
finish.

Arkady Ivanovitch longed to throw himself on Vasya's neck, but as they
were crossing the road and heard almost in their ears a shrill: "Hi!
there!" they ran frightened and excited to the pavement.

Arkady Ivanovitch was positively relieved. He set down Vasya's outburst
of gratitude to the exceptional circumstances of the moment. He was
vexed. He felt that he had done so little for Vasya hitherto. He felt
actually ashamed of himself when Vasya began thanking him for so little.
But they had all their lives before them, and Arkady Ivanovitch breathed
more freely.

The Artemyevs had quite given up expecting them. The proof of it was
that they had already sat down to tea! And the old, it seems, are
sometimes more clear-sighted than the young, even when the young are so
exceptional. Lizanka had very earnestly maintained, "He isn't coming, he
isn't coming, Mamma; I feel in my heart he is not coming;" while her
mother on the contrary declared "that she had a feeling that he would
certainly come, that he would not stay away, that he would run round,
that he could have no office work now, on New Year's Eve." Even as
Lizanka opened the door she did not in the least expect to see them, and
greeted them breathlessly, with her heart throbbing like a captured
bird's, flushing and turning as red as a cherry, a fruit which she
wonderfully resembled. Good Heavens, what a surprise it was! What a
joyful "Oh!" broke from her lips. "Deceiver! My darling!" she cried,
throwing her arms round Vasya's neck. But imagine her amazement, her
sudden confusion: just behind Vasya, as though trying to hide behind his
back, stood Arkady Ivanovitch, a trifle out of countenance. It must be
admitted that he was awkward in the company of women, very awkward
indeed, in fact on one occasion something occurred ... but of that later.
You must put yourself in his place, however. There was nothing to laugh
at; he was standing in the entry, in his goloshes and overcoat, and in a
cap with flaps over the ears, which he would have hastened to pull off,
but he had, all twisted round in a hideous way, a yellow knitted scarf,
which, to make things worse, was knotted at the back. He had to
disentangle all this, to take it off as quickly as possible, to show
himself to more advantage, for there is no one who does not prefer to
show himself to advantage. And then Vasya, vexatious insufferable Vasya,
of course always the same dear kind Vasya, but now insufferable,
ruthless Vasya. "Here," he shouted, "Lizanka, I have brought you my
Arkady? What do you think of him? He is my best friend, embrace him,
kiss him, Lizanka, give him a kiss in advance; afterwards--you will know
him better--you can take it back again."

Well, what, I ask you, was Arkady Ivanovitch to do? And he had only
untwisted half of the scarf so far. I really am sometimes ashamed of
Vasya's excess of enthusiasm; it is, of course, the sign of a good
heart, but ... it's awkward, not nice!

At last both went in.... The mother was unutterably delighted to make
Arkady Ivanovitch's acquaintance, "she had heard so much about him, she
had...." But she did not finish. A joyful "Oh!" ringing musically
through the room interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. Good
Heavens! Lizanka was standing before the cap which had suddenly been
unfolded before her gaze; she clasped her hands with the utmost
simplicity, smiling such a smile.... Oh, Heavens! why had not Madame
Leroux an even lovelier cap?

Oh, Heavens! but where could you find a lovelier cap? It was quite
first-rate. Where could you get a better one? I mean it seriously. This
ingratitude on the part of lovers moves me, in fact, to indignation and
even wounds me a little. Why, look at it for yourself, reader, look,
what could be more beautiful than this little love of a cap? Come, look
at it.... But, no, no, my strictures are uncalled for; they had by now
all agreed with me; it had been a momentary aberration; the blindness,
the delirium of feeling; I am ready to forgive them.... But then you
must look.... You must excuse me, kind reader, I am still talking about
the cap: made of tulle, light as a feather, a broad cherry-
ribbon covered with lace passing between the tulle and the ruche, and at
the back two wide long ribbons--they would fall down a little below the
nape of the neck.... All that the cap needed was to be tilted a little
to the back of the head; come, look at it; I ask you, after that ... but
I see you are not looking ... you think it does not matter. You are
looking in a different direction.... You are looking at two big tears,
big as pearls, that rose in two jet black eyes, quivered for one instant
on the eyelashes, and then dropped on the ethereal tulle of which Madame
Leroux's artistic masterpiece was composed.... And again I feel vexed,
those two tears were scarcely a tribute to the cap.... No, to my mind,
such a gift should be given in cool blood, as only then can its full
worth be appreciated. I am, I confess, dear reader, entirely on the side
of the cap.

They sat down--Vasya with Lizanka and the old mother with Arkady
Ivanovitch; they began to talk, and Arkady Ivanovitch did himself
credit, I am glad to say that for him. One would hardly, indeed, have
expected it of him. After a couple of words about Vasya he most
successfully turned the conversation to Yulian Mastakovitch, his patron.
And he talked so cleverly, so cleverly that the subject was not
exhausted for an hour. You ought to have seen with what dexterity, what
tact, Arkady Ivanovitch touched upon certain peculiarities of Yulian
Mastakovitch which directly or indirectly affected Vasya. The mother was
fascinated, genuinely fascinated; she admitted it herself; she purposely
called Vasya aside, and said to him that his friend was a most excellent
and charming young man, and, what was of most account, such a serious,
steady young man. Vasya almost laughed aloud with delight. He remembered
how the serious Arkady had tumbled him on his bed for a quarter of an
hour. Then the mother signed to Vasya to follow her quietly and
cautiously into the next room. It must be admitted that she treated
Lizanka rather unfairly: she behaved treacherously to her daughter, in
the fullness of her heart, of course, and showed Vasya on the sly the
present Lizanka was preparing to give him for the New Year. It was a
paper-case, embroidered in beads and gold in a very choice design: on
one side was depicted a stag, absolutely lifelike, running swiftly, and
so well done! On the other side was the portrait of a celebrated
General, also an excellent likeness. I cannot describe Vasya's raptures.
Meanwhile, time was not being wasted in the parlour. Lizanka went
straight up to Arkady Ivanovitch. She took his hand, she thanked him for
something, and Arkady Ivanovitch gathered that she was referring to her
precious Vasya. Lizanka was, indeed, deeply touched: she had heard that
Arkady Ivanovitch was such a true friend of her betrothed, so loved him,
so watched over him, guiding him at every step with helpful advice, that
she, Lizanka, could hardly help thanking him, could not refrain from
feeling grateful, and hoping that Arkady Ivanovitch might like her, if
only half as well as Vasya. Then she began questioning him as to whether
Vasya was careful of his health, expressed some apprehensions in regard
to his marked impulsiveness of character, and his lack of knowledge of
men and practical life; she said that she would in time watch over him
religiously, that she would take care of and cherish his lot, and
finally, she hoped that Arkady Ivanovitch would not leave them, but
would live with them.

"We three shall live like one," she cried, with extremely naive
enthusiasm.

But it was time to go. They tried, of course, to keep them, but Vasya
answered point blank that it was impossible. Arkady Ivanovitch said the
same. The reason was, of course, inquired into, and it came out at once
that there was work to be done entrusted to Vasya by Yulian
Mastakovitch, urgent, necessary, dreadful work, which must be handed in
on the morning of the next day but one, and that it was not only
unfinished, but had been completely laid aside. The mamma sighed when
she heard of this, while Lizanka was positively scared, and hurried
Vasya off in alarm. The last kiss lost nothing from this haste; though
brief and hurried it was only the more warm and ardent. At last they
parted and the two friends set off home.

Both began at once confiding to each other their impressions as soon as
they found themselves in the street. And could they help it? Indeed,
Arkady Ivanovitch was in love, desperately in love, with Lizanka. And to
whom could he better confide his feelings than to Vasya, the happy man
himself. And so he did; he was not bashful, but confessed everything at
once to Vasya. Vasya laughed heartily and was immensely delighted, and
even observed that this was all that was needed to make them greater
friends than ever. "You have guessed my feelings, Vasya," said Arkady
Ivanovitch. "Yes, I love her as I love you; she will be my good angel as
well as yours, for the radiance of your happiness will be shed on me,
too, and I can bask in its warmth. She will keep house for me too,
Vasya; my happiness will be in her hands. Let her keep house for me as
she will for you. Yes, friendship for you is friendship for her; you are
not separable for me now, only I shall have two beings like you instead
of one...." Arkady paused in the fullness of his feelings, while Vasya
was shaken to the depths of his being by his friend's words. The fact
is, he had never expected anything of the sort from Arkady. Arkady
Ivanovitch was not very great at talking as a rule, he was not fond of
dreaming, either; now he gave way to the liveliest, freshest,
rainbow-tinted day-dreams. "How I will protect and cherish you both," he
began again. "To begin with, Vasya, I will be godfather to all your
children, every one of them; and secondly, Vasya, we must bestir
ourselves about the future. We must buy furniture, and take a lodging so
that you and she and I can each have a little room to ourselves. Do you
know, Vasya, I'll run about to-morrow and look at the notices, on the
gates! Three ... no, two rooms, we should not need more. I really
believe, Vasya, I talked nonsense this morning, there will be money
enough; why, as soon as I glanced into her eyes I calculated at once
that there would be enough to live on. It will all be for her. Oh, how
we will work! Now, Vasya, we might venture up to twenty-five roubles for
rent. A lodging is everything, brother. Nice rooms ... and at once a man
is cheerful, and his dreams are of the brightest hues. And, besides,
Lizanka will keep the purse for both of us: not a farthing will be
wasted. Do you suppose I would go to a restaurant? What do you take me
for? Not on any account. And then we shall get a bonus and reward, for
we shall be zealous in the service--oh! how we shall work, like oxen
toiling in the fields.... Only fancy," and Arkady Ivanovitch's voice was
faint with pleasure, "all at once and quite unexpected, twenty-five or
thirty roubles.... Whenever there's an extra, there'll be a cap or a
scarf or a pair of little stockings. She must knit me a scarf; look what
a horrid one I've got, the nasty yellow thing, it did me a bad turn
to-day! And you wore a nice one, Vasya, to introduce me while I had my
head in a halter.... Though never mind that now. And look here, I
undertake all the silver. I am bound to give you some little
present,--that will be an honour, that will flatter my vanity.... My
bonuses won't fail me, surely; you don't suppose they would give them to
Skorohodov? No fear, they won't be landed in that person's pocket. I'll
buy you silver spoons, brother, good knives--not silver knives, but
thoroughly good ones; and a waistcoat, that is a waistcoat for myself. I
shall be best man, of course. Only now, brother, you must keep at it,
you must keep at it. I shall stand over you with a stick, brother,
to-day and to-morrow and all night; I shall worry you to work. Finish,
make haste and finish, brother. And then again to spend the evening, and
then again both of us happy; we will go in for loto. We will spend the
evening there--oh, it's jolly! Oh, the devil! How, vexing it is I can't
help you. I should like to take it and write it all for you.... Why is
it our handwriting is not alike?"

"Yes," answered Vasya. "Yes, I must make haste. I think it must be
eleven o'clock; we must make haste.... To work!" And saying this, Vasya,
who had been all the time alternately smiling and trying to interrupt
with some enthusiastic rejoinder the flow of his friend's feelings, and
had, in short, been showing the most cordial response, suddenly
subsided, sank into silence, and almost ran along the street. It seemed
as though some burdensome idea had suddenly chilled his feverish head;
he seemed all at once dispirited.

Arkady Ivanovitch felt quite uneasy; he scarcely got an answer to his
hurried questions from Vasya, who confined himself to a word or two,
sometimes an irrelevant exclamation.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Vasya?" he cried at last, hardly able
to keep up with him. "Can you really be so uneasy?"

"Oh, brother, that's enough chatter!" Vasya answered, with vexation.

"Don't be depressed, Vasya--come, come," Arkady interposed. "Why, I have
known you write much more in a shorter time! What's the matter? You've
simply a talent for it! You can write quickly in an emergency; they are
not going to lithograph your copy. You've plenty of time!... The only
thing is that you are excited now, and preoccupied, and the work won't
go so easily."

Vasya made no reply, or muttered something to himself, and they both ran
home in genuine anxiety.

Vasya sat down to the papers at once. Arkady Ivanovitch was quiet and
silent; he noiselessly undressed and went to bed, keeping his eyes fixed
on Vasya.... A sort of panic came over him.... "What is the matter with
him?" he thought to himself, looking at Vasya's face that grew whiter
and whiter, at his feverish eyes, at the anxiety that was betrayed in
every movement he made, "why, his hand is shaking ... what a stupid! Why
did I not advise him to sleep for a couple of hours, till he had slept
off his nervous excitement, any way." Vasya had just finished a page, he
raised his eyes, glanced casually at Arkady and at once, looking down,
took up his pen again.

"Listen, Vasya," Arkady Ivanovitch began suddenly, "wouldn't it be best
to sleep a little now? Look, you are in a regular fever."

Vasya glanced at Arkady with vexation, almost with anger, and made no
answer.

"Listen, Vasya, you'll make yourself ill."

Vasya at once changed his mind. "How would it be to have tea, Arkady?"
he said.

"How so? Why?"

"It will do me good. I am not sleepy, I'm not going to bed! I am going
on writing. But now I should like to rest and have a cup of tea, and the
worst moment will be over."

"First-rate, brother Vasya, delightful! Just so. I was wanting to
propose it myself. And I can't think why it did not occur to me to do
so. But I say, Mavra won't get up, she won't wake for anything...."

"True."

"That's no matter, though," cried Arkady Ivanovitch, leaping out of bed.
"I will set the samovar myself. It won't be the first time...."

Arkady Ivanovitch ran to the kitchen and set to work to get the samovar;
Vasya meanwhile went on writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, moreover, dressed
and ran out to the baker's, so that Vasya might have something to
sustain him for the night. A quarter of an hour later the samovar was on
the table. They began drinking tea, but conversation flagged. Vasya
still seemed preoccupied.

"To-morrow," he said at last, as though he had just thought of it, "I
shall have to take my congratulations for the New Year...."

"You need not go at all."

"Oh yes, brother, I must," said Vasya.

"Why, I will sign the visitors' book for you everywhere.... How can you?
You work to-morrow. You must work to-night, till five o'clock in the
morning, as I said, and then get to bed. Or else you will be good for
nothing to-morrow. I'll wake you at eight o'clock, punctually."

"But will it be all right, your signing for me?" said Vasya, half
assenting.

"Why, what could be better? Everyone does it."

"I am really afraid."

"Why, why?"

"It's all right, you know, with other people, but Yulian Mastakovitch
... he has been so kind to me, you know, Arkasha, and when he notices
it's not my own signature----"

"Notices! why, what a fellow you are, really, Vasya! How could he
notice?... Come, you know I can imitate your signature awfully well, and
make just the same flourish to it, upon my word I can. What nonsense!
Who would notice?"

Vasya, made no reply, but emptied his glass hurriedly.... Then he shook
his head doubtfully.

"Vasya, dear boy! Ah, if only we succeed! Vasya, what's the matter with
you, you quite frighten me! Do you know, Vasya, I am not going to bed
now, I am not going to sleep! Show me, have you a great deal left?"

Vasya gave Arkady such a look that his heart sank, and his tongue failed
him.

"Vasya, what is the matter? What are you thinking? Why do you look like
that?"

"Arkady, I really must go to-morrow to wish Yulian Mastakovitch a happy
New Year."

"Well, go then!" said Arkady, gazing at him open-eyed, in uneasy
expectation. "I say, Vasya, do write faster; I am advising you for your
good, I really am! How often Yulian Mastakovitch himself has said that
what he likes particularly about your writing is its legibility. Why, it
is all that Skoroplehin cares for, that writing should be good and
distinct like a copy, so as afterwards to pocket the paper and take it
home for his children to copy; he can't buy copybooks, the blockhead!
Yulian Mastakovitch is always saying, always insisting: 'Legible,
legible, legible!'... What is the matter? Vasya, I really don't know
how to talk to you ... it quite frightens me ... you crush me with your
depression."

"It's all right, it's all right," said Vasya, and he fell back in his
chair as though fainting. Arkady was alarmed.

"Will you have some water? Vasya! Vasya!"

"Don't, don't," said Vasya, pressing his hand. "I am all right, I only
feel sad, I can't tell why. Better talk of something else; let me forget
it."

"Calm yourself, for goodness' sake, calm yourself, Vasya. You will
finish it all right, on my honour, you will. And even if you don't
finish, what will it matter? You talk as though it were a crime!"

"Arkady," said Vasya, looking at his friend with such meaning that
Arkady was quite frightened, for Vasya had never been so agitated
before.... "If I were alone, as I used to be.... No! I don't mean that.
I keep wanting to tell you as a friend, to confide in you.... But why
worry you, though?... You see, Arkady, to some much is given, others do
a little thing as I do. Well, if gratitude, appreciation, is expected of
you ... and you can't give it?"

"Vasya, I don't understand you in the least."

"I have never been ungrateful," Vasya went on softly, as though speaking
to himself, "but if I am incapable of expressing all I feel, it seems as
though ... it seems, Arkady, as though I am really ungrateful, and
that's killing me."

"What next, what next! As though gratitude meant nothing more than your
finishing that copy in time? Just think what you are saying, Vasya? Is
that the whole expression of gratitude?"

Vasya sank into silence at once, and looked open-eyed at Arkady, as
though his unexpected argument had settled all his doubts. He even
smiled, but the same melancholy expression came back to his face at
once. Arkady, taking this smile as a sign that all his uneasiness was
over, and the look that succeeded it as an indication that he was
determined to do better, was greatly relieved.

"Well, brother Arkasha, you will wake up," said Vasya, "keep an eye on
me; if I fall asleep it will be dreadful. I'll set to work now....
Arkasha?"

"What?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I only ... I meant...."

Vasya settled himself, and said no more, Arkady got into bed. Neither of
them said one word about their friends, the Artemyevs. Perhaps both of
them felt that they had been a little to blame, and that they ought not
to have gone for their jaunt when they did. Arkady soon fell asleep,
still worried about Vasya. To his own surprise he woke up exactly at
eight o'clock in the morning. Vasya was asleep in his chair with the pen
in his hand, pale and exhausted; the candle had burnt out. Mavra was
busy getting the samovar ready in the kitchen.

"Vasya, Vasya!" Arkady cried in alarm, "when did you fall asleep?"

Vasya opened his eyes and jumped up from his chair.

"Oh!" he cried, "I must have fallen asleep...."

He flew to the papers--everything was right; all were in order; there
was not a blot of ink, nor spot of grease from the candle on them.

"I think I must have fallen asleep about six o'clock," said Vasya. "How
cold it is in the night! Let us have tea, and I will go on again...."

"Do you feel better?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right, I'm all right now."

"A happy New Year to you, brother Vasya."

"And to you too, brother, the same to you, dear boy."

They embraced each other. Vasya's chin was quivering and his eyes were
moist. Arkady Ivanovitch was silent, he felt sad. They drank their tea
hastily.

"Arkady, I've made up my mind, I am going myself to Yulian
Mastakovitch."

"Why, he wouldn't notice----"

"But my conscience feels ill at ease, brother."

"But you know it's for his sake you are sitting here; it's for his sake
you are wearing yourself out."

"Enough!"

"Do you know what, brother, I'll go round and see...."

"Whom?" asked Vasya.

"The Artemyevs. I'll take them your good wishes for the New Year as well
as mine."

"My dear fellow! Well, I'll stay here; and I see it's a good idea of
yours; I shall be working here, I shan't waste my time. Wait one minute,
I'll write a note."

"Yes, do brother, do, there's plenty of time. I've still to wash and
shave and to brush my best coat. Well, Vasya, we are going to be
contented and happy. Embrace me, Vasya."

"Ah, if only we may, brother...."

"Does Mr. Shumkov live here?" they heard a child's voice on the stairs.

"Yes, my dear, yes," said Mavra, showing the visitor in.

"What's that? What is it?" cried Vasya, leaping up from the table and
rushing to the entry, "Petinka, you?"

"Good morning, I have the honour to wish you a happy New Year, Vassily
Petrovitch," said a pretty boy of ten years old with curly black hair.
"Sister sends you her love, and so does Mamma, and Sister told me to
give you a kiss for her."

Vasya caught the messenger up in the air and printed a long,
enthusiastic kiss on his lips, which were very much like Lizanka's.

"Kiss him, Arkady," he said handing Petya to him, and without touching
the ground the boy was transferred to Arkady Ivanovitch's powerful and
eager arms.

"Will you have some breakfast, dear?"

"Thank-you, very much. We have had it already, we got up early to-day,
the others have gone to church. Sister was two hours curling my hair,
and pomading it, washing me and mending my trousers, for I tore them
yesterday, playing with Sashka in the street, we were snowballing."

"Well, well, well!"

"So she dressed me up to come and see you, and then pomaded my head and
then gave me a regular kissing. She said: 'Go to Vasya, wish him a happy
New Year, and ask whether they are happy, whether they had a good night,
and ...' to ask something else,--oh yes! whether you had finished the
work you spoke of yesterday ... when you were there. Oh, I've got it all
written down," said the boy, reading from a slip of paper which he took
out of his pocket. "Yes, they were uneasy."

"It will be finished! It will be! Tell her that it will be. I shall
finish it, on my word of honour!"

"And something else.... Oh yes, I forgot. Sister sent a little note and
a present, and I was forgetting it!..."

"My goodness! Oh, you little darling! Where is it? where is it? That's
it, oh! Look, brother, see what she writes. The dar--ling, the precious!
You know I saw there yesterday a paper-case for me; it's not finished,
so she says, 'I am sending you a lock of my hair, and the other will
come later.' Look, brother, look!"

And overwhelmed with rapture he showed Arkady Ivanovitch a curl of
luxuriant, jet-black hair; then he kissed it fervently and put it in his
breast pocket, nearest his heart.

"Vasya, I shall get you a locket for that curl," Arkady Ivanovitch said
resolutely at last.

"And we are going to have hot veal, and to-morrow brains. Mamma wants to
make cakes ... but we are not going to have millet porridge," said the
boy, after a moment's thought, to wind up his budget of interesting
items.

"Oh! what a pretty boy," cried Arkady Ivanovitch. "Vasya, you are the
happiest of mortals."

The boy finished his tea, took from Vasya a note, a thousand kisses, and
went out happy and frolicsome as before.

"Well, brother," began Arkady Ivanovitch, highly delighted, "you see how
splendid it all is; you see. Everything is going well, don't be
downcast, don't be uneasy. Go ahead! Get it done, Vasya, get it done.
I'll be home at two o'clock. I'll go round to them, and then to Yulian
Mastakovitch."

"Well, good-bye, brother; good-bye.... Oh! if only.... Very good, you
go, very good," said Vasya, "then I really won't go to Yulian
Mastakovitch."

"Good-bye."

"Stay, brother, stay, tell them ... well, whatever you think fit. Kiss
her ... and give me a full account of everything afterwards."

"Come, come--of course, I know all about it. This happiness has upset
you. The suddenness of it all; you've not been yourself since yesterday.
You have not got over the excitement of yesterday. Well, it's settled.
Now try and get over it, Vasya. Good-bye, good-bye!"

At last the friends parted. All the morning Arkady Ivanovitch was
preoccupied, and could think of nothing but Vasya. He knew his weak,
highly nervous character. "Yes, this happiness has upset him, I was
right there," he said to himself. "Upon my word, he has made me quite
depressed, too, that man will make a tragedy of anything! What a
feverish creature! Oh, I must save him! I must save him!" said Arkady,
not noticing that he himself was exaggerating into something serious a
slight trouble, in reality quite trivial. Only at eleven o'clock he
reached the porter's lodge of Yulian Mastakovitch's house, to add his
modest name to the long list of illustrious persons who had written
their names on a sheet of blotted and scribbled paper in the porter's
lodge. What was his surprise when he saw just above his own the
signature of Vasya Shumkov! It amazed him. "What's the matter with him?"
he thought. Arkady Ivanovitch, who had just been so buoyant with hope,
came out feeling upset. There was certainly going to be trouble, but
how? And in what form?

He reached the Artemyevs with gloomy forebodings; he seemed
absent-minded from the first, and after talking a little with Lizanka
went away with tears in his eyes; he was really anxious about Vasya. He
went home running, and on the Neva came full tilt upon Vasya himself.
The latter, too, was uneasy.

"Where are you going?" cried Arkady Ivanovitch.

Vasya stopped as though he had been caught in a crime.

"Oh, it's nothing, brother, I wanted to go for a walk."

"You could not stand it, and have been to the Artemyevs? Oh, Vasya,
Vasya! Why did you go to Yulian Mastakovitch?"

Vasya did not answer, but then with a wave of his hand, he said:
"Arkady, I don't know what is the matter with me. I...."

"Come, come, Vasya. I know what it is. Calm yourself. You've been
excited, and overwrought ever since yesterday. Only think, it's not much
to bear. Everybody's fond of you, everybody's ready to do anything for
you; your work is getting on all right; you will get it done, you will
certainly get it done. I know that you have been imagining something,
you have had apprehensions about something...."

"No, it's all right, it's all right...."

"Do you remember, Vasya, do you remember it was the same with you once
before; do you remember, when you got your promotion, in your joy and
thankfulness you were so zealous that you spoilt all your work for a
week? It is just the same with you now."

"Yes, yes, Arkady; but now it is different, it is not that at all."

"How is it different? And very likely the work is not urgent at all,
while you are killing yourself...."

"It's nothing, it's nothing. I am all right, it's nothing. Well, come
along!"

"Why, are you going home, and not to them?"

"Yes, brother, how could I have the face to turn up there?... I have
changed my mind. It was only that I could not stay on alone without you;
now you are coming back with me I'll sit down to write again. Let us
go!"

They walked along and for some time were silent. Vasya was in haste.

"Why don't you ask me about them?" said Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Oh, yes! Well, Arkasha, what about them?"

"Vasya, you are not like yourself."

"Oh, I am all right, I am all right. Tell me everything, Arkasha," said
Vasya, in an imploring voice, as though to avoid further explanations.
Arkady Ivanovitch sighed. He felt utterly at a loss, looking at Vasya.

His account of their friends roused Vasya. He even grew talkative. They
had dinner together. Lizanka's mother had filled Arkady Ivanovitch's
pockets with little cakes, and eating them the friends grew more
cheerful. After dinner Vasya promised to take a nap, so as to sit up all
night. He did, in fact, lie down. In the morning, some one whom it was
impossible to refuse had invited Arkady Ivanovitch to tea. The friends
parted. Arkady promised to come back as soon as he could, by eight
o'clock if possible. The three hours of separation seemed to him like
three years. At last he got away and rushed back to Vasya. When he went
into the room, he found it in darkness. Vasya was not at home. He asked
Mavra. Mavra said that he had been writing all the time, and had not
slept at all, then he had paced up and down the room, and after that, an
hour before, he had run out, saying he would be back in half-an-hour;
"and when, says he, Arkady Ivanovitch comes in, tell him, old woman,
says he," Mavra told him in conclusion, "that I have gone out for a
walk," and he repeated the order three or four times.

"He is at the Artemyevs," thought Arkady Ivanovitch, and he shook his
head.

A minute later he jumped up with renewed hope.

"He has simply finished," he thought, "that's all it is; he couldn't
wait, but ran off there. But, no! he would have waited for me.... Let's
have a peep what he has there."

He lighted a candle, and ran to Vasya's writing-table: the work had made
progress and it looked as though there were not much left to do. Arkady
Ivanovitch was about to investigate further, when Vasya himself walked
in....

"Oh, you are here?" he cried, with a start of dismay.

Arkady Ivanovitch was silent. He was afraid to question Vasya. The
latter dropped his eyes and remained silent too, as he began sorting the
papers. At last their eyes met. The look in Vasya's was so beseeching,
imploring, and broken, that Arkady shuddered when he saw it. His heart
quivered and was full.

"Vasya, my dear boy, what is it? What's wrong?" he cried, rushing to him
and squeezing him in his arms. "Explain to me, I don't understand you,
and your depression. What is the matter with you, my poor, tormented
boy? What is it? Tell me all about it, without hiding anything. It can't
be only this----"

Vasya held him tight and could say nothing. He could scarcely breathe.

"Don't, Vasya, don't! Well, if you don't finish it, what then? I don't
understand you; tell me your trouble. You see it is for your sake I....
Oh dear! oh dear!" he said, walking up and down the room and clutching
at everything he came across, as though seeking at once some remedy for
Vasya. "I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch instead of you to-morrow. I
will ask him--entreat him--to let you have another day. I will explain
it all to him, anything, if it worries you so...."

"God forbid!" cried Vasya, and turned as white as the wall. He could
scarcely stand on his feet.

"Vasya! Vasya!"

Vasya pulled himself together. His lips were quivering; he tried to say
something, but could only convulsively squeeze Arkady's hand in silence.
His hand was cold. Arkady stood facing him, full of anxious and
miserable suspense. Vasya raised his eyes again.

"Vasya, God bless you, Vasya! You wring my heart, my dear boy, my
friend."

Tears gushed from Vasya's eyes; he flung himself on Arkady's bosom.

"I have deceived you, Arkady," he said. "I have deceived you. Forgive
me, forgive me! I have been faithless to your friendship...."

"What is it, Vasya? What is the matter?" asked Arkady, in real alarm.

"Look!"

And with a gesture of despair Vasya tossed out of the drawer on to the
table six thick manuscripts, similar to the one he had copied.

"What's this?"

"What I have to get through by the day after to-morrow. I haven't done a
quarter! Don't ask me, don't ask me how it has happened," Vasya went on,
speaking at once of what was distressing him so terribly. "Arkady, dear
friend, I don't know myself what came over me. I feel as though I were
coming out of a dream. I have wasted three weeks doing nothing. I kept
... I ... kept going to see her.... My heart was aching, I was tormented
by ... the uncertainty ... I could not write. I did not even think about
it. Only now, when happiness is at hand for me, I have come to my
senses."

"Vasya," began Arkady Ivanovitch resolutely, "Vasya, I will save you. I
understand it all. It's a serious matter; I will save you. Listen!
listen to me: I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch to-morrow.... Don't shake
your head; no, listen! I will tell him exactly how it has all been; let
me do that ... I will explain to him.... I will go into everything. I
will tell him how crushed you are, how you are worrying yourself."

"Do you know that you are killing me now?" Vasya brought out, turning
cold with horror.

Arkady Ivanovitch turned pale, but at once controlling himself, laughed.

"Is that all? Is that all?" he said. "Upon my word, Vasya, upon my word!
Aren't you ashamed? Come, listen! I see that I am grieving you. You see
I understand you; I know what is passing in your heart. Why, we have
been living together for five years, thank God! You are such a kind,
soft-hearted fellow, but weak, unpardonably weak. Why, even Lizaveta
Mikalovna has noticed it. And you are a dreamer, and that's a bad thing,
too; you may go from bad to worse, brother. I tell you, I know what you
want! You would like Yulian Mastakovitch, for instance, to be beside
himself and, maybe, to give a ball, too, from joy, because you are going
to get married.... Stop, stop! you are frowning. You see that at one
word from me you are offended on Yulian Mastakovitch's account. I'll let
him alone. You know I respect him just as much as you do. But argue as
you may, you can't prevent my thinking that you would like there to be
no one unhappy in the whole world when you are getting married.... Yes,
brother, you must admit that you would like me, for instance, your best
friend, to come in for a fortune of a hundred thousand all of a sudden,
you would like all the enemies in the world to be suddenly, for no rhyme
or reason, reconciled, so that in their joy they might all embrace one
another in the middle of the street, and then, perhaps, come here to
call on you. Vasya, my dear boy, I am not laughing; it is true; you've
said as much to me long ago, in different ways. Because you are happy,
you want every one, absolutely every one, to become happy at once. It
hurts you and troubles you to be happy alone. And so you want at once to
do your utmost to be worthy of that happiness, and maybe to do some
great deed to satisfy your conscience. Oh! I understand how ready you
are to distress yourself for having suddenly been remiss just where you
ought to have shown your zeal, your capacity ... well, maybe your
gratitude, as you say. It is very bitter for you to think that Yulian
Mastakovitch may frown and even be angry when he sees that you have not
justified the expectations he had of you. It hurts you to think that you
may hear reproaches from the man you look upon as your benefactor--and
at such a moment! when your heart is full of joy and you don't know on
whom to lavish your gratitude.... Isn't that true? It is, isn't it?"

Arkady Ivanovitch, whose voice was trembling, paused, and drew a deep
breath.

Vasya looked affectionately at his friend. A smile passed over his lips.
His face even lighted up, as though with a gleam of hope.

"Well, listen, then," Arkady Ivanovitch began again, growing more
hopeful, "there's no necessity that you should forfeit Yulian
Mastakovitch's favour.... Is there, dear boy? Is there any question of
it? And since it is so," said Arkady, jumping up, "I shall sacrifice
myself for you. I am going to-morrow to Yulian Mastakovitch, and don't
oppose me. You magnify your failure to a crime, Vasya. Yulian
Mastakovitch is magnanimous and merciful, and, what is more, he is not
like you. He will listen to you and me, and get us out of our trouble,
brother Vasya. Well, are you calmer?"

Vasya pressed his friend's hands with tears in his eyes.

"Hush, hush, Arkady," he said, "the thing is settled. I haven't
finished, so very well; if I haven't finished, I haven't finished, and
there's no need for you to go. I will tell him all about it, I will go
myself. I am calmer now, I am perfectly calm; only you mustn't go....
But listen...."

"Vasya, my dear boy," Arkady Ivanovitch cried joyfully, "I judged from
what you said. I am glad that you have thought better of things and have
recovered yourself. But whatever may befall you, whatever happens, I am
with you, remember that. I see that it worries you to think of my
speaking to Yulian Mastakovitch--and I won't say a word, not a word, you
shall tell him yourself. You see, you shall go to-morrow.... Oh no, you
had better not go, you'll go on writing here, you see, and I'll find out
about this work, whether it is very urgent or not, whether it must be
done by the time or not, and if you don't finish it in time what will
come of it. Then I will run back to you. Do you see, do you see! There
is still hope; suppose the work is not urgent--it may be all right.
Yulian Mastakovitch may not remember, then all is saved."

Vasya shook his head doubtfully. But his grateful eyes never left his
friend's face.

"Come, that's enough, I am so weak, so tired," he said, sighing. "I
don't want to think about it. Let us talk of something else. I won't
write either now; do you know I'll only finish two short pages just to
get to the end of a passage. Listen ... I have long wanted to ask you,
how is it you know me so well?"

Tears dropped from Vasya's eyes on Arkady's hand.

"If you knew, Vasya, how fond I am of you, you would not ask that--yes!"

"Yes, yes, Arkady, I don't know that, because I don't know why you are
so fond of me. Yes, Arkady, do you know, even your love has been killing
me? Do you know, ever so many times, particularly when I am thinking of
you in bed (for I always think of you when I am falling asleep), I shed
tears, and my heart throbs at the thought ... at the thought.... Well,
at the thought that you are so fond of me, while I can do nothing to
relieve my heart, can do nothing to repay you."

"You see, Vasya, you see what a fellow you are! Why, how upset you are
now," said Arkady, whose heart ached at that moment and who remembered
the scene in the street the day before.

"Nonsense, you want me to be calm, but I never have been so calm and
happy! Do you know.... Listen, I want to tell you all about it, but I am
afraid of wounding you.... You keep scolding me and being vexed; and I
am afraid.... See how I am trembling now, I don't know why. You see,
this is what I want to say. I feel as though I had never known myself
before--yes! Yes, I only began to understand other people too,
yesterday. I did not feel or appreciate things fully, brother. My heart
... was hard.... Listen how has it happened, that I have never done good
to any one, any one in the world, because I couldn't--I am not even
pleasant to look at.... But everybody does me good! You, to begin with:
do you suppose I don't see that? Only I said nothing; only I said
nothing."

"Hush, Vasya!"

"Oh, Arkasha! ... it's all right," Vasya interrupted, hardly able to
articulate for tears. "I talked to you yesterday about Yulian
Mastakovitch. And you know yourself how stern and severe he is, even you
have come in for a reprimand from him; yet he deigned to jest with me
yesterday, to show his affection, and kind-heartedness, which he
prudently conceals from every one...."

"Come, Vasya, that only shows you deserve your good fortune."

"Oh, Arkasha! How I longed to finish all this.... No, I shall ruin my
good luck! I feel that! Oh no, not through that," Vasya added, seeing
that Arkady glanced at the heap of urgent work lying on the table,
"that's nothing, that's only paper covered with writing ... it's
nonsense! That matter's settled.... I went to see them to-day, Arkasha;
I did not go in. I felt depressed and sad. I simply stood at the door.
She was playing the piano, I listened. You see, Arkady," he went on,
dropping his voice, "I did not dare to go in."

"I say, Vasya--what is the matter with you? You look at one so
strangely."

"Oh, it's nothing, I feel a little sick; my legs are trembling; it's
because I sat up last night. Yes! Everything looks green before my eyes.
It's here, here----"

He pointed to his heart. He fainted. When he came to himself Arkady
tried to take forcible measures. He tried to compel him to go to bed.
Nothing would induce Vasya to consent. He shed tears, wrung his hands,
wanted to write, was absolutely set on finishing his two pages. To avoid
exciting him Arkady let him sit down to the work.

"Do you know," said Vasya, as he settled himself in his place, "an idea
has occurred to me? There is hope."

He smiled to Arkady, and his pale face lighted up with a gleam of hope.

"I will take him what is done the day after to-morrow. About the rest I
will tell a lie. I will say it has been burnt, that it has been sopped
in water, that I have lost it.... That, in fact, I have not finished it;
I cannot lie. I will explain, do you know, what? I'll explain to him all
about it. I will tell him how it was that I could not. I'll tell him
about my love; he has got married himself just lately, he'll understand
me. I will do it all, of course, respectfully, quietly; he will see my
tears and be touched by them...."

"Yes, of course, you must go, you must go and explain to him.... But
there's no need of tears! Tears for what? Really, Vasya, you quite scare
me."

"Yes, I'll go, I'll go. But now let me write, let me write, Arkasha. I
am not interfering with any one, let me write!"

Arkady flung himself on the bed. He had no confidence in Vasya, no
confidence at all. "Vasya was capable of anything, but to ask
forgiveness for what? how? That was not the point. The point was, that
Vasya had not carried out his obligations, that Vasya felt guilty _in
his own eyes_, felt that he was ungrateful to destiny, that Vasya was
crushed, overwhelmed by happiness and thought himself unworthy of it;
that, in fact, he was simply trying to find an excuse to go off his head
on that point, and that he had not recovered from the unexpectedness of
what had happened the day before; that's what it is," thought Arkady
Ivanovitch. "I must save him. I must reconcile him to himself. He will
be his own ruin." He thought and thought, and resolved to go at once
next day to Yulian Mastakovitch, and to tell him all about it.

Vasya was sitting writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, worn out, lay down to
think things over again, and only woke at daybreak.

"Damnation! Again!" he cried, looking at Vasya; the latter was still
sitting writing.

Arkady rushed up to him, seized him and forcibly put him to bed. Vasya
was smiling: his eyes were closing with sleep. He could hardly speak.

"I wanted to go to bed," he said. "Do you know, Arkady, I have an idea;
I shall finish. I made my pen go faster! I could not have sat at it any
longer; wake me at eight o'clock."

Without finishing his sentence, he dropped asleep and slept like the
dead.

"Mavra," said Arkady Ivanovitch to Mavra, who came in with the tea, "he
asked to be waked in an hour. Don't wake him on any account! Let him
sleep ten hours, if he can. Do you understand?"

"I understand, sir."

"Don't get the dinner, don't bring in the wood, don't make a noise or it
will be the worse for you. If he asks for me, tell him I have gone to
the office--do you understand?"

"I understand, bless you, sir; let him sleep and welcome! I am glad my
gentlemen should sleep well, and I take good care of their things. And
about that cup that was broken, and you blamed me, your honour, it
wasn't me, it was poor pussy broke it, I ought to have kept an eye on
her. 'S-sh, you confounded thing,' I said."

"Hush, be quiet, be quiet!"

Arkady Ivanovitch followed Mavra out into the kitchen, asked for the key
and locked her up there. Then he went to the office. On the way he
considered how he could present himself before Yulian Mastakovitch, and
whether it would be appropriate and not impertinent. He went into the
office timidly, and timidly inquired whether His Excellency were there;
receiving the answer that he was not and would not be, Arkady Ivanovitch
instantly thought of going to his flat, but reflected very prudently
that if Yulian Mastakovitch had not come to the office he would
certainly be busy at home. He remained. The hours seemed to him endless.
Indirectly he inquired about the work entrusted to Shumkov, but no one
knew anything about this. All that was known was that Yulian
Mastakovitch did employ him on special jobs, but what they were--no one
could say. At last it struck three o'clock, and Arkady Ivanovitch rushed
out, eager to get home. In the vestibule he was met by a clerk, who told
him that Vassily Petrovitch Shumkov had come about one o'clock and
asked, the clerk added, "whether you were here, and whether Yulian
Mastakovitch had been here." Hearing this Arkady Ivanovitch took a
sledge and hastened home beside himself with alarm.

Shumkov was at home. He was walking about the room in violent
excitement. Glancing at Arkady Ivanovitch, he immediately controlled
himself, reflected, and hastened to conceal his emotion. He sat down to
his papers without a word. He seemed to avoid his friend's questions,
seemed to be bothered by them, to be pondering to himself on some plan,
and deciding to conceal his decision, because he could not reckon
further on his friend's affection. This struck Arkady, and his heart
ached with a poignant and oppressive pain. He sat on the bed and began
turning over the leaves of some book, the only one he had in his
possession, keeping his eye on poor Vasya. But Vasya remained
obstinately silent, writing, and not raising his head. So passed several
hours, and Arkady's misery reached an extreme point. At last, at eleven
o'clock, Vasya lifted his head and looked with a fixed, vacant stare at
Arkady. Arkady waited. Two or three minutes passed; Vasya did not speak.

"Vasya!" cried Arkady.

Vasya made no answer.

"Vasya!" he repeated, jumping up from the bed, "Vasya, what is the
matter with you? What is it?" he cried, running up to him.

Vasya raised his eyes and again looked at him with the same vacant,
fixed stare.

"He's in a trance!" thought Arkady, trembling all over with fear. He
seized a bottle of water, raised Vasya, poured some water on his head,
moistened his temples, rubbed his hands in his own--and Vasya came to
himself. "Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady, unable to restrain his tears.
"Vasya, save yourself, rouse yourself, rouse yourself!..." He could say
no more, but held him tight in his arms. A look as of some oppressive
sensation passed over Vasya's face; he rubbed his forehead and clutched
at his head, as though he were afraid it would burst.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he added, at last. "I feel
torn to pieces. Come, it's all right, it's all right! Give over, Arkady;
don't grieve," he repeated, looking at him with sad, exhausted eyes.
"Why be so anxious? Come!"

"You, you comforting me!" cried Arkady, whose heart was torn. "Vasya,"
he said at last, "lie down and have a little nap, won't you? Don't wear
yourself out for nothing! You'll set to work better afterwards."

"Yes, yes," said Vasya, "by all means, I'll lie down, very good. Yes!
you see I meant to finish, but now I've changed my mind, yes...."

And Arkady led him to the bed.

"Listen, Vasya," he said firmly, "we must settle this matter finally.
Tell me what were you thinking about?"

"Oh!" said Vasya, with a flourish of his weak hand turning over on the
other side.

"Come, Vasya, come, make up your mind. I don't want to hurt you. I can't
be silent any longer. You won't sleep till you've made up your mind, I
know."

"As you like, as you like," Vasya repeated enigmatically.

"He will give in," thought Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Attend to me, Vasya," he said, "remember what I say, and I will save
you to-morrow; to-morrow I will decide your fate! What am I saying, your
fate? You have so frightened me, Vasya, that I am using your own words.
Fate, indeed! It's simply nonsense, rubbish! You don't want to lose
Yulian Mastakovitch's favour--affection, if you like. No! And you won't
lose it, you will see. I----"

Arkady Ivanovitch would have said more, but Vasya interrupted him. He
sat up in bed, put both arms round Arkady Ivanovitch's neck and kissed
him.

"Enough," he said in a weak voice, "enough! Say no more about that!"

And again he turned his face to the wall.

"My goodness!" thought Arkady, "my goodness! What is the matter with
him? He is utterly lost. What has he in his mind! He will be his own
undoing."

Arkady looked at him in despair.

"If he were to fall ill," thought Arkady, "perhaps it would be better.
His trouble would pass off with illness, and that might be the best way
of settling the whole business. But what nonsense I am talking. Oh, my
God!"

Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be asleep. Arkady Ivanovitch was relieved. "A
good sign," he thought. He made up his mind to sit beside him all night.
But Vasya was restless; he kept twitching and tossing about on the bed,
and opening his eyes for an instant. At last exhaustion got the upper
hand, he slept like the dead. It was about two o'clock in the morning,
Arkady Ivanovitch began to doze in the chair with his elbow on the
table!

He had a strange and agitated dream. He kept fancying that he was not
asleep, and that Vasya was still lying on the bed. But strange to say,
he fancied that Vasya was pretending, that he was deceiving him, that he
was getting up, stealthily watching him out of the corner of his eye,
and was stealing up to the writing table. Arkady felt a scalding pain at
his heart; he felt vexed and sad and oppressed to see Vasya not trusting
him, hiding and concealing himself from him. He tried to catch hold of
him, to call out, to carry him to the bed. Then Vasya kept shrieking in
his arms, and he laid on the bed a lifeless corpse. He opened his eyes
and woke up; Vasya was sitting before him at the table, writing.

Hardly able to believe his senses, Arkady glanced at the bed; Vasya was
not there. Arkady jumped up in a panic, still under the influence of his
dream. Vasya did not stir; he went on writing. All at once Arkady
noticed with horror that Vasya was moving a dry pen over the paper, was
turning over perfectly blank pages, and hurrying, hurrying to fill up
the paper as though he were doing his work in a most thorough and
efficient way. "No, this is not a trance," thought Arkady Ivanovitch,
and he trembled all over.

"Vasya, Vasya, speak to me," he cried, clutching him by the shoulder.
But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen
over the paper.

"At last I have made the pen go faster," he said, without looking up at
Arkady.

Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen.

A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to
Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand
over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight
that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in
thought, he let his head sink on his breast.

"Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady in despair. "Vasya!"

A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes,
and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered
something.

"What, what is it?" cried Arkady, bending down to him.

"What for, why are they doing it to me?" whispered Vasya. "What for?
What have I done?"

"Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it?" cried Arkady,
wringing his hands in despair.

"Why are they sending me for a soldier?" said Vasya, looking his friend
straight in the face. "Why is it? What have I done?"

Arkady's hair stood on end with horror; he refused to believe his ears.
He stood over him, half dead.

A minute later he pulled himself together. "It's nothing, it's only for
the minute," he said to himself, with pale face and blue, quivering
lips, and he hastened to put on his outdoor things. He meant to run
straight for a doctor. All at once Vasya called to him. Arkady rushed to
him and clasped him in his arms like a mother whose child is being torn
from her.

"Arkady, Arkady, don't tell any one! Don't tell any one, do you hear? It
is my trouble, I must bear it alone."

"What is it--what is it? Rouse yourself, Vasya, rouse yourself!"

Vasya sighed, and slow tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Why kill her? How is she to blame?" he muttered in an agonized,
heartrending voice. "The sin is mine, the sin is mine!"

He was silent for a moment.

"Farewell, my love! Farewell, my love!" he whispered, shaking his
luckless head. Arkady started, pulled himself together and would have
rushed for the doctor. "Let us go, it is time," cried Vasya, carried
away by Arkady's last movement. "Let us go, brother, let us go; I am
ready. You lead the way." He paused and looked at Arkady with a downcast
and mistrustful face.

"Vasya, for goodness' sake, don't follow me! Wait for me here. I will
come back to you directly, directly," said Arkady Ivanovitch, losing his
head and snatching up his cap to run for a doctor. Vasya sat down at
once, he was quiet and docile; but there was a gleam of some desperate
resolution in his eye. Arkady turned back, snatched up from the table an
open penknife, looked at the poor fellow for the last time, and ran out
of the flat.

It was eight o'clock. It had been broad daylight for some time in the
room.

He found no one. He was running about for a full hour. All the doctors
whose addresses he had got from the house porter when he inquired of the
latter whether there were no doctor living in the building, had gone
out, either to their work or on their private affairs. There was one who
saw patients. This one questioned at length and in detail the servant
who announced that Nefedevitch had called, asking him who it was, from
whom he came, what was the matter, and concluded by saying that he could
not go, that he had a great deal to do, and that patients of that kind
ought to be taken to a hospital.

Then Arkady, exhausted, agitated, and utterly taken aback by this turn
of affairs, cursed all the doctors on earth, and rushed home in the
utmost alarm about Vasya. He ran into the flat. Mavra, as though there
were nothing the matter, went on scrubbing the floor, breaking up wood
and preparing to light the stove. He went into the room; there was no
trace of Vasya, he had gone out.

"Which way? Where? Where will the poor fellow be off to?" thought
Arkady, frozen with terror. He began questioning Mavra. She knew
nothing, had neither seen nor heard him go out, God bless him!
Nefedevitch rushed off to the Artemyevs'.

It occurred to him for some reason that he must be there.

It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived. They did not expect him, knew
nothing and had heard nothing. He stood before them frightened,
distressed, and asked where was Vasya? The mother's legs gave way under
her; she sank back on the sofa. Lizanka, trembling with alarm, began
asking what had happened. What could he say? Arkady Ivanovitch got out
of it as best he could, invented some tale which of course was not
believed, and fled, leaving them distressed and anxious. He flew to his
department that he might not be too late there, and he let them know
that steps might be taken at once. On the way it occurred to him that
Vasya would be at Yulian Mastakovitch's. That was more likely than
anything: Arkady had thought of that first of all, even before the
Artemyevs'. As he drove by His Excellency's door, he thought of
stopping, but at once told the driver to go straight on. He made up his
mind to try and find out whether anything had happened at the office,
and if he were not there to go to His Excellency, ostensibly to report
on Vasya. Some one must be informed of it.

As soon as he got into the waiting-room he was surrounded by
fellow-clerks, for the most part young men of his own standing in the
service. With one voice they began asking him what had happened to
Vasya? At the same time they all told him that Vasya had gone out of his
mind, and thought that he was to be sent for a soldier as a punishment
for having neglected his work. Arkady Ivanovitch, answering them in all
directions, or rather avoiding giving a direct answer to any one, rushed
into the inner room. On the way he learned that Vasya was in Yulian
Mastakovitch's private room, that every one had been there and that
Esper Ivanovitch had gone in there too. He was stopped on the way. One
of the senior clerks asked him who he was and what he wanted? Without
distinguishing the person he said something about Vasya and went
straight into the room. He heard Yulian Mastakovitch's voice from
within. "Where are you going?" some one asked him at the very door.
Arkady Ivanovitch was almost in despair; he was on the point of turning
back, but through the open door he saw his poor Vasya. He pushed the
door and squeezed his way into the room. Every one seemed to be in
confusion and perplexity, because Yulian Mastakovitch was apparently
much chagrined. All the more important personages were standing about
him talking, and coming to no decision. At a little distance stood
Vasya. Arkady's heart sank when he looked at him. Vasya was standing,
pale, with his head up, stiffly erect, like a recruit before a new
officer, with his feet together and his hands held rigidly at his sides.
He was looking Yulian Mastakovitch straight in the face. Arkady was
noticed at once, and some one who knew that they lodged together
mentioned the fact to His Excellency. Arkady was led up to him. He tried
to make some answer to the questions put to him, glanced at Yulian
Mastakovitch and seeing on his face a look of genuine compassion, began
trembling and sobbing like a child. He even did more, he snatched His
Excellency's hand and held it to his eyes, wetting it with his tears, so
that Yulian Mastakovitch was obliged to draw it hastily away, and waving
it in the air, said, "Come, my dear fellow, come! I see you have a good
heart." Arkady sobbed and turned an imploring look on every one. It
seemed to him that they were all brothers of his dear Vasya, that they
were all worried and weeping about him. "How, how has it happened? how
has it happened?" asked Yulian Mastakovitch. "What has sent him out of
his mind?"

"Gra--gra--gratitude!" was all Arkady Ivanovitch could articulate.

Every one heard his answer with amazement, and it seemed strange and
incredible to every one that a man could go out of his mind from
gratitude. Arkady explained as best he could.

"Good Heavens! what a pity!" said Yulian Mastakovitch at last. "And the
work entrusted to him was not important, and not urgent in the least. It
was not worth while for a man to kill himself over it! Well, take him
away!"... At this point Yulian Mastakovitch turned to Arkady Ivanovitch
again, and began questioning him once more. "He begs," he said, pointing
to Vasya, "that some girl should not be told of this. Who is she--his
betrothed, I suppose?"

Arkady began to explain. Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be thinking of
something, as though he were straining his memory to the utmost to
recall some important, necessary matter, which was particularly wanted
at this moment. From time to time he looked round with a distressed
face, as though hoping some one would remind him of what he had
forgotten. He fastened his eyes on Arkady. All of a sudden there was a
gleam of hope in his eyes; he moved with the left leg forward, took
three steps as smartly as he could, clicking with his right boot as
soldiers do when they move forward at the call from their officer. Every
one was waiting to see what would happen.

"I have a physical defect and am small and weak, and I am not fit for
military service, Your Excellency," he said abruptly.

At that every one in the room felt a pang at his heart, and firm as was
Yulian Mastakovitch's character, tears trickled from his eyes.

"Take him away," he said, with a wave of his hands.

"Present!" said Vasya in an undertone; he wheeled round to the left and
marched out of the room. All who were interested in his fate followed
him out. Arkady pushed his way out behind the others. They made Vasya
sit down in the waiting-room till the carriage came which had been
ordered to take him to the hospital. He sat down in silence and seemed
in great anxiety. He nodded to any one he recognized as though saying
good-bye. He looked round towards the door every minute, and prepared
himself to set off when he should be told it was time. People crowded in
a close circle round him; they were all shaking their heads and
lamenting. Many of them were much impressed by his story, which had
suddenly become known. Some discussed his illness, while others
expressed their pity and high opinion of Vasya, saying that he was such
a quiet, modest young man, that he had been so promising; people
described what efforts he had made to learn, how eager he was for
knowledge, how he had worked to educate himself. "He had risen by his
own efforts from a humble position," some one observed. They spoke with
emotion of His Excellency's affection for him. Some of them fell to
explaining why Vasya was possessed by the idea that he was being sent
for a soldier, because he had not finished his work. They said that the
poor fellow had so lately belonged to the class liable for military
service and had only received his first grade through the good offices
of Yulian Mastakovitch, who had had the cleverness to discover his
talent, his docility, and the rare mildness of his disposition. In fact,
there was a great number of views and theories.

A very short fellow-clerk of Vasya's was conspicuous as being
particularly distressed. He was not very young, probably about thirty.
He was pale as a sheet, trembling all over and smiling queerly, perhaps
because any scandalous affair or terrible scene both frightens, and at
the same time somewhat rejoices the outside spectator. He kept running
round the circle that surrounded Vasya, and as he was so short, stood on
tiptoe and caught at the button of every one--that is, of those with
whom he felt entitled to take such a liberty--and kept saying that he
knew how it had all happened, that it was not so simple, but a very
important matter, that it couldn't be left without further inquiry; then
stood on tiptoe again, whispered in some one's ear, nodded his head
again two or three times, and ran round again. At last everything was
over. The porter made his appearance, and an attendant from the hospital
went up to Vasya and told him it was time to start. Vasya jumped up in a
flutter and went with them, looking about him. He was looking about for
some one.

"Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady Ivanovitch, sobbing. Vasya stopped, and
Arkady squeezed his way up to him. They flung themselves into each
other's arms in a last bitter embrace. It was sad to see them. What
monstrous calamity was wringing the tears from their eyes! What were
they weeping for? What was their trouble? Why did they not understand
one another?

"Here, here, take it! Take care of it," said Shumkov, thrusting a paper
of some kind into Arkady's hand. "They will take it away from me. Bring
it me later on; bring it ... take care of it...." Vasya could not
finish, they called to him. He ran hurriedly downstairs, nodding to
every one, saying good-bye to every one. There was despair in his face.
At last he was put in the carriage and taken away. Arkady made haste to
open the paper: it was Liza's curl of black hair, from which Vasya had
never parted. Hot tears gushed from Arkady's eyes: oh, poor Liza!

When office hours were over, he went to the Artemyevs'. There is no need
to describe what happened there! Even Petya, little Petya, though he
could not quite understand what had happened to dear Vasya, went into a
corner, hid his face in his little hands, and sobbed in the fullness of
his childish heart. It was quite dusk when Arkady returned home. When he
reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up
the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was
suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood-red glow of
sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon.... Night lay over the
city, and the wide plain of the Neva, swollen with frozen snow, was
shining in the last gleams of the sun with myriads of sparks of gleaming
hoar frost. There was a frost of twenty degrees. A cloud of frozen steam
hung about the overdriven horses and the hurrying people. The condensed
atmosphere quivered at the slightest sound, and from all the roofs on
both sides of the river, columns of smoke rose up like giants and
floated across the cold sky, intertwining and untwining as they went, so
that it seemed new buildings were rising up above the old, a new town
was taking shape in the air.... It seemed as if all that world, with all
its inhabitants, strong and weak, with all their habitations, the
refuges of the poor, or the gilded palaces for the comfort of the
powerful of this world was at that twilight hour like a fantastic vision
of fairy-land, like a dream which in its turn would vanish and pass away
like vapour into the dark blue sky. A strange thought came to poor
Vasya's forlorn friend. He started, and his heart seemed at that instant
flooded with a hot rush of blood kindled by a powerful, overwhelming
sensation he had never known before. He seemed only now to understand
all the trouble, and to know why his poor Vasya had gone out of his
mind, unable to bear his happiness. His lips twitched, his eyes lighted
up, he turned pale, and as it were had a clear vision into something
new.

He became gloomy and depressed, and lost all his gaiety. His old lodging
grew hateful to him--he took a new room. He did not care to visit the
Artemyevs, and indeed he could not. Two years later he met Lizanka in
church. She was by then married; beside her walked a wet nurse with a
tiny baby. They greeted each other, and for a long time avoided all
mention of the past. Liza said that, thank God, she was happy, that she
was not badly off, that her husband was a kind man and that she was fond
of him.... But suddenly in the middle of a sentence her eyes filled with
tears, her voice failed, she turned away, and bowed down to the church
pavement to hide her grief.




A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING

A STORY


The other day I saw a wedding ... but no, I had better tell you about
the Christmas tree. The wedding was nice, I liked it very much; but the
other incident was better. I don't know how it was that, looking at that
wedding, I thought of that Christmas tree. This was what happened. Just
five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a children's party.
The giver of the party was a well-known and business-like personage,
with connections, with a large circle of acquaintances, and a good many
schemes on hand, so that it may be supposed that this party was an
excuse for getting the parents together and discussing various
interesting matters in an innocent, casual way. I was an outsider; I had
no interesting matter to contribute, and so I spent the evening rather
independently. There was another gentleman present who was, I fancied,
of no special rank or family, and who, like me, had simply turned up at
this family festivity. He was the first to catch my eye. He was a tall,
lanky man, very grave and very correctly dressed. But one could see that
he was in no mood for merrymaking and family festivity; whenever he
withdrew into a corner he left off smiling and knitted his bushy black
brows. He had not a single acquaintance in the party except his host.
One could see that he was fearfully bored, but that he was valiantly
keeping up the part of a man perfectly happy and enjoying himself. I
learned afterwards that this was a gentleman from the provinces, who had
a critical and perplexing piece of business in Petersburg, who had
brought a letter of introduction to our host, for whom our host was, by
no means _con amore_, using his interest, and whom he had invited, out
of civility, to his children's party. He did not play cards, cigars were
not offered him, every one avoided entering into conversation with him,
most likely recognizing the bird from its feathers; and so my gentleman
was forced to sit the whole evening stroking his whiskers simply to have
something to do with his hands. His whiskers were certainly very fine.
But he stroked them so zealously that, looking at him, one might have
supposed that the whiskers were created first and the gentleman only
attached to them in order to stroke them.

In addition to this individual who assisted in this way at our host's
family festivity (he had five fat, well-fed boys), I was attracted, too,
by another gentleman. But he was quite of a different sort. He was a
personage. He was called Yulian Mastakovitch. From the first glance one
could see that he was an honoured guest, and stood in the same relation
to our host as our host stood in relation to the gentleman who was
stroking his whiskers. Our host and hostess said no end of polite things
to him, waited on him hand and foot, pressed him to drink, flattered
him, brought their visitors up to be introduced to him, but did not take
him to be introduced to any one else. I noticed that tears glistened in
our host's eyes when he remarked about the party that he had rarely
spent an evening so agreeably. I felt as it were frightened in the
presence of such a personage, and so, after admiring the children, I
went away into a little parlour, which was quite empty, and sat down in
an arbour of flowers which filled up almost half the room.

The children were all incredibly sweet, and resolutely refused to model
themselves on the "grown-ups," regardless of all the admonitions of
their governesses and mammas. They stripped the Christmas tree to the
last sweetmeat in the twinkling of an eye, and had succeeded in breaking
half the playthings before they knew what was destined for which.
Particularly charming was a black-eyed, curly-headed boy, who kept
trying to shoot me with his wooden gun. But my attention was still more
attracted by his sister, a girl of eleven, quiet, dreamy, pale, with
big, prominent, dreamy eyes, exquisite as a little Cupid. The children
hurt her feelings in some way, and so she came away from them to the
same empty parlour in which I was sitting, and played with her doll in
the corner. The visitors respectfully pointed out her father, a wealthy
contractor, and some one whispered that three hundred thousand roubles
were already set aside for her dowry. I turned round to glance at the
group who were interested in such a circumstance, and my eye fell on
Yulian Mastakovitch, who, with his hands behind his back and his head on
one side, was listening with the greatest attention to these gentlemen's
idle gossip. Afterwards I could not help admiring the discrimination of
the host and hostess in the distribution of the children's presents. The
little girl, who had already a portion of three hundred thousand
roubles, received the costliest doll. Then followed presents diminishing
in value in accordance with the rank of the parents of these happy
children; finally, the child of lowest degree, a thin, freckled,
red-haired little boy of ten, got nothing but a book of stories about
the marvels of nature and tears of devotion, etc., without pictures or
even woodcuts. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the
children of the house, an oppressed and scared little boy. He was
dressed in a short jacket of inferior nankin. After receiving his book
he walked round the other toys for a long time; he longed to play with
the other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already
felt and understood his position. I love watching children. Their first
independent approaches to life are extremely interesting. I noticed that
the red-haired boy was so fascinated by the costly toys of the other
children, especially by a theatre in which he certainly longed to take
some part, that he made up his mind to sacrifice his dignity. He smiled
and began playing with the other children, he gave away his apple to a
fat-faced little boy who had a mass of goodies tied up in a
pocket-handkerchief already, and even brought himself to carry another
boy on his back, simply not to be turned away from the theatre, but an
insolent youth gave him a heavy thump a minute later. The child did not
dare to cry. Then the governess, his mother, made her appearance, and
told him not to interfere with the other children's playing. The boy
went away to the same room in which was the little girl. She let him
join her, and the two set to work very eagerly dressing the expensive
doll.

I had been sitting more than half an hour in the ivy arbour, listening
to the little prattle of the red-haired boy and the beauty with the
dowry of three hundred thousand, who was nursing her doll, when Yulian
Mastakovitch suddenly walked into the room. He had taken advantage of
the general commotion following a quarrel among the children to step out
of the drawing-room. I had noticed him a moment before talking very
cordially to the future heiress's papa, whose acquaintance he had just
made, of the superiority of one branch of the service over another. Now
he stood in hesitation and seemed to be reckoning something on his
fingers.

"Three hundred ... three hundred," he was whispering. "Eleven ... twelve
... thirteen," and so on. "Sixteen--five years! Supposing it is at four
per cent.--five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty ... well, in
five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes!... But he won't
stick to four per cent., the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five
hundred, let us say, five hundred at least ... that's certain; well, say
a little more for frills. H'm!..."

His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of
going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and
stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed
to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected
his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could
hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he
stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was
about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as
though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached
with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child,
not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.

"What are you doing here, sweet child?" he asked in a whisper, looking
round and patting the girl's cheek.

"We are playing."

"Ah! With him?" Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had
better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.

The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian
Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little
girl.

"And what is this you've got--a dolly, dear child?" he asked.

"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.

"A dolly ... and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?"

"I don't know ..." the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.

"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to
your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the
boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not
want to be separated.

"And do you know why they gave you that doll?" asked Yulian
Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.

"I don't know."

"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week."

At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in
most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with
emotion and impatience--

"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa
and mamma?"

Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss "the dear
little girl," but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on
the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy
for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest.

"Go away, go away from here, go away!" he said to the boy. "Go into the
drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates!"

"No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away," said the little girl. "Leave
him alone, leave him alone," she said, almost crying.

Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised
his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more
alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and,
slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the
dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went
into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the
looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed
with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at
first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated
by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his
mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his
attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his
attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable
gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle.
Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening
the red-haired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run
in his terror.

"Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the
fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to
your playmates!"

The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the
table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste
handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who
kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a
little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man,
paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round
as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last
he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps--who
knows?--his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch
turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with
confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The
boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees.
Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which
he was holding in his hand by one end.

Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who
knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view,
he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by
himself.

"Here, this is the boy," he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, "for
whom I had the honour to solicit your influence."

"Ah!" said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself.

"The son of my children's governess," said our host, in a tone of a
petitioner, "a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and
therefore ... and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible
..."

"Oh, no, no!" Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; "no, excuse me,
Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's
no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far
more claim than he.... I am very sorry, very sorry...."

"What a pity," said our host. "He is a quiet, well-behaved boy."

"A great rascal, as I notice," answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a
nervous twist of his lip. "Get along, boy; why are you standing there?
Go to your playmates," he said, addressing the child.

At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one
eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face.
Yulian Mastakovitch turned away at once, and in a voice calculated to
reach my ear, asked who was that strange young man? They whispered
together and walked out of the room. I saw Yulian Mastakovitch
afterwards shaking his head incredulously as our host talked to him.

After laughing to my heart's content I returned to the drawing-room.
There the great man, surrounded by fathers and mothers of families,
including the host and hostess, was saying something very warmly to a
lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the
hand the little girl with whom Yulian Mastakovitch had had the scene in
the parlour a little while before. Now he was launching into praises and
raptures over the beauty, the talents, the grace and the charming
manners of the charming child. He was unmistakably making up to the
mamma. The mother listened to him almost with tears of delight. The
father's lips were smiling. Our host was delighted at the general
satisfaction. All the guests, in fact, were sympathetically gratified;
even the children's games were checked that they might not hinder the
conversation: the whole atmosphere was saturated with reverence. I heard
afterwards the mamma of the interesting child, deeply touched, beg
Yulian Mastakovitch, in carefully chosen phrases, to do her the special
honour of bestowing upon them the precious gift of his acquaintance, and
heard with what unaffected delight Yulian Mastakovitch accepted the
invitation, and how afterwards the guests, dispersing in different
directions, moving away with the greatest propriety, poured out to one
another the most touchingly flattering comments upon the contractor, his
wife, his little girl, and, above all, upon Yulian Mastakovitch.

"Is that gentleman married?" I asked, almost aloud, of one of my
acquaintances, who was standing nearest to Yulian Mastakovitch. Yulian
Mastakovitch flung a searching and vindictive glance at me.

"No!" answered my acquaintance, chagrined to the bottom of his heart by
the awkwardness of which I had intentionally been guilty....

       *     *     *     *     *

I passed lately by a certain church; I was struck by the crowd of people
in carriages. I heard people talking of the wedding. It was a cloudy
day, it was beginning to sleet. I made my way through the crowd at the
door and saw the bridegroom. He was a sleek, well-fed, round, paunchy
man, very gorgeously dressed up. He was running fussily about, giving
orders. At last the news passed through the crowd that the bride was
coming. I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvellous beauty,
who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was
pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her
eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature
of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But
through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be
seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naive,
fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy.

People were saying that she was only just sixteen. Glancing attentively
at the bridegroom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovitch,
whom I had not seen for five years. I looked at her. My God! I began to
squeeze my way as quickly as I could out of the church. I heard people
saying in the crowd that the bride was an heiress, that she had a dowry
of five hundred thousand ... and a trousseau worth ever so much.

"It was a good stroke of business, though!" I thought as I made my way
into the street.




POLZUNKOV

A STORY


I began to scrutinize the man closely. Even in his exterior there was
something so peculiar that it compelled one, however far away one's
thoughts might be, to fix one's eyes upon him and go off into the most
irrepressible roar of laughter. That is what happened to me. I must
observe that the little man's eyes were so mobile, or perhaps he was so
sensitive to the magnetism of every eye fixed upon him, that he almost
by instinct guessed that he was being observed, turned at once to the
observer and anxiously analysed his expression. His continual mobility,
his turning and twisting, made him look strikingly like a dancing doll.
It was strange! He seemed afraid of jeers, in spite of the fact that he
was almost getting his living by being a buffoon for all the world, and
exposed himself to every buffet in a moral sense and even in a physical
one, judging from the company he was in. Voluntary buffoons are not even
to be pitied. But I noticed at once that this strange creature, this
ridiculous man, was by no means a buffoon by profession. There was still
something gentlemanly in him. His very uneasiness, his continual
apprehensiveness about himself, were actually a testimony in his favour.
It seemed to me that his desire to be obliging was due more to kindness
of heart than to mercenary considerations. He readily allowed them to
laugh their loudest at him and in the most unseemly way, to his face,
but at the same time--and I am ready to take my oath on it--his heart
ached and was sore at the thought that his listeners were so caddishly
brutal as to be capable of laughing, not at anything said or done, but
at him, at his whole being, at his heart, at his head, at his
appearance, at his whole body, flesh and blood. I am convinced that he
felt at that moment all the foolishness of his position; but the protest
died away in his heart at once, though it invariably sprang up again in
the most heroic way. I am convinced that all this was due to nothing
else but a kind heart, and not to fear of the inconvenience of being
kicked out and being unable to borrow money from some one. This
gentleman was for ever borrowing money, that is, he asked for alms in
that form, when after playing the fool and entertaining them at his
expense he felt in a certain sense entitled to borrow money from them.
But, good heavens! what a business the borrowing was! And with what a
countenance he asked for the loan! I could not have imagined that on
such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of that little man room
could be found, at one and the same time, for so many different
grimaces, for such strange, variously characteristic shades of feeling,
such absolutely killing expressions. Everything was there--shame and an
assumption of insolence, and vexation at the sudden flushing of his
face, and anger and fear of failure, and entreaty to be forgiven for
having dared to pester, and a sense of his own dignity, and a still
greater sense of his own abjectness--all this passed over his face like
lightning. For six whole years he had struggled along in God's world in
this way, and so far had been unable to take up a fitting attitude at
the interesting moment of borrowing money! I need not say that he never
could grow callous and completely abject. His heart was too sensitive,
too passionate! I will say more, indeed: in my opinion, he was one of
the most honest and honourable men in the world, but with a little
weakness: of being ready to do anything abject at any one's bidding,
good-naturedly and disinterestedly, simply to oblige a fellow-creature.
In short, he was what is called "a rag" in the fullest sense of the
word. The most absurd thing was, that he was dressed like any one else,
neither worse nor better, tidily, even with a certain elaborateness, and
actually had pretentions to respectability and personal dignity. This
external equality and internal inequality, his uneasiness about himself
and at the same time his continual self-depreciation--all this was
strikingly incongruous and provocative of laughter and pity. If he had
been convinced in his heart (and in spite of his experience it did
happen to him at moments to believe this) that his audience were the
most good-natured people in the world, who were simply laughing at
something amusing, and not at the sacrifice of his personal dignity, he
would most readily have taken off his coat, put it on wrong side
outwards, and have walked about the streets in that attire for the
diversion of others and his own gratification. But equality he could
never anyhow attain. Another trait: the queer fellow was proud, and
even, by fits and starts, when it was not too risky, generous. It was
worth seeing and hearing how he could sometimes, not sparing himself,
consequently with pluck, almost with heroism, dispose of one of his
patrons who had infuriated him to madness. But that was at moments....
In short, he was a martyr in the fullest sense of the word, but the most
useless and consequently the most comic martyr.

There was a general discussion going on among the guests. All at once I
saw our queer friend jump upon his chair, and call out at the top of his
voice, anxious for the exclusive attention of the company.

"Listen," the master of the house whispered to me. "He sometimes tells
the most curious stories.... Does he interest you?"

I nodded and squeezed myself into the group. The sight of a well-dressed
gentleman jumping upon his chair and shouting at the top of his voice
did, in fact, draw the attention of all. Many who did not know the queer
fellow looked at one another in perplexity, the others roared with
laughter.

"I knew Fedosey Nikolaitch. I ought to know Fedosey Nikolaitch better
than any one!" cried the queer fellow from his elevation. "Gentlemen,
allow me to tell you something. I can tell you a good story about
Fedosey Nikolaitch! I know a story--exquisite!"

"Tell it, Osip Mihalitch, tell it."

"Tell it."

"Listen."

"Listen, listen."

"I begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story...."

"Very good, very good."

"It's a comic story."

"Very good, excellent, splendid. Get on!"

"It is an episode in the private life of your humble...."

"But why do you trouble yourself to announce that it's comic?"

"And even somewhat tragic!"

"Eh???!"

"In short, the story which it will afford you all pleasure to hear me
now relate, gentlemen--the story, in consequence of which I have come
into company so interesting and profitable...."

"No puns!"

"This story."

"In short the story--make haste and finish the introduction. The story,
which has its value," a fair-haired young man with moustaches pronounced
in a husky voice, dropping his hand into his coat pocket and, as though
by chance, pulling out a purse instead of his handkerchief.

"The story, my dear sirs, after which I should like to see many of you
in my place. And, finally, the story, in consequence of which I have not
married."

"Married! A wife! Polzunkov tried to get married!!"

"I confess I should like to see Madame Polzunkov."

"Allow me to inquire the name of the would-be Madame Polzunkov," piped a
youth, making his way up to the storyteller.

"And so for the first chapter, gentlemen. It was just six years ago, in
spring, the thirty-first of March--note the date, gentlemen--on the
eve...."

"Of the first of April!" cried a young man with ringlets.

"You are extraordinarily quick at guessing. It was evening. Twilight was
gathering over the district town of N., the moon was about to float out
... everything in proper style, in fact. And so in the very late
twilight I, too, floated out of my poor lodging on the sly--after taking
leave of my restricted granny, now dead. Excuse me, gentlemen, for
making use of such a fashionable expression, which I heard for the last
time from Nikolay Nikolaitch. But my granny was indeed restricted: she
was blind, dumb, deaf, stupid--everything you please.... I confess I was
in a tremor, I was prepared for great deeds; my heart was beating like a
kitten's when some bony hand clutches it by the scruff of the neck."

"Excuse me, Monsieur Polzunkov."

"What do you want?"

"Tell it more simply; don't over-exert yourself, please!"

"All right," said Osip Mihalitch, a little taken aback. "I went into the
house of Fedosey Nikolaitch (the house that he had bought). Fedosey
Nikolaitch, as you know, is not a mere colleague, but the full-blown
head of a department. I was announced, and was at once shown into the
study. I can see it now; the room was dark, almost dark, but candles
were not brought. Behold, Fedosey Nikolaitch walks in. There he and I
were left in the darkness...."

"Whatever happened to you?" asked an officer.

"What do you suppose?" asked Polzunkov, turning promptly, with a
convulsively working face, to the young man with ringlets. "Well,
gentlemen, a strange circumstance occurred, though indeed there was
nothing strange in it: it was what is called an everyday affair--I
simply took out of my pocket a roll of paper ... and he a roll of
paper."

"Paper notes?"

"Paper notes; and we exchanged."

"I don't mind betting that there's a flavour of bribery about it,"
observed a respectably dressed, closely cropped young gentleman.

"Bribery!" Polzunkov caught him up.

          "'Oh, may I be a Liberal,
            Such as many I have seen!'

If you, too, when it is your lot to serve in the provinces, do not warm
your hands at your country's hearth.... For as an author said: 'Even the
smoke of our native land is sweet to us.' She is our Mother, gentlemen,
our Mother Russia; we are her babes, and so we suck her!"

There was a roar of laughter.

"Only would you believe it, gentlemen, I have never taken bribes?" said
Polzunkov, looking round at the whole company distrustfully.

A prolonged burst of Homeric laughter drowned Polzunkov's words in
guffaws.

"It really is so, gentlemen...."

But here he stopped, still looking round at every one with a strange
expression of face; perhaps--who knows?--at that moment the thought came
into his mind that he was more honest than many of all that honourable
company.... Anyway, the serious expression of his face did not pass away
till the general merriment was quite over.

"And so," Polzunkov began again when all was still, "though I never did
take bribes, yet that time I transgressed; I put in my pocket a bribe
... from a bribe-taker ... that is, there were certain papers in my
hands which, if I had cared to send to a certain person, it would have
gone ill with Fedosey Nikolaitch."

"So then he bought them from you?"

"He did."

"Did he give much?"

"He gave as much as many a man nowadays would sell his conscience for
complete, with all its variations ... if only he could get anything for
it. But I felt as though I were scalded when I put the money in my
pocket. I really don't understand what always comes over me,
gentlemen--but I was more dead than alive, my lips twitched and my legs
trembled; well, I was to blame, to blame, entirely to blame. I was
utterly conscience-stricken; I was ready to beg Fedosey Nikolaitch's
forgiveness."

"Well, what did he do--did he forgive you?"

"But I didn't ask his forgiveness.... I only mean that that is how I
felt. Then I have a sensitive heart, you know. I saw he was looking me
straight in the face. 'Have you no fear of God, Osip Mihailitch?' said
he. Well, what could I do? From a feeling of propriety I put my head on
one side and I flung up my hands. 'In what way,' said I, 'have I no fear
of God, Fedosey Nikolaitch?' But I just said that from a feeling of
propriety.... I was ready to sink into the earth. 'After being so long a
friend of our family, after being, I may say, like a son--and who knows
what Heaven had in store for us, Osip Mihailitch?--and all of a sudden
to inform against me--to think of that now!... What am I to think of
mankind after that, Osip Mihailitch?' Yes, gentlemen, he did read me a
lecture! 'Come,' he said, 'you tell me what I am to think of mankind
after that, Osip Mihailitch.' 'What is he to think?' I thought; and do
you know, there was a lump in my throat, and my voice was quivering, and
knowing my hateful weakness, I snatched up my hat. 'Where are you off
to, Osip Mihailitch? Surely on the eve of such a day you cannot bear
malice against me? What wrong have I done you?...' 'Fedosey Nikolaitch,'
I said, 'Fedosey Nikolaitch....' In fact, I melted, gentlemen, I melted
like a sugar-stick. And the roll of notes that was lying in my pocket,
that, too, seemed screaming out: 'You ungrateful brigand, you accursed
thief!' It seemed to weigh a hundredweight ... (if only it had weighed a
hundredweight!).... 'I see,' says Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'I see your
penitence ... you know to-morrow....' 'St. Mary of Egypt's day....'
'Well, don't weep,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'that's enough: you've
erred, and you are penitent! Come along! Maybe I may succeed in bringing
you back again into the true path,' says he ... 'maybe, my modest
Penates' (yes,'Penates,' I remember he used that expression, the rascal)
'will warm,' says he, 'your harden ... I will not say hardened, but
erring heart....' He took me by the arm, gentlemen, and led me to his
family circle. A cold shiver ran down my back; I shuddered! I thought
with what eyes shall I present myself--you must know, gentlemen ... eh,
what shall I say?--a delicate position had arisen here."

"Not Madame Polzunkov?"

"Marya Fedosyevna, only she was not destined, you know, to bear the name
you have given her; she did not attain that honour. Fedosey Nikolaitch
was right, you see, when he said that I was almost looked upon as a son
in the house; it had been so, indeed, six months before, when a certain
retired junker called Mihailo Maximitch Dvigailov, was still living. But
by God's will he died, and he put off settling his affairs till death
settled his business for him."

"Ough!"

"Well, never mind, gentlemen, forgive me, it was a slip of the tongue.
It's a bad pun, but it doesn't matter it's being bad--what happened was
far worse, when I was left, so to say, with nothing in prospect but a
bullet through the brain, for that junker, though he would not admit me
into his house (he lived in grand style, for he had always known how to
feather his nest), yet perhaps correctly he believed me to be his son."

"Aha!"

"Yes, that was how it was! So they began to cold-shoulder me at Fedosey
Nikolaitch's. I noticed things, I kept quiet; but all at once, unluckily
for me (or perhaps luckily!), a cavalry officer galloped into our little
town like snow on our head. His business--buying horses for the
army--was light and active, in cavalry style, but he settled himself
solidly at Fedosey Nikolaitch's, as though he were laying siege to it! I
approached the subject in a roundabout way, as my nasty habit is; I said
one thing and another, asking him what I had done to be treated so,
saying that I was almost like a son to him, and when might I expect him
to behave more like a father.... Well, he began answering me. And when
he begins to speak you are in for a regular epic in twelve cantos, and
all you can do is to listen, lick your lips and throw up your hands in
delight. And not a ha'p'orth of sense, at least there's no making out
the sense. You stand puzzled like a fool--he puts you in a fog, he
twists about like an eel and wriggles away from you. It's a special
gift, a real gift--it's enough to frighten people even if it is no
concern of theirs. I tried one thing and another, and went hither and
thither. I took the lady songs and presented her with sweets and thought
of witty things to say to her. I tried sighing and groaning. 'My heart
aches,' I said, 'it aches from love.' And I went in for tears and secret
explanations. Man is foolish, you know.... I never reminded myself that
I was thirty ... not a bit of it! I tried all my arts. It was no go. It
was a failure, and I gained nothing but jeers and gibes. I was
indignant, I was choking with anger. I slunk off and would not set foot
in the house. I thought and thought and made up my mind to denounce him.
Well, of course, it was a shabby thing--I meant to give away a friend, I
confess. I had heaps of material and splendid material--a grand case. It
brought me fifteen hundred roubles when I changed it and my report on it
for bank notes!"

"Ah, so that was the bribe!"

"Yes, sir, that was the bribe--and it was a bribe-taker who had to pay
it--and I didn't do wrong, I can assure you! Well, now I will go on: he
drew me, if you will kindly remember, more dead than alive into the room
where they were having tea. They all met me, seeming as it were
offended, that is, not exactly offended, but hurt--so hurt that it was
simply.... They seemed shattered, absolutely shattered, and at the same
time there was a look of becoming dignity on their faces, a gravity in
their expression, something fatherly, parental ... the prodigal son had
come back to them--that's what it had come to! They made me sit down to
tea, but there was no need to do that: I felt as though a samovar was
toiling in my bosom and my feet were like ice. I was humbled, I was
cowed. Marya Fominishna, his wife, addressed me familiarly from the
first word.

"'How is it you have grown so thin, my boy?'

"'I've not been very well, Marya Fominishna,' I said. My wretched voice
shook.

"And then quite suddenly--she must have been waiting for a chance to get
a dig at me, the old snake--she said--

"'I suppose your conscience felt ill at ease, Osip Mihalitch, my dear!
Our fatherly hospitality was a reproach to you! You have been punished
for the tears I have shed.'

"Yes, upon my word, she really said that--she had the conscience to say
it. Why, that was nothing to her, she was a terror! She did nothing but
sit there and pour out tea. But if you were in the market, my darling, I
thought you'd shout louder than any fishwife there.... That's the kind
of woman she was. And then, to my undoing, the daughter, Marya
Fedosyevna, came in, in all her innocence, a little pale and her eyes
red as though she had been weeping. I was bowled over on the spot like a
fool. But it turned out afterwards that the tears were a tribute to the
cavalry officer. He had made tracks for home and taken his hook for good
and all; for you know it was high time for him to be off--I may as well
mention the fact here; not that his leave was up precisely, but you
see.... It was only later that the loving parents grasped the position
and had found out all that had happened.... What could they do? They
hushed their trouble up--an addition to the family!

"Well, I could not help it--as soon as I looked at her I was done for; I
stole a glance at my hat, I wanted to get up and make off. But there was
no chance of that, they took away my hat.... I must confess, I did think
of getting off without it. 'Well!' I thought--but no, they latched the
doors. There followed friendly jokes, winking, little airs and graces. I
was overcome with embarrassment, said something stupid, talked nonsense,
about love. My charmer sat down to the piano and with an air of wounded
feeling sang the song about the hussar who leaned upon the sword--that
finished me off!

"'Well,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'all is forgotten, come to my arms!'

"I fell just as I was, with my face on his waistcoat.

"'My benefactor! You are a father to me!' said I. And I shed floods of
hot tears. Lord, have mercy on us, what a to-do there was! He cried, his
good lady cried, Mashenka cried ... there was a flaxen-headed creature
there, she cried too.... That wasn't enough: the younger children crept
out of all the corners (the Lord had filled their quiver full) and they
howled too.... Such tears, such emotion, such joy! They found their
prodigal, it was like a soldier's return to his home. Then followed
refreshments, we played forfeits, and 'I have a pain'--'Where is
it?'--'In my heart'--'Who gave it you?' My charmer blushed. The old man
and I had some punch--they won me over and did for me completely.

"I returned to my grandmother with my head in a whirl. I was laughing
all the way home; for full two hours I paced up and down our little
room. I waked up my old granny and told her of my happiness.

"'But did he give you any money, the brigand?'

"'He did, granny, he did, my dear--luck has come to us all of a heap:
we've only to open our hand and take it.'

"I waked up Sofron.

"'Sofron,' I said, 'take off my boots.'

"Sofron pulled off my boots.

"'Come, Sofron, congratulate me now, give me a kiss! I am going to get
married, my lad, I am going to get married. You can get jolly drunk
to-morrow, you can have a spree, my dear soul--your master is getting
married.'

"My heart was full of jokes and laughter. I was beginning to drop off to
sleep, but something made me get up again. I sat in thought: to-morrow
is the first of April, a bright and playful day--what should I do? And I
thought of something. Why, gentlemen, I got out of bed, lighted a
candle, and sat down to the writing-table just as I was. I was in a
fever of excitement, quite carried away--you know, gentlemen, what it is
when a man is quite carried away? I wallowed joyfully in the mud, my
dear friends. You see what I am like; they take something from you, and
you give them something else as well and say, 'Take that, too.' They
strike you on the cheek and in your joy you offer them your whole back.
Then they try to lure you like a dog with a bun, and you embrace them
with your foolish paws and fall to kissing them with all your heart and
soul. Why, see what I am doing now, gentlemen! You are laughing and
whispering--I see it! After I have told you all my story you will begin
to turn me into ridicule, you will begin to attack me, but yet I go on
talking and talking and talking! And who tells me to? Who drives me to
do it? Who is standing behind my back whispering to me, 'Speak, speak
and tell them'? And yet I do talk, I go on telling you, I try to please
you as though you were my brothers, all my dearest friends.... Ech!"

The laughter which had sprung up by degrees on all sides completely
drowned at last the voice of the speaker, who really seemed worked up
into a sort of ecstasy. He paused, for several minutes his eyes strayed
about the company, then suddenly, as though carried away by a whirlwind,
he waved his hand, burst out laughing himself, as though he really found
his position amusing, and fell to telling his story again.

"I scarcely slept all night, gentlemen. I was scribbling all night: you
see, I thought of a trick. Ech, gentlemen, the very thought of it makes
me ashamed. It wouldn't have been so bad if it all had been done at
night--I might have been drunk, blundered, been silly and talked
nonsense--but not a bit of it! I woke up in the morning as soon as it
was light, I hadn't slept more than an hour or two, and was in the same
mind. I dressed, I washed, I curled and pomaded my hair, put on my new
dress coat and went straight off to spend the holiday with Fedosey
Nikolaitch, and I kept the joke I had written in my hat. He met me again
with open arms, and invited me again to his fatherly waistcoat. But I
assumed an air of dignity. I had the joke I thought of the night before
in my mind. I drew a step back.

"'No, Fedosey Nikolaitch, but will you please read this letter,' and I
gave it him together with my daily report. And do you know what was in
it? Why, 'for such and such reasons the aforesaid Osip Mihalitch asks to
be discharged,' and under my petition I signed my full rank! Just think
what a notion! Good Lord, it was the cleverest thing I could think of!
As to-day was the first of April, I was pretending, for the sake of a
joke, that my resentment was not over, that I had changed my mind in the
night and was grumpy, and more offended than ever, as though to say, 'My
dear benefactor, I don't want to know you nor your daughter either. I
put the money in my pocket yesterday, so I am secure--so here's my
petition for a transfer to be discharged. I don't care to serve under
such a chief as Fedosey Nikolaitch. I want to go into a different office
and then, maybe, I'll inform.' I pretended to be a regular scoundrel, I
wanted to frighten them. And a nice way of frightening them, wasn't it?
A pretty thing, gentlemen, wasn't it? You see, my heart had grown tender
towards them since the day before, so I thought I would have a little
joke at the family--I would tease the fatherly heart of Fedosey
Nikolaitch.

"As soon as he took my letter and opened it, I saw his whole countenance
change.

"'What's the meaning of this, Osip Mihalitch?'

"And like a little fool I said--

"'The first of April! Many happy returns of the day, Fedosey
Nikolaitch!' just like a silly school-boy who hides behind his
grandmother's arm-chair and then shouts 'oof' into her ear suddenly at
the top of his voice, meaning to frighten her. Yes ... yes, I feel quite
ashamed to talk about it, gentlemen! No, I won't tell you."

"Nonsense! What happened then?"

"Nonsense, nonsense! Tell us! Yes, do," rose on all sides.

"There was an outcry and a hullabaloo, my dear friends! Such
exclamations of surprise! And 'you mischievous fellow, you naughty man,'
and what a fright I had given them--and all so sweet that I felt ashamed
and wondered how such a holy place could be profaned by a sinner like
me.

"'Well, my dear boy,' piped the mamma, 'you gave me such a fright that
my legs are all of a tremble still, I can hardly stand on my feet! I ran
to Masha as though I were crazy: "Mashenka," I said, "what will become
of us! See how _your_ friend has turned out!" and I was unjust to you,
my dear boy. You must forgive an old woman like me, I was taken in!
Well, I thought, when he got home last night, he got home late, he began
thinking and perhaps he fancied that we sent for him on purpose,
yesterday, that we wanted to get hold of him. I turned cold at the
thought! Give over, Mashenka, don't go on winking at me--Osip Mihalitch
isn't a stranger! I am your mother, I am not likely to say any harm!
Thank God, I am not twenty, but turned forty-five.'

"Well, gentlemen, I almost flopped at her feet on the spot. Again there
were tears, again there were kisses. Jokes began. Fedosey Nikolaitch,
too, thought he would make April fools of us. He told us the fiery bird
had flown up with a letter in her diamond beak! He tried to take us in,
too--didn't we laugh? weren't we touched? Foo! I feel ashamed to talk
about it.

"Well, my good friends, the end is not far off now. One day
passed, two, three, a week; I was regularly engaged to her. I should
think so! The wedding rings were ordered, the day was fixed, only they
did not want to make it public for a time--they wanted to wait for the
Inspector's visit to be over. I was all impatience for the Inspector's
arrival--my happiness depended upon him. I was in a hurry to get his
visit over. And in the excitement and rejoicing Fedosey Nikolaitch threw
all the work upon me: writing up the accounts, making up the reports,
checking the books, balancing the totals. I found things in terrible
disorder--everything had been neglected, there were muddles and
irregularities everywhere. Well, I thought, I must do my best for my
father-in-law! And he was ailing all the time, he was taken ill, it
appears; he seemed to get worse day by day. And, indeed, I grew as thin
as a rake myself, I was afraid I would break down. However, I finished
the work grandly. I got things straight for him in time.

"Suddenly they sent a messenger for me. I ran headlong--what could it
be? I saw my Fedosey Nikolaitch, his head bandaged up in a vinegar
compress, frowning, sighing, and moaning.

"'My dear boy, my son,' he said, 'if I die, to whom shall I leave you,
my darlings?'

"His wife trailed in with all his children; Mashenka was in tears and I
blubbered, too.

"'Oh no,' he said. 'God will be merciful, He will not visit my
transgressions on you.'

"Then he dismissed them all, told me to shut the door after them, and we
were left alone, _tete-a-tete_.

"'I have a favour to ask of you.'

"'What favour?'

"'Well, my dear boy, there is no rest for me even on my deathbed. I am
in want.'

"'How so?' I positively flushed crimson, I could hardly speak.

"'Why, I had to pay some of my own money into the Treasury. I grudge
nothing for the public weal, my boy! I don't grudge my life. Don't you
imagine any ill. I am sad to think that slanderers have blackened my
name to you.... You were mistaken, my hair has gone white from grief.
The Inspector is coming down upon us and Matveyev is seven thousand
roubles short, and I shall have to answer for it.... Who else? It will
be visited upon me, my boy: where were my eyes? And how can we get it
from Matveyev? He has had trouble enough already: why should I bring the
poor fellow to ruin?'

"'Holy saints!' I thought, 'what a just man! What a heart!'

"'And I don't want to take my daughter's money, which has been set aside
for her dowry: that sum is sacred. I have money of my own, it's true,
but I have lent it all to friends--how is one to collect it all in a
minute?'

"I simply fell on my knees before him. 'My benefactor!' I cried, 'I've
wronged you, I have injured you; it was slanderers who wrote against
you; don't break my heart, take back your money!'

"He looked at me and there were tears in his eyes. 'That was just what I
expected from you, my son. Get up! I forgave you at the time for the
sake of my daughter's tears--now my heart forgives you freely! You have
healed my wounds. I bless you for all time!'

"Well, when he blessed me, gentlemen, I scurried home as soon as I
could. I got the money:

"'Here, father, here's the money. I've only spent fifty roubles.'

"'Well, that's all right,' he said. 'But now every trifle may count; the
time is short, write a report dated some days ago that you were short of
money and had taken fifty roubles on account. I'll tell the authorities
you had it in advance.'

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think? I did write that report, too!"

"Well, what then? What happened? How did it end?"

"As soon as I had written the report, gentlemen, this is how it ended.
The next day, in the early morning, an envelope with a government seal
arrived. I looked at it and what had I got? The sack! That is,
instructions to hand over my work, to deliver the accounts--and to go
about my business!"

"How so?"

"That's just what I cried at the top of my voice, 'How so?' Gentlemen,
there was a ringing in my ears. I thought there was no special reason
for it--but no, the Inspector had arrived in the town. My heart sank.
'It's not for nothing,' I thought. And just as I was I rushed off to
Fedosey Nikolaitch.

"'How is this?' I said.

"'What do you mean?' he said.

"'Why, I am dismissed.'

"'Dismissed? how?'

"'Why, look at this!'

"'Well, what of it?'

"'Why, but I didn't ask for it!'

"'Yes, you did--you sent in your papers on the first of--April.' (I had
never taken that letter back!)

"'Fedosey Nikolaitch! I can't believe my ears, I can't believe my eyes!
Is this you?'

"'It is me, why?'

"'My God!'

"'I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry that you made up your mind to retire
from the service so early. A young man ought to be in the service, and
you've begun to be a little light-headed of late. And as for your
character, set your mind at rest: I'll see to that! Your behaviour has
always been so exemplary!'

"'But that was a little joke, Fedosey Nikolaitch! I didn't mean it, I
just gave you the letter for your fatherly ... that's all.'

"'That's all? A queer joke, sir! Does one jest with documents like that?
Why, you are sometimes sent to Siberia for such jokes. Now, good-bye. I
am busy. We have the Inspector here--the duties of the service before
everything; you can kick up your heels, but we have to sit here at work.
But I'll get you a character---- Oh, another thing: I've just bought a
house from Matveyev. We are moving in in a day or two. So I expect I
shall not have the pleasure of seeing you at our new residence. _Bon
voyage!_'

"I ran home.

"'We are lost, granny!'

"She wailed, poor dear, and then I saw the page from Fedosey
Nikolaitch's running up with a note and a bird-cage, and in the cage
there was a starling. In the fullness of my heart I had given her the
starling. And in the note there were the words: 'April 1st,' and nothing
more. What do you think of that, gentlemen?"

"What happened then? What happened then?"

"What then! I met Fedosey Nikolaitch once, I meant to tell him to his
face he was a scoundrel."

"Well?"

"But somehow I couldn't bring myself to it, gentlemen."




A LITTLE HERO

A STORY


At that time I was nearly eleven, I had been sent in July to spend the
holiday in a village near Moscow with a relation of mine called T.,
whose house was full of guests, fifty, or perhaps more.... I don't
remember, I didn't count. The house was full of noise and gaiety. It
seemed as though it were a continual holiday, which would never end. It
seemed as though our host had taken a vow to squander all his vast
fortune as rapidly as possible, and he did indeed succeed, not long ago,
in justifying this surmise, that is, in making a clean sweep of it all
to the last stick.

Fresh visitors used to drive up every minute. Moscow was close by, in
sight, so that those who drove away only made room for others, and the
everlasting holiday went on its course. Festivities succeeded one
another, and there was no end in sight to the entertainments. There were
riding parties about the environs; excursions to the forest or the
river; picnics, dinners in the open air; suppers on the great terrace of
the house, bordered with three rows of gorgeous flowers that flooded
with their fragrance the fresh night air, and illuminated the brilliant
lights which made our ladies, who were almost every one of them pretty
at all times, seem still more charming, with their faces excited by the
impressions of the day, with their sparkling eyes, with their
interchange of spritely conversation, their peals of ringing laughter;
dancing, music, singing; if the sky were overcast tableaux vivants,
charades, proverbs were arranged, private theatricals were got up. There
were good talkers, story-tellers, wits.

Certain persons were prominent in the foreground. Of course backbiting
and slander ran their course, as without them the world could not get
on, and millions of persons would perish of boredom, like flies. But as
I was at that time eleven I was absorbed by very different interests,
and either failed to observe these people, or if I noticed anything, did
not see it all. It was only afterwards that some things came back to my
mind. My childish eyes could only see the brilliant side of the picture,
and the general animation, splendour, and bustle--all that, seen and
heard for the first time, made such an impression upon me that for the
first few days, I was completely bewildered and my little head was in a
whirl.

I keep speaking of my age, and of course I was a child, nothing more
than a child. Many of these lovely ladies petted me without dreaming of
considering my age. But strange to say, a sensation which I did not
myself understand already had possession of me; something was already
whispering in my heart, of which till then it had had no knowledge, no
conception, and for some reason it began all at once to burn and throb,
and often my face glowed with a sudden flush. At times I felt as it were
abashed, and even resentful of the various privileges of my childish
years. At other times a sort of wonder overwhelmed me, and I would go
off into some corner where I could sit unseen, as though to take breath
and remember something--something which it seemed to me I had remembered
perfectly till then, and now had suddenly forgotten, something without
which I could not show myself anywhere, and could not exist at all.

At last it seemed to me as though I were hiding something from every
one. But nothing would have induced me to speak of it to any one,
because, small boy that I was, I was ready to weep with shame. Soon in
the midst of the vortex around me I was conscious of a certain
loneliness. There were other children, but all were either much older or
younger than I; besides, I was in no mood for them. Of course nothing
would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional position.
In the eyes of those charming ladies I was still the little unformed
creature whom they at once liked to pet, and with whom they could play
as though he were a little doll. One of them particularly, a
fascinating, fair woman, with very thick luxuriant hair, such as I had
never seen before and probably shall never see again, seemed to have
taken a vow never to leave me in peace. I was confused, while she was
amused by the laughter which she continually provoked from all around us
by her wild, giddy pranks with me, and this apparently gave her immense
enjoyment. At school among her schoolfellows she was probably nicknamed
the Tease. She was wonderfully good-looking, and there was something in
her beauty which drew one's eyes from the first moment. And certainly
she had nothing in common with the ordinary modest little fair girls,
white as down and soft as white mice, or pastors' daughters. She was not
very tall, and was rather plump, but had soft, delicate, exquisitely cut
features. There was something quick as lightning in her face, and indeed
she was like fire all over, light, swift, alive. Her big open eyes
seemed to flash sparks; they glittered like diamonds, and I would never
exchange such blue sparkling eyes for any black ones, were they blacker
than any Andalusian orb. And, indeed, my blonde was fully a match for
the famous brunette whose praises were sung by a great and well-known
poet, who, in a superb poem, vowed by all Castille that he was ready to
break his bones to be permitted only to touch the mantle of his divinity
with the tip of his finger. Add to that, that _my_ charmer was the
merriest in the world, the wildest giggler, playful as a child, although
she had been married for the last five years. There was a continual
laugh upon her lips, fresh as the morning rose that, with the first ray
of sunshine, opens its fragrant crimson bud with the cool dewdrops still
hanging heavy upon it.

I remember that the day after my arrival private theatricals were being
got up. The drawing-room was, as they say, packed to overflowing; there
was not a seat empty, and as I was somehow late I had to enjoy the
performance standing. But the amusing play attracted me to move
forwarder and forwarder, and unconsciously I made my way to the first
row, where I stood at last leaning my elbows on the back of an armchair,
in which a lady was sitting. It was my blonde divinity, but we had not
yet made acquaintance. And I gazed, as it happened, at her marvellous,
fascinating shoulders, plump and white as milk, though it did not matter
to me in the least whether I stared at a woman's exquisite shoulders or
at the cap with flaming ribbons that covered the grey locks of a
venerable lady in the front row. Near my blonde divinity sat a spinster
lady not in her first youth, one of those who, as I chanced to observe
later, always take refuge in the immediate neighbourhood of young and
pretty women, selecting such as are not fond of cold-shouldering young
men. But that is not the point, only this lady, noting my fixed gaze,
bent down to her neighbour and with a simper whispered something in her
ear. The blonde lady turned at once, and I remember that her glowing
eyes so flashed upon me in the half dark, that, not prepared to meet
them, I started as though I were scalded. The beauty smiled.

"Do you like what they are acting?" she asked, looking into my face with
a shy and mocking expression.

"Yes," I answered, still gazing at her with a sort of wonder that
evidently pleased her.

"But why are you standing? You'll get tired. Can't you find a seat?"

"That's just it, I can't," I answered, more occupied with my grievance
than with the beauty's sparkling eyes, and rejoicing in earnest at
having found a kind heart to whom I could confide my troubles. "I have
looked everywhere, but all the chairs are taken," I added, as though
complaining to her that all the chairs were taken.

"Come here," she said briskly, quick to act on every decision, and,
indeed, on every mad idea that flashed on her giddy brain, "come here,
and sit on my knee."

"On your knee," I repeated, taken aback. I have mentioned already that I
had begun to resent the privileges of childhood and to be ashamed of
them in earnest. This lady, as though in derision, had gone ever so much
further than the others. Moreover, I had always been a shy and bashful
boy, and of late had begun to be particularly shy with women.

"Why yes, on my knee. Why don't you want to sit on my knee?" she
persisted, beginning to laugh more and more, so that at last she was
simply giggling, goodness knows at what, perhaps at her freak, or
perhaps at my confusion. But that was just what she wanted.

I flushed, and in my confusion looked round trying to find where to
escape; but seeing my intention she managed to catch hold of my hand to
prevent me from going away, and pulling it towards her, suddenly, quite
unexpectedly, to my intense astonishment, squeezed it in her mischievous
warm fingers, and began to pinch my fingers till they hurt so much that
I had to do my very utmost not to cry out, and in my effort to control
myself made the most absurd grimaces. I was, besides, moved to the
greatest amazement, perplexity, and even horror, at the discovery that
there were ladies so absurd and spiteful as to talk nonsense to boys,
and even pinch their fingers, for no earthly reason and before
everybody. Probably my unhappy face reflected my bewilderment, for the
mischievous creature laughed in my face, as though she were crazy, and
meantime she was pinching my fingers more and more vigorously. She was
highly delighted in playing such a mischievous prank and completely
mystifying and embarrassing a poor boy. My position was desperate. In
the first place I was hot with shame, because almost every one near had
turned round to look at us, some in wonder, others with laughter,
grasping at once that the beauty was up to some mischief. I dreadfully
wanted to scream, too, for she was wringing my fingers with positive
fury just because I didn't scream; while I, like a Spartan, made up my
mind to endure the agony, afraid by crying out of causing a general
fuss, which was more than I could face. In utter despair I began at last
struggling with her, trying with all my might to pull away my hand, but
my persecutor was much stronger than I was. At last I could bear it no
longer, and uttered a shriek--that was all she was waiting for!
Instantly she let me go, and turned away as though nothing had happened,
as though it was not she who had played the trick but some one else,
exactly like some schoolboy who, as soon as the master's back is turned,
plays some trick on some one near him, pinches some small weak boy,
gives him a flip, a kick, or a nudge with his elbows, and instantly
turns again, buries himself in his book and begins repeating his lesson,
and so makes a fool of the infuriated teacher who flies down like a hawk
at the noise.

But luckily for me the general attention was distracted at the moment by
the masterly acting of our host, who was playing the chief part in the
performance, some comedy of Scribe's. Every one began to applaud; under
cover of the noise I stole away and hurried to the furthest end of the
room, from which, concealed behind a column, I looked with horror
towards the place where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was
still laughing, holding her handkerchief to her lips. And for a long
time she was continually turning round, looking for me in every
direction, probably regretting that our silly tussle was so soon over,
and hatching some other trick to play on me.

That was the beginning of our acquaintance, and from that evening she
would never let me alone. She persecuted me without consideration or
conscience, she became my tyrant and tormentor. The whole absurdity of
her jokes with me lay in the fact that she pretended to be head over
ears in love with me, and teased me before every one. Of course for a
wild creature as I was all this was so tiresome and vexatious that it
almost reduced me to tears, and I was sometimes put in such a difficult
position that I was on the point of fighting with my treacherous
admirer. My naive confusion, my desperate distress, seemed to egg her on
to persecute me more; she knew no mercy, while I did not know how to get
away from her. The laughter which always accompanied us, and which she
knew so well how to excite, roused her to fresh pranks. But at last
people began to think that she went a little too far in her jests. And,
indeed, as I remember now, she did take outrageous liberties with a
child such as I was.

But that was her character; she was a spoilt child in every respect. I
heard afterwards that her husband, a very short, very fat, and very
red-faced man, very rich and apparently very much occupied with
business, spoilt her more than any one. Always busy and flying round, he
could not stay two hours in one place. Every day he drove into Moscow,
sometimes twice in the day, and always, as he declared himself, on
business. It would be hard to find a livelier and more good-natured face
than his facetious but always well-bred countenance. He not only loved
his wife to the point of weakness, softness: he simply worshipped her
like an idol.

He did not restrain her in anything. She had masses of friends, male and
female. In the first place, almost everybody liked her; and secondly,
the feather-headed creature was not herself over particular in the
choice of her friends, though there was a much more serious foundation
to her character than might be supposed from what I have just said about
her. But of all her friends she liked best of all one young lady, a
distant relation, who was also of our party now. There existed between
them a tender and subtle affection, one of those attachments which
sometimes spring up at the meeting of two dispositions often the very
opposite of each other, of which one is deeper, purer and more austere,
while the other, with lofty humility, and generous self-criticism,
lovingly gives way to the other, conscious of the friend's superiority
and cherishing the friendship as a happiness. Then begins that tender
and noble subtlety in the relations of such characters, love and
infinite indulgence on the one side, on the other love and respect--a
respect approaching awe, approaching anxiety as to the impression made
on the friend so highly prized, and an eager, jealous desire to get
closer and closer to that friend's heart in every step in life.

These two friends were of the same age, but there was an immense
difference between them in everything--in looks, to begin with. Madame
M. was also very handsome, but there was something special in her beauty
that strikingly distinguished her from the crowd of pretty women; there
was something in her face that at once drew the affection of all to her,
or rather, which aroused a generous and lofty feeling of kindliness in
every one who met her. There are such happy faces. At her side everyone
grew as it were better, freer, more cordial; and yet her big mournful
eyes, full of fire and vigour, had a timid and anxious look, as though
every minute dreading something antagonistic and menacing, and this
strange timidity at times cast so mournful a shade over her mild, gentle
features which recalled the serene faces of Italian Madonnas, that
looking at her one soon became oneself sad, as though for some trouble
of one's own. The pale, thin face, in which, through the irreproachable
beauty of the pure, regular lines and the mournful severity of some mute
hidden grief, there often flitted the clear looks of early childhood,
telling of trustful years and perhaps simple-hearted happiness in the
recent past, the gentle but diffident, hesitating smile, all aroused
such unaccountable sympathy for her that every heart was unconsciously
stirred with a sweet and warm anxiety that powerfully interceded on her
behalf even at a distance, and made even strangers feel akin to her. But
the lovely creature seemed silent and reserved, though no one could have
been more attentive and loving if any one needed sympathy. There are
women who are like sisters of mercy in life. Nothing can be hidden from
them, nothing, at least, that is a sore or wound of the heart. Any one
who is suffering may go boldly and hopefully to them without fear of
being a burden, for few men know the infinite patience of love,
compassion and forgiveness that may be found in some women's hearts.
Perfect treasures of sympathy, consolation and hope are laid up in these
pure hearts, so often full of suffering of their own--for a heart which
loves much grieves much--though their wounds are carefully hidden from
the curious eye, for deep sadness is most often mute and concealed. They
are not dismayed by the depth of the wound, nor by its foulness and its
stench; any one who comes to them is deserving of help; they are, as it
were, born for heroism.... Mme. M. was tall, supple and graceful, but
rather thin. All her movements seemed somehow irregular, at times slow,
smooth, and even dignified, at times childishly hasty; and yet, at the
same time, there was a sort of timid humility in her gestures, something
tremulous and defenceless, though it neither desired nor asked for
protection.

I have mentioned already that the outrageous teasing of the treacherous
fair lady abashed me, flabbergasted me, and wounded me to the quick. But
there was for that another secret, strange and foolish reason, which I
concealed, at which I shuddered as at a skeleton. At the very thought of
it, brooding, utterly alone and overwhelmed, in some dark mysterious
corner to which the inquisitorial mocking eye of the blue-eyed rogue
could not penetrate, I almost gasped with confusion, shame and fear--in
short, I was in love; that perhaps is nonsense, that could hardly have
been. But why was it, of all the faces surrounding me, only her face
caught my attention? Why was it that it was only she whom I cared to
follow with my eyes, though I certainly had no inclination in those days
to watch ladies and seek their acquaintance? This happened most
frequently on the evenings when we were all kept indoors by bad weather,
and when, lonely, hiding in some corner of the big drawing-room, I
stared about me aimlessly, unable to find anything to do, for except my
teasing ladies, few people ever addressed me, and I was insufferably
bored on such evenings. Then I stared at the people round me, listened
to the conversation, of which I often did not understand one word, and
at that time the mild eyes, the gentle smile and lovely face of Mme. M.
(for she was the object of my passion) for some reason caught my
fascinated attention; and the strange vague, but unutterably sweet
impression remained with me. Often for hours together I could not tear
myself away from her; I studied every gesture, every movement she made,
listened to every vibration of her rich, silvery, but rather muffled
voice; but strange to say, as the result of all my observations, I felt,
mixed with a sweet and timid impression, a feeling of intense curiosity.
It seemed as though I were on the verge of some mystery.

Nothing distressed me so much as being mocked at in the presence of Mme.
M. This mockery and humorous persecution, as I thought, humiliated me.
And when there was a general burst of laughter at my expense, in which
Mme. M. sometimes could not help joining, in despair, beside myself with
misery, I used to tear myself from my tormentor and run away upstairs,
where I remained in solitude the rest of the day, not daring to show my
face in the drawing-room. I did not yet, however, understand my shame
nor my agitation; the whole process went on in me unconsciously. I had
hardly said two words to Mme. M., and indeed I should not have dared to.
But one evening after an unbearable day I turned back from an expedition
with the rest of the company. I was horribly tired and made my way home
across the garden. On a seat in a secluded avenue I saw Mme. M. She was
sitting quite alone, as though she had purposely chosen this solitary
spot, her head was drooping and she was mechanically twisting her
handkerchief. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear me till I
reached her.

Noticing me, she got up quickly from her seat, turned round, and I saw
her hurriedly wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. She was crying.
Drying her eyes, she smiled to me and walked back with me to the house.
I don't remember what we talked about; but she frequently sent me off on
one pretext or another, to pick a flower, or to see who was riding in
the next avenue. And when I walked away from her, she at once put her
handkerchief to her eyes again and wiped away rebellious tears, which
would persist in rising again and again from her heart and dropping from
her poor eyes. I realized that I was very much in her way when she sent
me off so often, and, indeed, she saw herself that I noticed it all, but
yet could not control herself, and that made my heart ache more and more
for her. I raged at myself at that moment and was almost in despair;
cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resource, and at the same
time did not know how to leave her tactfully, without betraying that I
had noticed her distress, but walked beside her in mournful
bewilderment, almost in alarm, utterly at a loss and unable to find a
single word to keep up our scanty conversation.

This meeting made such an impression on me that I stealthily watched
Mme. M. the whole evening with eager curiosity, and never took my eyes
off her. But it happened that she twice caught me unawares watching her,
and on the second occasion, noticing me, she gave me a smile. It was the
only time she smiled that evening. The look of sadness had not left her
face, which was now very pale. She spent the whole evening talking to an
ill-natured and quarrelsome old lady, whom nobody liked owing to her
spying and backbiting habits, but of whom every one was afraid, and
consequently every one felt obliged to be polite to her....

At ten o'clock Mme. M.'s husband arrived. Till that moment I watched her
very attentively, never taking my eyes off her mournful face; now at the
unexpected entrance of her husband I saw her start, and her pale face
turned suddenly as white as a handkerchief. It was so noticeable that
other people observed it. I overheard a fragmentary conversation from
which I guessed that Mme. M. was not quite happy; they said her husband
was as jealous as an Arab, not from love, but from vanity. He was before
all things a European, a modern man, who sampled the newest ideas and
prided himself upon them. In appearance he was a tall, dark-haired,
particularly thick-set man, with European whiskers, with a
self-satisfied, red face, with teeth white as sugar, and with an
irreproachably gentlemanly deportment. He was called a _clever man_.
Such is the name given in certain circles to a peculiar species of
mankind which grows fat at other people's expense, which does absolutely
nothing and has no desire to do anything, and whose heart has turned
into a lump of fat from everlasting slothfulness and idleness. You
continually hear from such men that there is nothing they can do owing
to certain very complicated and hostile circumstances, which "thwart
their genius," and that it was "sad to see the waste of their talents."
This is a fine phrase of theirs, their _mot d'ordre_, their watchword, a
phrase which these well-fed, fat friends of ours bring out at every
minute, so that it has long ago bored us as an arrant Tartuffism, an
empty form of words. Some, however, of these amusing creatures, who
cannot succeed in finding anything to do--though, indeed, they never
seek it--try to make every one believe that they have not a lump of fat
for a heart, but on the contrary, something _very deep_, though what
precisely the greatest surgeon would hardly venture to decide--from
civility, of course. These gentlemen make their way in the world through
the fact that all their instincts are bent in the direction of coarse
sneering, short-sighted censure and immense conceit. Since they have
nothing else to do but note and emphasize the mistakes and weaknesses of
others, and as they have precisely as much good feeling as an oyster, it
is not difficult for them with such powers of self-preservation to get
on with people fairly successfully. They pride themselves extremely upon
that. They are, for instance, as good as persuaded that almost the whole
world owes them something; that it is theirs, like an oyster which they
keep in reserve; that all are fools except themselves; that every one is
like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze as soon as they want
the juice; that they are the masters everywhere, and that all this
acceptable state of affairs is solely due to the fact that they are
people of so much intellect and character. In their measureless conceit
they do not admit any defects in themselves, they are like that species
of practical rogues, innate Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who are such
thorough rogues that at last they have come to believe that that is as
it should be, that is, that they should spend their lives in
knavishness; they have so often assured every one that they are honest
men, that they have come to believe that they are honest men, and that
their roguery is honesty. They are never capable of inner judgment
before their conscience, of generous self-criticism; for some things
they are too fat. Their own priceless personality, their Baal and
Moloch, their magnificent _ego_ is always in their foreground
everywhere. All nature, the whole world for them is no more than a
splendid mirror created for the little god to admire himself continually
in it, and to see no one and nothing behind himself; so it is not
strange that he sees everything in the world in such a hideous light. He
has a phrase in readiness for everything and--the acme of ingenuity on
his part--the most fashionable phrase. It is just these people, indeed,
who help to make the fashion, proclaiming at every cross-road an idea in
which they scent success. A fine nose is just what they have for
sniffing a fashionable phrase and making it their own before other
people get hold of it, so that it seems to have originated with them.
They have a particular store of phrases for proclaiming their profound
sympathy for humanity, for defining what is the most correct and
rational form of philanthropy, and continually attacking romanticism, in
other words, everything fine and true, each atom of which is more
precious than all their mollusc tribe. But they are too coarse to
recognize the truth in an indirect, roundabout and unfinished form, and
they reject everything that is immature, still fermenting and unstable.
The well-nourished man has spent all his life in merry-making, with
everything provided, has done nothing himself and does not know how hard
every sort of work is, and so woe betide you if you jar upon his fat
feelings by any sort of roughness; he'll never forgive you for that, he
will always remember it and will gladly avenge it. The long and short of
it is, that my hero is neither more nor less than a gigantic, incredibly
swollen bag, full of sentences, fashionable phrases, and labels of all
sorts and kinds.

M. M., however, had a speciality and was a very remarkable man; he was a
wit, good talker and story-teller, and there was always a circle round
him in every drawing-room. That evening he was particularly successful
in making an impression. He took possession of the conversation; he was
in his best form, gay, pleased at something, and he compelled the
attention of all; but Mme. M. looked all the time as though she were
ill; her face was so sad that I fancied every minute that tears would
begin quivering on her long eyelashes. All this, as I have said,
impressed me extremely and made me wonder. I went away with a feeling of
strange curiosity, and dreamed all night of M. M., though till then I
had rarely had dreams.

Next day, early in the morning, I was summoned to a rehearsal of some
tableaux vivants in which I had to take part. The tableaux vivants,
theatricals, and afterwards a dance were all fixed for the same evening,
five days later--the birthday of our host's younger daughter. To this
entertainment, which was almost improvised, another hundred guests were
invited from Moscow and from surrounding villas, so that there was a
great deal of fuss, bustle and commotion. The rehearsal, or rather
review of the costumes, was fixed so early in the morning because our
manager, a well-known artist, a friend of our host's, who had consented
through affection for him to undertake the arrangement of the tableaux
and the training of us for them, was in haste now to get to Moscow to
purchase properties and to make final preparations for the fete, as
there was no time to lose. I took part in one tableau with Mme. M. It
was a scene from mediaeval life and was called "The Lady of the Castle
and Her Page."

I felt unutterably confused on meeting Mme. M. at the rehearsal. I kept
feeling that she would at once read in my eyes all the reflections, the
doubts, the surmises, that had arisen in my mind since the previous day.
I fancied, too, that I was, as it were, to blame in regard to her, for
having come upon her tears the day before and hindered her grieving, so
that she could hardly help looking at me askance, as an unpleasant
witness and unforgiven sharer of her secret. But, thank goodness, it
went off without any great trouble; I was simply not noticed. I think
she had no thoughts to spare for me or for the rehearsal; she was
absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was evident that she was
worried by some great anxiety. As soon as my part was over I ran away to
change my clothes, and ten minutes later came out on the verandah into
the garden. Almost at the same time Mme. M. came out by another door,
and immediately afterwards coming towards us appeared her self-satisfied
husband, who was returning from the garden, after just escorting into it
quite a crowd of ladies and there handing them over to a competent
_cavaliere servente_. The meeting of the husband and wife was evidently
unexpected. Mme. M., I don't know why, grew suddenly confused, and a
faint trace of vexation was betrayed in her impatient movement. The
husband, who had been carelessly whistling an air and with an air of
profundity stroking his whiskers, now, on meeting his wife, frowned and
scrutinized her, as I remember now, with a markedly inquisitorial stare.

"You are going into the garden?" he asked, noticing the parasol and book
in her hand.

"No, into the copse," she said, with a slight flush.

"Alone?"

"With him," said Mme. M., pointing to me. "I always go a walk alone in
the morning," she added, speaking in an uncertain, hesitating voice, as
people do when they tell their first lie.

"H'm ... and I have just taken the whole party there. They have all met
there together in the flower arbour to see N. off. He is going away, you
know.... Something has gone wrong in Odessa. Your cousin" (he meant the
fair beauty) "is laughing and crying at the same time; there is no
making her out. She says, though, that you are angry with N. about
something and so wouldn't go and see him off. Nonsense, of course?"

"She's laughing," said Mme. M., coming down the verandah steps.

"So this is your daily _cavaliere servente_," added M. M., with a wry
smile, turning his lorgnette upon me.

"Page!" I cried, angered by the lorgnette and the jeer; and laughing
straight in his face I jumped down the three steps of the verandah at
one bound.

"A pleasant walk," muttered M. M., and went on his way.

Of course, I immediately joined Mme. M. as soon as she indicated me to
her husband, and looked as though she had invited me to do so an hour
before, and as though I had been accompanying her on her walks every
morning for the last month. But I could not make out why she was so
confused, so embarrassed, and what was in her mind when she brought
herself to have recourse to her little lie? Why had she not simply said
that she was going alone? I did not know how to look at her, but
overwhelmed with wonder I began by degrees very naively peeping into her
face; but just as an hour before at the rehearsal she did not notice
either my looks or my mute question. The same anxiety, only more intense
and more distinct, was apparent in her face, in her agitation, in her
walk. She was in haste, and walked more and more quickly and kept
looking uneasily down every avenue, down every path in the wood that led
in the direction of the garden. And I, too, was expecting something.
Suddenly there was the sound of horses' hoofs behind us. It was the
whole party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback escorting N., the
gentleman who was so suddenly deserting us.

Among the ladies was my fair tormentor, of whom M. M. had told us that
she was in tears. But characteristically she was laughing like a child,
and was galloping briskly on a splendid bay horse. On reaching us N.
took off his hat, but did not stop, nor say one word to Mme. M. Soon all
the cavalcade disappeared from our sight. I glanced at Mme. M. and
almost cried out in wonder; she was standing as white as a handkerchief
and big tears were gushing from her eyes. By chance our eyes met: Mme.
M. suddenly flushed and turned away for an instant, and a distinct look
of uneasiness and vexation flitted across her face. I was in the way,
worse even than last time, that was clearer than day, but how was I to
get away?

And, as though guessing my difficulty, Mme. M. opened the book which she
had in her hand, and colouring and evidently trying not to look at me
she said, as though she had only suddenly realized it--

"Ah! It is the second part. I've made a mistake; please bring me the
first."

I could not but understand. My part was over, and I could not have been
more directly dismissed.

I ran off with her book and did not come back. The first part lay
undisturbed on the table that morning....

But I was not myself; in my heart there was a sort of haunting terror. I
did my utmost not to meet Mme. M. But I looked with wild curiosity at
the self-satisfied person of M. M., as though there must be something
special about him now. I don't understand what was the meaning of my
absurd curiosity. I only remember that I was strangely perplexed by all
that I had chanced to see that morning. But the day was only just
beginning and it was fruitful in events for me.

Dinner was very early that day. An expedition to a neighbouring hamlet
to see a village festival that was taking place there had been fixed for
the evening, and so it was necessary to be in time to get ready. I had
been dreaming for the last three days of this excursion, anticipating
all sorts of delights. Almost all the company gathered together on the
verandah for coffee. I cautiously followed the others and concealed
myself behind the third row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and
yet I was very anxious not to be seen by Mme. M. But as luck would have
it I was not far from my fair tormentor. Something miraculous and
incredible was happening to her that day; she looked twice as handsome.
I don't know how and why this happens, but such miracles are by no means
rare with women. There was with us at this moment a new guest, a tall,
pale-faced young man, the official admirer of our fair beauty, who had
just arrived from Moscow as though on purpose to replace N., of whom
rumour said that he was desperately in love with the same lady. As for
the newly arrived guest, he had for a long time past been on the same
terms as Benedick with Beatrice, in Shakespeare's _Much Ado about
Nothing_. In short, the fair beauty was in her very best form that day.
Her chatter and her jests were so full of grace, so trustfully naive, so
innocently careless, she was persuaded of the general enthusiasm with
such graceful self-confidence that she really was all the time the
centre of peculiar adoration. A throng of surprised and admiring
listeners was continually round her, and she had never been so
fascinating. Every word she uttered was marvellous and seductive, was
caught up and handed round in the circle, and not one word, one jest,
one sally was lost. I fancy no one had expected from her such taste,
such brilliance, such wit. Her best qualities were, as a rule, buried
under the most harum-scarum wilfulness, the most schoolboyish pranks,
almost verging on buffoonery; they were rarely noticed, and, when they
were, were hardly believed in, so that now her extraordinary brilliancy
was accompanied by an eager whisper of amazement among all. There was,
however, one peculiar and rather delicate circumstance, judging at least
by the part in it played by Mme. M.'s husband, which contributed to her
success. The madcap ventured--and I must add to the satisfaction of
almost every one or, at any rate, to the satisfaction of all the young
people--to make a furious attack upon him, owing to many causes,
probably of great consequence in her eyes. She carried on with him a
regular cross-fire of witticisms, of mocking and sarcastic sallies, of
that most illusive and treacherous kind that, smoothly wrapped up on the
surface, hit the mark without giving the victim anything to lay hold of,
and exhaust him in fruitless efforts to repel the attack, reducing him
to fury and comic despair.

I don't know for certain, but I fancy the whole proceeding was not
improvised but premeditated. This desperate duel had begun earlier, at
dinner. I call it desperate because M. M. was not quick to surrender. He
had to call upon all his presence of mind, all his sharp wit and rare
resourcefulness not to be completely covered with ignominy. The conflict
was accompanied by the continual and irrepressible laughter of all who
witnessed and took part in it. That day was for him very different from
the day before. It was noticeable that Mme. M. several times did her
utmost to stop her indiscreet friend, who was certainly trying to depict
the jealous husband in the most grotesque and absurd guise, in the guise
of "a bluebeard" it must be supposed, judging from all probabilities,
from what has remained in my memory and finally from the part which I
myself was destined to play in the affair.

I was drawn into it in a most absurd manner, quite unexpectedly. And as
ill-luck would have it at that moment I was standing where I could be
seen, suspecting no evil and actually forgetting the precautions I had
so long practised. Suddenly I was brought into the foreground as a sworn
foe and natural rival of M. M., as desperately in love with his wife, of
which my persecutress vowed and swore that she had proofs, saying that
only that morning she had seen in the copse....

But before she had time to finish I broke in at the most desperate
minute. That minute was so diabolically calculated, was so treacherously
prepared to lead up to its finale, its ludicrous _denouement_, and was
brought out with such killing humour that a perfect outburst of
irrepressible mirth saluted this last sally. And though even at the time
I guessed that mine was not the most unpleasant part in the performance,
yet I was so confused, so irritated and alarmed that, full of misery and
despair, gasping with shame and tears, I dashed through two rows of
chairs, stepped forward, and addressing my tormentor, cried, in a voice
broken with tears and indignation:

"Aren't you ashamed ... aloud ... before all the ladies ... to tell such
a wicked ... lie?... Like a small child ... before all these men....
What will they say?... A big girl like you ... and married!..."

But I could not go on, there was a deafening roar of applause. My
outburst created a perfect furore. My naive gesture, my tears, and
especially the fact that I seemed to be defending M. M., all this
provoked such fiendish laughter, that even now I cannot help laughing at
the mere recollection of it. I was overcome with confusion, senseless
with horror and, burning with shame, hiding my face in my hands rushed
away, knocked a tray out of the hands of a footman who was coming in at
the door, and flew upstairs to my own room. I pulled out the key, which
was on the outside of the door, and locked myself in. I did well, for
there was a hue and cry after me. Before a minute had passed my door was
besieged by a mob of the prettiest ladies. I heard their ringing
laughter, their incessant chatter, their trilling voices; they were all
twittering at once, like swallows. All of them, every one of them,
begged and besought me to open the door, if only for a moment; swore
that no harm should come to me, only that they wanted to smother me with
kisses. But ... what could be more horrible than this novel threat? I
simply burned with shame the other side of the door, hiding my face in
the pillows and did not open, did not even respond. The ladies kept up
their knocking for a long time, but I was deaf and obdurate as only a
boy of eleven could be.

But what could I do now? Everything was laid bare, everything had been
exposed, everything I had so jealously guarded and concealed!...
Everlasting disgrace and shame had fallen on me! But it is true that I
could not myself have said why I was frightened and what I wanted to
hide; yet I was frightened of something and had trembled like a leaf at
the thought of _that something's_ being discovered. Only till that
minute I had not known what it was: whether it was good or bad, splendid
or shameful, praiseworthy or reprehensible? Now in my distress, in the
misery that had been forced upon me, I learned that it was _absurd_ and
_shameful_. Instinctively I felt at the same time that this verdict was
false, inhuman, and coarse; but I was crushed, annihilated;
consciousness seemed checked in me and thrown into confusion; I could
not stand up against that verdict, nor criticize it properly. I was
befogged; I only felt that my heart had been inhumanly and shamelessly
wounded, and was brimming over with impotent tears. I was irritated; but
I was boiling with indignation and hate such as I had never felt before,
for it was the first time in my life that I had known real sorrow,
insult, and injury--and it was truly that, without any exaggeration. The
first untried, unformed feeling had been so coarsely handled in me, a
child. The first fragrant, virginal modesty had been so soon exposed and
insulted, and the first and perhaps very real and aesthetic impression
had been so outraged. Of course there was much my persecutors did not
know and did not divine in my sufferings. One circumstance, which I had
not succeeded in analysing till then, of which I had been as it were
afraid, partly entered into it. I went on lying on my bed in despair and
misery, hiding my face in my pillow, and I was alternately feverish and
shivery. I was tormented by two questions: first, what had the wretched
fair beauty seen, and, in fact, what could she have seen that morning in
the copse between Mme. M. and me? And secondly, how could I now look
Mme. M. in the face without dying on the spot of shame and despair?

An extraordinary noise in the yard roused me at last from the state of
semi-consciousness into which I had fallen. I got up and went to the
window. The whole yard was packed with carriages, saddle-horses, and
bustling servants. It seemed that they were all setting off; some of the
gentlemen had already mounted their horses, others were taking their
places in the carriages.... Then I remembered the expedition to the
village fete, and little by little an uneasiness came over me; I began
anxiously looking for my pony in the yard; but there was no pony there,
so they must have forgotten me. I could not restrain myself, and rushed
headlong downstairs, thinking no more of unpleasant meetings or my
recent ignominy....

Terrible news awaited me. There was neither a horse nor seat in any of
the carriages to spare for me; everything had been arranged, all the
seats were taken, and I was forced to give place to others. Overwhelmed
by this fresh blow, I stood on the steps and looked mournfully at the
long rows of coaches, carriages, and chaises, in which there was not the
tiniest corner left for me, and at the smartly dressed ladies, whose
horses were restlessly curvetting.

One of the gentlemen was late. They were only waiting for his arrival to
set off. His horse was standing at the door, champing the bit, pawing
the earth with his hoofs, and at every moment starting and rearing. Two
stable-boys were carefully holding him by the bridle, and every one else
apprehensively stood at a respectful distance from him.

A most vexatious circumstance had occurred, which prevented my going. In
addition to the fact that new visitors had arrived, filling up all the
seats, two of the horses had fallen ill, one of them being my pony. But
I was not the only person to suffer: it appeared that there was no horse
for our new visitor, the pale-faced young man of whom I have spoken
already. To get over this difficulty our host had been obliged to have
recourse to the extreme step of offering his fiery unbroken stallion,
adding, to satisfy his conscience, that it was impossible to ride him,
and that they had long intended to sell the beast for its vicious
character, if only a purchaser could be found.

But, in spite of his warning, the visitor declared that he was a good
horseman, and in any case ready to mount anything rather than not go.
Our host said no more, but now I fancied that a sly and ambiguous smile
was straying on his lips. He waited for the gentleman who had spoken so
well of his own horsemanship, and stood, without mounting his horse,
impatiently rubbing his hands and continually glancing towards the door;
some similar feeling seemed shared by the two stable-boys, who were
holding the stallion, almost breathless with pride at seeing themselves
before the whole company in charge of a horse which might any minute
kill a man for no reason whatever. Something akin to their master's sly
smile gleamed, too, in their eyes, which were round with expectation,
and fixed upon the door from which the bold visitor was to appear. The
horse himself, too, behaved as though he were in league with our host
and the stable-boys. He bore himself proudly and haughtily, as though he
felt that he were being watched by several dozen curious eyes and were
glorying in his evil reputation exactly as some incorrigible rogue might
glory in his criminal exploits. He seemed to be defying the bold man who
would venture to curb his independence.

That bold man did at last make his appearance. Conscience-stricken at
having kept every one waiting, hurriedly drawing on his gloves, he came
forward without looking at anything, ran down the steps, and only raised
his eyes as he stretched out his hand to seize the mane of the waiting
horse. But he was at once disconcerted by his frantic rearing and a
warning scream from the frightened spectators. The young man stepped
back and looked in perplexity at the vicious horse, which was quivering
all over, snorting with anger, and rolling his bloodshot eyes
ferociously, continually rearing on his hind legs and flinging up his
fore legs as though he meant to bolt into the air and carry the two
stable-boys with him. For a minute the young man stood completely
nonplussed; then, flushing slightly with some embarrassment, he raised
his eyes and looked at the frightened ladies.

"A very fine horse!" he said, as though to himself, "and to my thinking
it ought to be a great pleasure to ride him; but ... but do you know, I
think I won't go?" he concluded, turning to our host with the broad,
good-natured smile which so suited his kind and clever face.

"Yet I consider you are an excellent horseman, I assure you," answered
the owner of the unapproachable horse, delighted, and he warmly and even
gratefully pressed the young man's hand, "just because from the first
moment you saw the sort of brute you had to deal with," he added with
dignity. "Would you believe me, though I have served twenty-three years
in the hussars, yet I've had the pleasure of being laid on the ground
three times, thanks to that beast, that is, as often as I mounted the
useless animal. Tancred, my boy, there's no one here fit for you! Your
rider, it seems, must be some Ilya Muromets, and he must be sitting
quiet now in the village of Kapatcharovo, waiting for your teeth to fall
out. Come, take him away, he has frightened people enough. It was a
waste of time to bring him out," he cried, rubbing his hands
complacently.

It must be observed that Tancred was no sort of use to his master and
simply ate corn for nothing; moreover, the old hussar had lost his
reputation for a knowledge of horseflesh by paying a fabulous sum for
the worthless beast, which he had purchased only for his beauty ... yet
he was delighted now that Tancred had kept up his reputation, had
disposed of another rider, and so had drawn closer on himself fresh
senseless laurels.

"So you are not going?" cried the blonde beauty, who was particularly
anxious that her _cavaliere servente_ should be in attendance on this
occasion. "Surely you are not frightened?"

"Upon my word I am," answered the young man.

"Are you in earnest?"

"Why, do you want me to break my neck?"

"Then make haste and get on my horse; don't be afraid, it is very quiet.
We won't delay them, they can change the saddles in a minute! I'll try
to take yours. Surely Tancred can't always be so unruly."

No sooner said than done, the madcap leaped out of the saddle and was
standing before us as she finished the last sentence.

"You don't know Tancred, if you think he will allow your wretched
side-saddle to be put on him! Besides, I would not let you break your
neck, it would be a pity!" said our host, at that moment of inward
gratification affecting, as his habit was, a studied brusqueness and
even coarseness of speech which he thought in keeping with a jolly good
fellow and an old soldier, and which he imagined to be particularly
attractive to the ladies. This was one of his favourite fancies, his
favourite whim, with which we were all familiar.

"Well, cry-baby, wouldn't you like to have a try? You wanted so much to
go?" said the valiant horsewoman, noticing me and pointing tauntingly at
Tancred, because I had been so imprudent as to catch her eye, and she
would not let me go without a biting word, that she might not have
dismounted from her horse absolutely for nothing.

"I expect you are not such a---- We all know you are a hero and would be
ashamed to be afraid; especially when you will be looked at, you fine
page," she added, with a fleeting glance at Mme. M., whose carriage was
the nearest to the entrance.

A rush of hatred and vengeance had flooded my heart, when the fair
Amazon had approached us with the intention of mounting Tancred.... But
I cannot describe what I felt at this unexpected challenge from the
madcap. Everything was dark before my eyes when I saw her glance at Mme.
M. For an instant an idea flashed through my mind ... but it was only a
moment, less than a moment, like a flash of gunpowder; perhaps it was
the last straw, and I suddenly now was moved to rage as my spirit rose,
so that I longed to put all my enemies to utter confusion, and to
revenge myself on all of them and before everyone, by showing the sort
of person I was. Or whether by some miracle, some prompting from
mediaeval history, of which I had known nothing till then, sent whirling
through my giddy brain, images of tournaments, paladins, heroes, lovely
ladies, the clash of swords, shouts and the applause of the crowd, and
amidst those shouts the timid cry of a frightened heart, which moves the
proud soul more sweetly than victory and fame--I don't know whether all
this romantic nonsense was in my head at the time, or whether, more
likely, only the first dawning of the inevitable nonsense that was in
store for me in the future, anyway, I felt that my hour had come. My
heart leaped and shuddered, and I don't remember how, at one bound, I
was down the steps and beside Tancred.

"You think I am afraid?" I cried, boldly and proudly, in such a fever
that I could hardly see, breathless with excitement, and flushing till
the tears scalded my cheeks. "Well, you shall see!" And clutching at
Tancred's mane I put my foot in the stirrup before they had time to make
a movement to stop me; but at that instant Tancred reared, jerked his
head, and with a mighty bound forward wrenched himself out of the hands
of the petrified stable-boys, and dashed off like a hurricane, while
every one cried out in horror.

Goodness knows how I got my other leg over the horse while it was in
full gallop; I can't imagine, either, how I did not lose hold of the
reins. Tancred bore me beyond the trellis gate, turned sharply to the
right and flew along beside the fence regardless of the road. Only at
that moment I heard behind me a shout from fifty voices, and that shout
was echoed in my swooning heart with such a feeling of pride and
pleasure that I shall never forget that mad moment of my boyhood. All
the blood rushed to my head, bewildering me and overpowering my fears. I
was beside myself. There certainly was, as I remember it now, something
of the knight-errant about the exploit.

My knightly exploits, however, were all over in an instant or it would
have gone badly with the knight. And, indeed, I do not know how I
escaped as it was. I did know how to ride, I had been taught. But my
pony was more like a sheep than a riding horse. No doubt I should have
been thrown off Tancred if he had had time to throw me, but after
galloping fifty paces he suddenly took fright at a huge stone which lay
across the road and bolted back. He turned sharply, galloping at full
speed, so that it is a puzzle to me even now that I was not sent
spinning out of the saddle and flying like a ball for twenty feet, that
I was not dashed to pieces, and that Tancred did not dislocate his leg
by such a sudden turn. He rushed back to the gate, tossing his head
furiously, bounding from side to side as though drunk with rage,
flinging his legs at random in the air, and at every leap trying to
shake me off his back as though a tiger had leaped on him and were
thrusting its teeth and claws into his back.

In another instant I should have flown off; I was falling; but several
gentlemen flew to my rescue. Two of them intercepted the way into the
open country, two others galloped up, closing in upon Tancred so that
their horses' sides almost crushed my legs, and both of them caught him
by the bridle. A few seconds later we were back at the steps.

They lifted me down from the horse, pale and scarcely breathing. I was
shaking like a blade of grass in the wind; it was the same with Tancred,
who was standing, his hoofs as it were thrust into the earth and his
whole body thrown back, puffing his fiery breath from red and streaming
nostrils, twitching and quivering all over, seeming overwhelmed with
wounded pride and anger at a child's being so bold with impunity. All
around me I heard cries of bewilderment, surprise, and alarm.

At that moment my straying eyes caught those of Mme. M., who looked pale
and agitated, and--I can never forget that moment--in one instant my
face was flooded with colour, glowed and burned like fire; I don't know
what happened to me, but confused and frightened by my own feelings I
timidly dropped my eyes to the ground. But my glance was noticed, it was
caught, it was stolen from me. All eyes turned on Mme. M., and finding
herself unawares the centre of attention, she, too, flushed like a child
from some naive and involuntary feeling and made an unsuccessful effort
to cover her confusion by laughing....

All this, of course, was very absurd-looking from outside, but at that
moment an extremely naive and unexpected circumstance saved me from
being laughed at by every one, and gave a special colour to the whole
adventure. The lovely persecutor who was the instigator of the whole
escapade, and who till then had been my irreconcileable foe, suddenly
rushed up to embrace and kiss me. She had hardly been able to believe
her eyes when she saw me dare to accept her challenge, and pick up the
gauntlet she had flung at me by glancing at Mme. M. She had almost died
of terror and self-reproach when I had flown off on Tancred; now, when
it was all over, and particularly when she caught the glance at Mme. M.,
my confusion and my sudden flush of colour, when the romantic strain in
her frivolous little head had given a new secret, unspoken significance
to the moment--she was moved to such enthusiasm over my "knightliness,"
that touched, joyful and proud of me, she rushed up and pressed me to
her bosom. She lifted the most naive, stern-looking little face, on
which there quivered and gleamed two little crystal tears, and gazing at
the crowd that thronged about her said in a grave, earnest voice, such
as they had never heard her use before, pointing to me: "Mais c'est tres
serieux, messieurs, ne riez pas!" She did not notice that all were
standing, as though fascinated, admiring her bright enthusiasm. Her
swift, unexpected action, her earnest little face, the simple-hearted
naivete, the unexpected feeling betrayed by the tears that welled in her
invariably laughter-loving eyes, were such a surprise that every one
stood before her as though electrified by her expression, her rapid,
fiery words and gestures. It seemed as though no one could take his eyes
off her for fear of missing that rare moment in her enthusiastic face.
Even our host flushed crimson as a tulip, and people declared that they
heard him confess afterwards that "to his shame" he had been in love for
a whole minute with his charming guest. Well, of course, after this I
was a knight, a hero.

"De Lorge! Toggenburg!" was heard in the crowd.

There was a sound of applause.

"Hurrah for the rising generation!" added the host.

"But he is coming with us, he certainly must come with us," said the
beauty; "we will find him a place, we must find him a place. He shall
sit beside me, on my knee ... but no, no! That's a mistake!..." she
corrected herself, laughing, unable to restrain her mirth at our first
encounter. But as she laughed she stroked my hand tenderly, doing all
she could to soften me, that I might not be offended.

"Of course, of course," several voices chimed in; "he must go, he has
won his place."

The matter was settled in a trice. The same old maid who had brought
about my acquaintance with the blonde beauty was at once besieged with
entreaties from all the younger people to remain at home and let me have
her seat. She was forced to consent, to her intense vexation, with a
smile and a stealthy hiss of anger. Her protectress, who was her usual
refuge, my former foe and new friend, called to her as she galloped off
on her spirited horse, laughing like a child, that she envied her and
would have been glad to stay at home herself, for it was just going to
rain and we should all get soaked.

And she was right in predicting rain. A regular downpour came on within
an hour and the expedition was done for. We had to take shelter for some
hours in the huts of the village, and had to return home between nine
and ten in the evening in the damp mist that followed the rain. I began
to be a little feverish. At the minute when I was starting, Mme. M. came
up to me and expressed surprise that my neck was uncovered and that I
had nothing on over my jacket. I answered that I had not had time to get
my coat. She took out a pin and pinned up the turned down collar of my
shirt, took off her own neck a crimson gauze kerchief, and put it round
my neck that I might not get a sore throat. She did this so hurriedly
that I had not time even to thank her.

But when we got home I found her in the little drawing-room with the
blonde beauty and the pale-faced young man who had gained glory for
horsemanship that day by refusing to ride Tancred. I went up to thank
her and give back the scarf. But now, after all my adventures, I felt
somehow ashamed. I wanted to make haste and get upstairs, there at my
leisure to reflect and consider. I was brimming over with impressions.
As I gave back the kerchief I blushed up to my ears, as usual.

"I bet he would like to keep the kerchief," said the young man laughing.
"One can see that he is sorry to part with your scarf."

"That's it, that's it!" the fair lady put in. "What a boy! Oh!" she
said, shaking her head with obvious vexation, but she stopped in time at
a grave glance from Mme. M., who did not want to carry the jest too far.

I made haste to get away.

"Well, you are a boy," said the madcap, overtaking me in the next room
and affectionately taking me by both hands, "why, you should have simply
not returned the kerchief if you wanted so much to have it. You should
have said you put it down somewhere, and that would have been the end of
it. What a simpleton! Couldn't even do that! What a funny boy!"

And she tapped me on the chin with her finger, laughing at my having
flushed as red as a poppy.

"I am your friend now, you know; am I not? Our enmity is over, isn't it?
Yes or no?"

I laughed and pressed her fingers without a word.

"Oh, why are you so ... why are you so pale and shivering? Have you
caught a chill?"

"Yes, I don't feel well."

"Ah, poor fellow! That's the result of over-excitement. Do you know
what? You had better go to bed without sitting up for supper, and you
will be all right in the morning. Come along."

She took me upstairs, and there was no end to the care she lavished on
me. Leaving me to undress she ran downstairs, got me some tea, and
brought it up herself when I was in bed. She brought me up a warm quilt
as well. I was much impressed and touched by all the care and attention
lavished on me; or perhaps I was affected by the whole day, the
expedition and feverishness. As I said good-night to her I hugged her
warmly, as though she were my dearest and nearest friend, and in my
exhausted state all the emotions of the day came back to me in a rush; I
almost shed tears as I nestled to her bosom. She noticed my overwrought
condition, and I believe my madcap herself was a little touched.

"You are a very good boy," she said, looking at me with gentle eyes,
"please don't be angry with me. You won't, will you?"

In fact, we became the warmest and truest of friends.

It was rather early when I woke up, but the sun was already flooding the
whole room with brilliant light. I jumped out of bed feeling perfectly
well and strong, as though I had had no fever the day before; indeed, I
felt now unutterably joyful. I recalled the previous day and felt that I
would have given any happiness if I could at that minute have embraced
my new friend, the fair-haired beauty, again, as I had the night before;
but it was very early and every one was still asleep. Hurriedly dressing
I went out into the garden and from there into the copse. I made my way
where the leaves were thickest, where the fragrance of the trees was
more resinous, and where the sun peeped in most gaily, rejoicing that it
could penetrate the dense darkness of the foliage. It was a lovely
morning.

Going on further and further, before I was aware of it I had reached the
further end of the copse and came out on the river Moskva. It flowed at
the bottom of the hill two hundred paces below. On the opposite bank of
the river they were mowing. I watched whole rows of sharp scythes gleam
all together in the sunlight at every swing of the mower and then vanish
again like little fiery snakes going into hiding; I watched the cut
grass flying on one side in dense rich swathes and being laid in long
straight lines. I don't know how long I spent in contemplation. At last
I was roused from my reverie by hearing a horse snorting and impatiently
pawing the ground twenty paces from me, in the track which ran from the
high road to the manor house. I don't know whether I heard this horse as
soon as the rider rode up and stopped there, or whether the sound had
long been in my ears without rousing me from my dreaming. Moved by
curiosity I went into the copse, and before I had gone many steps I
caught the sound of voices speaking rapidly, though in subdued tones. I
went up closer, carefully parting the branches of the bushes that edged
the path, and at once sprang back in amazement. I caught a glimpse of a
familiar white dress and a soft feminine voice resounded like music in
my heart. It was Mme. M. She was standing beside a man on horseback who,
stooping down from the saddle, was hurriedly talking to her, and to my
amazement I recognized him as N., the young man who had gone away the
morning before and over whose departure M. M. had been so busy. But
people had said at the time that he was going far away to somewhere in
the South of Russia, and so I was very much surprised at seeing him with
us again so early, and alone with Mme. M.

She was moved and agitated as I had never seen her before, and tears
were glistening on her cheeks. The young man was holding her hand and
stooping down to kiss it. I had come upon them at the moment of parting.
They seemed to be in haste. At last he took out of his pocket a sealed
envelope, gave it to Mme. M., put one arm round her, still not
dismounting, and gave her a long, fervent kiss. A minute later he lashed
his horse and flew past me like an arrow. Mme. M. looked after him for
some moments, then pensively and disconsolately turned homewards. But
after going a few steps along the track she seemed suddenly to recollect
herself, hurriedly parted the bushes and walked on through the copse.

I followed her, surprised and perplexed by all that I had seen. My heart
was beating violently, as though from terror. I was, as it were,
benumbed and befogged; my ideas were shattered and turned upside down;
but I remember I was, for some reason, very sad. I got glimpses from
time to time through the green foliage of her white dress before me: I
followed her mechanically, never losing sight of her, though I trembled
at the thought that she might notice me. At last she came out on the
little path that led to the house. After waiting half a minute I, too,
emerged from the bushes; but what was my amazement when I saw lying on
the red sand of the path a sealed packet, which I recognized, from the
first glance, as the one that had been given to Mme. M. ten minutes
before.

I picked it up. On both sides the paper was blank, there was no address
on it. The envelope was not large, but it was fat and heavy, as though
there were three or more sheets of notepaper in it.

What was the meaning of this envelope? No doubt it would explain the
whole mystery. Perhaps in it there was said all that N. had scarcely
hoped to express in their brief, hurried interview. He had not even
dismounted.... Whether he had been in haste or whether he had been
afraid of being false to himself at the hour of parting--God only
knows....

I stopped, without coming out on the path, threw the envelope in the
most conspicuous place on it, and kept my eyes upon it, supposing that
Mme. M. would notice the loss and come back and look for it. But after
waiting four minutes I could stand it no longer, I picked up my find
again, put it in my pocket, and set off to overtake Mme. M. I came upon
her in the big avenue in the garden. She was walking straight towards
the house with a swift and hurried step, though she was lost in thought,
and her eyes were on the ground. I did not know what to do. Go up to
her, give it her? That would be as good as saying that I knew
everything, that I had seen it all. I should betray myself at the first
word. And how should I look, at her? How would she look at me. I kept
expecting that she would discover her loss and return on her tracks.
Then I could, unnoticed, have flung the envelope on the path and she
would have found it. But no! We were approaching the house; she had
already been noticed....

As ill-luck would have it every one had got up very early that day,
because, after the unsuccessful expedition of the evening before, they
had arranged something new, of which I had heard nothing. All were
preparing to set off, and were having breakfast in the verandah. I
waited for ten minutes, that I might not be seen with Mme. M., and
making a circuit of the garden approached the house from the other side
a long time after her. She was walking up and down the verandah with her
arms folded, looking pale and agitated, and was obviously trying her
utmost to suppress the agonizing, despairing misery which could be
plainly discerned in her eyes, her walk, her every movement. Sometimes
she went down the verandah steps and walked a few paces among the
flower-beds in the direction of the garden; her eyes were impatiently,
greedily, even incautiously, seeking something on the sand of the path
and on the floor of the verandah. There could be no doubt she had
discovered her loss and imagined she had dropped the letter somewhere
here, near the house--yes, that must be so, she was convinced of it.

Some one noticed that she was pale and agitated, and others made the
same remark. She was besieged with questions about her health and
condolences. She had to laugh, to jest, to appear lively. From time to
time she looked at her husband, who was standing at the end of the
terrace talking to two ladies, and the poor woman was overcome by the
same shudder, the same embarrassment, as on the day of his first
arrival. Thrusting my hand into my pocket and holding the letter tight
in it, I stood at a little distance from them all, praying to fate that
Mme. M. should notice me. I longed to cheer her up, to relieve her
anxiety if only by a glance; to say a word to her on the sly. But when
she did chance to look at me I dropped my eyes.

I saw her distress and I was not mistaken. To this day I don't know her
secret. I know nothing but what I saw and what I have just described.
The intrigue was not such, perhaps, as one might suppose at the first
glance. Perhaps that kiss was the kiss of farewell, perhaps it was the
last slight reward for the sacrifice made to her peace and honour. N.
was going away, he was leaving her, perhaps for ever. Even that letter I
was holding in my hand--who can tell what it contained! How can one
judge? and who can condemn? And yet there is no doubt that the sudden
discovery of her secret would have been terrible--would have been a
fatal blow for her. I still remember her face at that minute, it could
not have shown more suffering. To feel, to know, to be convinced, to
expect, as though it were one's execution, that in a quarter of an hour,
in a minute perhaps, all might be discovered, the letter might be found
by some one, picked up; there was no address on it, it might be opened,
and then.... What then? What torture could be worse than what was
awaiting her? She moved about among those who would be her judges. In
another minute their smiling flattering faces would be menacing and
merciless. She would read mockery, malice and icy contempt on those
faces, and then her life would be plunged in everlasting darkness, with
no dawn to follow.... Yes, I did not understand it then as I understand
it now. I could only have vague suspicions and misgivings, and a
heart-ache at the thought of her danger, which I could not fully
understand. But whatever lay hidden in her secret, much was expiated, if
expiation were needed, by those moments of anguish of which I was
witness and which I shall never forget.

But then came a cheerful summons to set off; immediately every one was
bustling about gaily; laughter and lively chatter were heard on all
sides. Within two minutes the verandah was deserted. Mme. M. declined to
join the party, acknowledging at last that she was not well. But, thank
God, all the others set off, every one was in haste, and there was no
time to worry her with commiseration, inquiries, and advice. A few
remained at home. Her husband said a few words to her; she answered that
she would be all right directly, that he need not be uneasy, that there
was no occasion for her to lie down, that she would go into the garden,
alone ... with me ... here she glanced at me. Nothing could be more
fortunate! I flushed with pleasure, with delight; a minute later we were
on the way.

She walked along the same avenues and paths by which she had returned
from the copse, instinctively remembering the way she had come, gazing
before her with her eyes fixed on the ground, looking about intently
without answering me, possibly forgetting that I was walking beside her.

But when we had already reached the place where I had picked up the
letter, and the path ended, Mme. M. suddenly stopped, and in a voice
faint and weak with misery said that she felt worse, and that she would
go home. But when she reached the garden fence she stopped again and
thought a minute; a smile of despair came on her lips, and utterly worn
out and exhausted, resigned, and making up her mind to the worst, she
turned without a word and retraced her steps, even forgetting to tell me
of her intention.

My heart was torn with sympathy, and I did not know what to do.

We went, or rather I led her, to the place from which an hour before I
had heard the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, close to a
shady elm tree, was a seat hewn out of one huge stone, about which grew
ivy, wild jasmine, and dog-rose; the whole wood was dotted with little
bridges, arbours, grottoes, and similar surprises. Mme. M. sat down on
the bench and glanced unconsciously at the marvellous view that lay open
before us. A minute later she opened her book, and fixed her eyes upon
it without reading, without turning the pages, almost unconscious of
what she was doing. It was about half-past nine. The sun was already
high and was floating gloriously in the deep, dark blue sky, as though
melting away in its own light. The mowers were by now far away; they
were scarcely visible from our side of the river; endless ridges of mown
grass crept after them in unbroken succession, and from time to time the
faintly stirring breeze wafted their fragrance to us. The never ceasing
concert of those who "sow not, neither do they reap" and are free as the
air they cleave with their sportive wings was all about us. It seemed as
though at that moment every flower, every blade of grass was exhaling
the aroma of sacrifice, was saying to its Creator, "Father, I am blessed
and happy."

I glanced at the poor woman, who alone was like one dead amidst all this
joyous life; two big tears hung motionless on her lashes, wrung from her
heart by bitter grief. It was in my power to relieve and console this
poor, fainting heart, only I did not know how to approach the subject,
how to take the first step. I was in agonies. A hundred times I was on
the point of going up to her, but every time my face glowed like fire.

Suddenly a bright idea dawned upon me. I had found a way of doing it; I
revived.

"Would you like me to pick you a nosegay?" I said, in such a joyful
voice that Mme M. immediately raised her head and looked at me intently.

"Yes, do," she said at last in a weak voice, with a faint smile, at once
dropping her eyes on the book again.

"Or soon they will be mowing the grass here and there will be no
flowers," I cried, eagerly setting to work.

I had soon picked my nosegay, a poor, simple one, I should have been
ashamed to take it indoors; but how light my heart was as I picked the
flowers and tied them up! The dog-rose and the wild jasmine I picked
closer to the seat, I knew that not far off there was a field of rye,
not yet ripe. I ran there for cornflowers; I mixed them with tall ears
of rye, picking out the finest and most golden. Close by I came upon a
perfect nest of forget-me-nots, and my nosegay was almost complete.
Farther away in the meadow there were dark-blue campanulas and wild
pinks, and I ran down to the very edge of the river to get yellow
water-lilies. At last, making my way back, and going for an instant into
the wood to get some bright green fan-shaped leaves of the maple to put
round the nosegay, I happened to come across a whole family of <DW29>s,
close to which, luckily for me, the fragrant scent of violets betrayed
the little flower hiding in the thick lush grass and still glistening
with drops of dew. The nosegay was complete. I bound it round with fine
long grass which twisted into a rope, and I carefully lay the letter in
the centre, hiding it with the flowers, but in such a way that it could
be very easily noticed if the slightest attention were bestowed upon my
nosegay.

I carried it to Mme. M.

On the way it seemed to me that the letter was lying too much in view: I
hid it a little more. As I got nearer I thrust it still further in the
flowers; and finally, when I was on the spot, I suddenly poked it so
deeply into the centre of the nosegay that it could not be noticed at
all from outside. My cheeks were positively flaming. I wanted to hide my
face in my hands and run away at once, but she glanced at my flowers as
though she had completely forgotten that I had gathered them.
Mechanically, almost without looking, she held out her hand and took my
present; but at once laid it on the seat as though I had handed it to
her for that purpose and dropped her eyes to her book again, seeming
lost in thought. I was ready to cry at this mischance. "If only my
nosegay were close to her," I thought; "if only she had not forgotten
it!" I lay down on the grass not far off, put my right arm under my
head, and closed my eyes as though I were overcome by drowsiness. But I
waited, keeping my eyes fixed on her.

Ten minutes passed, it seemed to me that she was getting paler and paler
... fortunately a blessed chance came to my aid.

This was a big, golden bee, brought by a kindly breeze, luckily for me.
It first buzzed over my head, and then flew up to Mme. M. She waved it
off once or twice, but the bee grew more and more persistent. At last
Mme. M. snatched up my nosegay and waved it before my face. At that
instant the letter dropped out from among the flowers and fell straight
upon the open book. I started. For some time Mme. M., mute with
amazement, stared first at the letter and then at the flowers which she
was holding in her hands, and she seemed unable to believe her eyes. All
at once she flushed, started, and glanced at me. But I caught her
movement and I shut my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. Nothing
would have induced me to look her straight in the face at that moment.
My heart was throbbing and leaping like a bird in the grasp of some
village boy. I don't remember how long I lay with my eyes shut, two or
three minutes. At last I ventured to open them. Mme. M. was greedily
reading the letter, and from her glowing cheeks, her sparkling, tearful
eyes, her bright face, every feature of which was quivering with joyful
emotion, I guessed that there was happiness in the letter and all her
misery was dispersed like smoke. An agonizing, sweet feeling gnawed at
my heart, it was hard for me to go on pretending....

I shall never forget that minute!

Suddenly, a long way off, we heard voices--

"Mme. M.! Natalie! Natalie!"

Mme. M. did not answer, but she got up quickly from the seat, came up to
me and bent over me. I felt that she was looking straight into my face.
My eyelashes quivered, but I controlled myself and did not open my eyes.
I tried to breathe more evenly and quietly, but my heart smothered me
with its violent throbbing. Her burning breath scorched my cheeks; she
bent close down to my face as though trying to make sure. At last a kiss
and tears fell on my hand, the one which was lying on my breast.

"Natalie! Natalie! where are you," we heard again, this time quite
close.

"Coming," said Mme. M., in her mellow, silvery voice, which was so
choked and quivering with tears and so subdued that no one but I could
hear that, "Coming!"

But at that instant my heart at last betrayed me and seemed to send all
my blood rushing to my face. At that instant a swift, burning kiss
scalded my lips. I uttered a faint cry. I opened my eyes, but at once
the same gauze kerchief fell upon them, as though she meant to screen me
from the sun. An instant later she was gone. I heard nothing but the
sound of rapidly retreating steps. I was alone....

I pulled off her kerchief and kissed it, beside myself with rapture; for
some moments I was almost frantic.... Hardly able to breathe, leaning on
my elbow on the grass, I stared unconsciously before me at the
surrounding <DW72>s, streaked with cornfields, at the river that flowed
twisting and winding far away, as far as the eye could see, between
fresh hills and villages that gleamed like dots all over the sunlit
distance--at the dark-blue, hardly visible forests, which seemed as
though smoking at the edge of the burning sky, and a sweet stillness
inspired by the triumphant peacefulness of the picture gradually brought
calm to my troubled heart. I felt more at ease and breathed more freely,
but my whole soul was full of a dumb, sweet yearning, as though a veil
had been drawn from my eyes as though at a foretaste of something. My
frightened heart, faintly quivering with expectation, was groping
timidly and joyfully towards some conjecture ... and all at once my
bosom heaved, began aching as though something had pierced it, and
tears, sweet tears, gushed from my eyes. I hid my face in my hands, and
quivering like a blade of grass, gave myself up to the first
consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first vague glimpse of my
nature. My childhood was over from that moment.

       *     *     *     *     *

When two hours later I returned home I did not find Mme. M. Through some
sudden chance she had gone back to Moscow with her husband. I never saw
her again.




MR. PROHARTCHIN

A STORY


In the darkest and humblest corner of Ustinya Fyodorovna's flat lived
Semyon Ivanovitch Prohartchin, a well-meaning elderly man, who did not
drink. Since Mr. Prohartchin was of a very humble grade in the service,
and received a salary strictly proportionate to his official capacity,
Ustinya Fyodorovna could not get more than five roubles a month from him
for his lodging. Some people said that she had her own reasons for
accepting him as a lodger; but, be that as it may, as though in despite
of all his detractors, Mr. Prohartchin actually became her favourite, in
an honourable and virtuous sense, of course. It must be observed that
Ustinya Fyodorovna, a very respectable woman, who had a special
partiality for meat and coffee, and found it difficult to keep the
fasts, let rooms to several other boarders who paid twice as much as
Semyon Ivanovitch, yet not being quiet lodgers, but on the contrary all
of them "spiteful scoffers" at her feminine ways and her forlorn
helplessness, stood very low in her good opinion, so that if it had not
been for the rent they paid, she would not have cared to let them stay,
nor indeed to see them in her flat at all. Semyon Ivanovitch had become
her favourite from the day when a retired, or, perhaps more correctly
speaking, discharged clerk, with a weakness for strong drink, was
carried to his last resting-place in Volkovo. Though this gentleman had
only one eye, having had the other knocked out owing, in his own words,
to his valiant behaviour; and only one leg, the other having been broken
in the same way owing to his valour; yet he had succeeded in winning all
the kindly feeling of which Ustinya Fyodorovna was capable, and took the
fullest advantage of it, and would probably have gone on for years
living as her devoted satellite and toady if he had not finally drunk
himself to death in the most pitiable way. All this had happened at
Peski, where Ustinya Fyodorovna only had three lodgers, of whom, when
she moved into a new flat and set up on a larger scale, letting to about
a dozen new boarders, Mr. Prohartchin was the only one who remained.

Whether Mr. Prohartchin had certain incorrigible defects, or whether his
companions were, every one of them, to blame, there seemed to be
misunderstandings on both sides from the first. We must observe here
that all Ustinya Fyodorovna's new lodgers without exception got on
together like brothers; some of them were in the same office; each one
of them by turns lost all his money to the others at faro, preference
and _bixe_; they all liked in a merry hour to enjoy what they called the
fizzing moments of life in a crowd together; they were fond, too, at
times of discussing lofty subjects, and though in the end things rarely
passed off without a dispute, yet as all prejudices were banished from
the whole party the general harmony was not in the least disturbed
thereby. The most remarkable among the lodgers were Mark Ivanovitch, an
intelligent and well-read man; then Oplevaniev; then Prepolovenko, also
a nice and modest person; then there was a certain Zinovy Prokofyevitch,
whose object in life was to get into aristocratic society; then there
was Okeanov, the copying clerk, who had in his time almost wrested the
distinction of prime favourite from Semyon Ivanovitch; then another
copying clerk called Sudbin; the plebeian Kantarev; there were others
too. But to all these people Semyon Ivanovitch was, as it were, not one
of themselves. No one wished him harm, of course, for all had from the
very first done Prohartchin justice, and had decided in Mark
Ivanovitch's words that he, Prohartchin, was a good and harmless fellow,
though by no means a man of the world, trustworthy, and not a flatterer,
who had, of course, his failings; but that if he were sometimes unhappy
it was due to nothing else but lack of imagination. What is more, Mr.
Prohartchin, though deprived in this way of imagination, could never
have made a particularly favourable impression from his figure or
manners (upon which scoffers are fond of fastening), yet his figure did
not put people against him. Mark Ivanovitch, who was an intelligent
person, formally undertook Semyon Ivanovitch's defence, and declared in
rather happy and flowery language that Prohartchin was an elderly and
respectable man, who had long, long ago passed the age of romance. And
so, if Semyon Ivanovitch did not know how to get on with people, it must
have been entirely his own fault.

The first thing they noticed was the unmistakable parsimony and
niggardliness of Semyon Ivanovitch. That was at once observed and noted,
for Semyon Ivanovitch would never lend any one his teapot, even for a
moment; and that was the more unjust as he himself hardly ever drank
tea, but when he wanted anything drank, as a rule, rather a pleasant
decoction of wild flowers and certain medicinal herbs, of which he
always had a considerable store. His meals, too, were quite different
from the other lodgers'. He never, for instance, permitted himself to
partake of the whole dinner, provided daily by Ustinya Fyodorovna for
the other boarders. The dinner cost half a rouble; Semyon Ivanovitch
paid only twenty-five kopecks in copper, and never exceeded it, and so
took either a plate of soup with pie, or a plate of beef; most
frequently he ate neither soup nor beef, but he partook in moderation of
white bread with onion, curd, salted cucumber, or something similar,
which was a great deal cheaper, and he would only go back to his half
rouble dinner when he could stand it no longer....

Here the biographer confesses that nothing would have induced him to
allude to such realistic and low details, positively shocking and
offensive to some lovers of the heroic style, if it were not that these
details exhibit one peculiarity, one characteristic, in the hero of this
story; for Mr. Prohartchin was by no means so poor as to be unable to
have regular and sufficient meals, though he sometimes made out that he
was. But he acted as he did regardless of obloquy and people's
prejudices, simply to satisfy his strange whims, and from frugality and
excessive carefulness: all this, however, will be much clearer later on.
But we will beware of boring the reader with the description of all
Semyon Ivanovitch's whims, and will omit, for instance, the curious and
very amusing description of his attire; and, in fact, if it were not for
Ustinya Fyodorovna's own reference to it we should hardly have alluded
even to the fact that Semyon Ivanovitch never could make up his mind to
send his linen to the wash, or if he ever did so it was so rarely that
in the intervals one might have completely forgotten the existence of
linen on Semyon Ivanovitch. From the landlady's evidence it appeared
that "Semyon Ivanovitch, bless his soul, poor lamb, for twenty years had
been tucked away in his corner, without caring what folks thought, for
all the days of his life on earth he was a stranger to socks,
handkerchiefs, and all such things," and what is more, Ustinya
Fyodorovna had seen with her own eyes, thanks to the decrepitude of the
screen, that the poor dear man sometimes had had nothing to cover his
bare skin.

Such were the rumours in circulation after Semyon Ivanovitch's death.
But in his lifetime (and this was one of the most frequent occasions of
dissension) he could not endure it if any one, even somebody on friendly
terms with him, poked his inquisitive nose uninvited into his corner,
even through an aperture in the decrepit screen. He was a taciturn man
difficult to deal with and prone to ill health. He did not like people
to give him advice, he did not care for people who put themselves
forward either, and if any one jeered at him or gave him advice unasked,
he would fall foul of him at once, put him to shame, and settle his
business. "You are a puppy, you are a featherhead, you are not one to
give advice, so there--you mind your own business, sir. You'd better
count the stitches in your own socks, sir, so there!"

Semyon Ivanovitch was a plain man, and never used the formal mode of
address to any one. He could not bear it either when some one who knew
his little ways would begin from pure sport pestering him with
questions, such as what he had in his little trunk.... Semyon Ivanovitch
had one little trunk. It stood under his bed, and was guarded like the
apple of his eye; and though every one knew that there was nothing in it
except old rags, two or three pairs of damaged boots and all sorts of
rubbish, yet Mr. Prohartchin prized his property very highly, and they
used even to hear him at one time express dissatisfaction with his old,
but still sound, lock, and talk of getting a new one of a special German
pattern with a secret spring and various complications. When on one
occasion Zinovy Prokofyevitch, carried away by the thoughtlessness of
youth, gave expression to the very coarse and unseemly idea, that Semyon
Ivanovitch was probably hiding and treasuring something in his box to
leave to his descendants, every one who happened to be by was stupefied
at the extraordinary effects of Zinovy Prokofyevitch's sally. At first
Mr. Prohartchin could not find suitable terms for such a crude and
coarse idea. For a long time words dropped from his lips quite
incoherently, and it was only after a while they made out that Semyon
Ivanovitch was reproaching Zinovy Prokofyevitch for some shabby action
in the remote past; then they realized that Semyon Ivanovitch was
predicting that Zinovy Prokofyevitch would never get into aristocratic
society, and that the tailor to whom he owed a bill for his suits would
beat him--would certainly beat him--because the puppy had not paid him
for so long; and finally, "You puppy, you," Semyon Ivanovitch added,
"here you want to get into the hussars, but you won't, I tell you,
you'll make a fool of yourself. And I tell you what, you puppy, when
your superiors know all about it they will take and make you a copying
clerk; so that will be the end of it! Do you hear, puppy?" Then Semyon
Ivanovitch subsided, but after lying down for five hours, to the intense
astonishment of every one he seemed to have reached a decision, and
began suddenly reproaching and abusing the young man again, at first to
himself and afterwards addressing Zinovy Prokofyevitch. But the matter
did not end there, and in the evening, when Mark Ivanovitch and
Prepolovenko made tea and asked Okeanov to drink it with them, Semyon
Ivanovitch got up from his bed, purposely joined them, subscribing his
fifteen or twenty kopecks, and on the pretext of a sudden desire for a
cup of tea began at great length going into the subject, and explaining
that he was a poor man, nothing but a poor man, and that a poor man like
him had nothing to save. Mr. Prohartchin confessed that he was a poor
man on this occasion, he said, simply because the subject had come up;
that the day before yesterday he had meant to borrow a rouble from that
impudent fellow, but now he should not borrow it for fear the puppy
should brag, that that was the fact of the matter, and that his salary
was such that one could not buy enough to eat, and that finally, a poor
man, as you see, he sent his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles every
month, that if he did not send his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles
every month his sister-in-law would die, and if his sister-in-law, who
was dependent on him, were dead, he, Semyon Ivanovitch, would long ago
have bought himself a new suit.... And Semyon Ivanovitch went on talking
in this way at great length about being a poor man, about his
sister-in-law and about roubles, and kept repeating the same thing over
and over again to impress it on his audience till he got into a regular
muddle and relapsed into silence. Only three days later, when they had
all forgotten about him, and no one was thinking of attacking him, he
added something in conclusion to the effect that when Zinovy
Prokofyevitch went into the hussars the impudent fellow would have his
leg cut off in the war, and then he would come with a wooden leg and
say; "Semyon Ivanovitch, kind friend, give me something to eat!" and
then Semyon Ivanovitch would not give him something to eat, and would
not look at the insolent fellow; and that's how it would be, and he
could just make the best of it.

All this naturally seemed very curious and at the same time fearfully
amusing. Without much reflection, all the lodgers joined together for
further investigation, and simply from curiosity determined to make a
final onslaught on Semyon Ivanovitch _en masse_. And as Mr. Prohartchin,
too, had of late--that is, ever since he had begun living in the same
flat with them--been very fond of finding out everything about them and
asking inquisitive questions, probably for private reasons of his own,
relations sprang up between the opposed parties without any preparation
or effort on either side, as it were by chance and of itself. To get
into relations Semyon Ivanovitch always had in reserve his peculiar,
rather sly, and very ingenuous manoeuvre, of which the reader has
learned something already. He would get off his bed about tea-time, and
if he saw the others gathered together in a group to make tea he would
go up to them like a quiet, sensible, and friendly person, hand over his
twenty kopecks, as he was entitled to do, and announce that he wished to
join them. Then the young men would wink at one another, and so
indicating that they were in league together against Semyon Ivanovitch,
would begin a conversation, at first strictly proper and decorous. Then
one of the wittier of the party would, _a propos_ of nothing, fall to
telling them news consisting most usually of entirely false and quite
incredible details. He would say, for instance, that some one had heard
His Excellency that day telling Demid Vassilyevitch that in his opinion
married clerks were more trustworthy than unmarried, and more suitable
for promotion; for they were steady, and that their capacities were
considerably improved by marriage, and that therefore he--that is, the
speaker--in order to improve and be better fitted for promotion, was
doing his utmost to enter the bonds of matrimony as soon as possible
with a certain Fevronya Prokofyevna. Or he would say that it had more
than once been remarked about certain of his colleagues that they were
entirely devoid of social graces and of well-bred, agreeable manners,
and consequently unable to please ladies in good society, and that,
therefore, to eradicate this defect it would be suitable to deduct
something from their salary, and with the sum so obtained, to hire a
hall, where they could learn to dance, acquire the outward signs of
gentlemanliness and good-breeding, courtesy, respect for their seniors,
strength of will, a good and grateful heart and various agreeable
qualities. Or he would say that it was being arranged that some of the
clerks, beginning with the most elderly, were to be put through an
examination in all sorts of subjects to raise their standard of culture,
and in that way, the speaker would add, all sorts of things would come
to light, and certain gentlemen would have to lay their cards on the
table--in short, thousands of similar very absurd rumours were
discussed. To keep it up, every one believed the story at once, showed
interest in it, asked questions, applied it to themselves; and some of
them, assuming a despondent air, began shaking their heads and asking
every one's advice, saying what were they to do if they were to come
under it? It need hardly be said that a man far less credulous and
simple-hearted than Mr. Prohartchin would have been puzzled and carried
away by a rumour so unanimously believed. Moreover, from all
appearances, it might be safely concluded that Semyon Ivanovitch was
exceedingly stupid and slow to grasp any new unusual idea, and that when
he heard anything new, he had always first, as it were, to chew it over
and digest it, to find out the meaning, and struggling with it in
bewilderment, at last perhaps to overcome it, though even then in a
quite special manner peculiar to himself alone....

In this way curious and hitherto unexpected qualities began to show
themselves in Semyon Ivanovitch.... Talk and tittle-tattle followed, and
by devious ways it all reached the office at last, with additions. What
increased the sensation was the fact that Mr. Prohartchin, who had
looked almost exactly the same from time immemorial, suddenly, _a
propos_ of nothing, wore quite a different countenance. His face was
uneasy, his eyes were timid and had a scared and rather suspicious
expression. He took to walking softly, starting and listening, and to
put the finishing touch to his new characteristics developed a passion
for investigating the truth. He carried his love of truth at last to
such a pitch as to venture, on two occasions, to inquire of Demid
Vassilyevitch himself concerning the credibility of the strange rumours
that reached him daily by dozens, and if we say nothing here of the
consequence of the action of Semyon Ivanovitch, it is for no other
reason but a sensitive regard for his reputation. It was in this way
people came to consider him as misanthropic and regardless of the
proprieties. Then they began to discover that there was a great deal
that was fantastical about him, and in this they were not altogether
mistaken, for it was observed on more than one occasion that Semyon
Ivanovitch completely forgot himself, and sitting in his seat with his
mouth open and his pen in the air, as though frozen or petrified, looked
more like the shadow of a rational being than that rational being
itself. It sometimes happened that some innocently gaping gentleman, on
suddenly catching his straying, lustreless, questioning eyes, was scared
and all of a tremor, and at once inserted into some important document
either a smudge or some quite inappropriate word. The impropriety of
Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour embarrassed and annoyed all really
well-bred people.... At last no one could feel any doubt of the
eccentricity of Semyon Ivanovitch's mind, when one fine morning the
rumour was all over the office that Mr. Prohartchin had actually
frightened Demid Vassilyevitch himself, for, meeting him in the
corridor, Semyon Ivanovitch had been so strange and peculiar that he had
forced his superior to beat a retreat.... The news of Semyon
Ivanovitch's behaviour reached him himself at last. Hearing of it he got
up at once, made his way carefully between the chairs and tables,
reached the entry, took down his overcoat with his own hand, put it on,
went out, and disappeared for an indefinite period. Whether he was led
into this by alarm or some other impulse we cannot say, but no trace was
seen of him for a time either at home or at the office....

We will not attribute Semyon Ivanovitch's fate simply to his
eccentricity, yet we must observe to the reader that our hero was a very
retiring man, unaccustomed to society, and had, until he made the
acquaintance of the new lodgers, lived in complete unbroken solitude,
and had been marked by his quietness and even a certain mysteriousness;
for he had spent all the time that he lodged at Peski lying on his bed
behind the screen, without talking or having any sort of relations with
any one. Both his old fellow-lodgers lived exactly as he did: they, too
were, somehow mysterious people and spent fifteen years lying behind
their screens. The happy, drowsy hours and days trailed by, one after
the other, in patriarchal stagnation, and as everything around them went
its way in the same happy fashion, neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor Ustinya
Fyodorovna could remember exactly when fate had brought them together.

"It may be ten years, it may be twenty, it may be even twenty-five
altogether," she would say at times to her new lodgers, "since he
settled with me, poor dear man, bless his heart!" And so it was very
natural that the hero of our story, being so unaccustomed to society was
disagreeably surprised when, a year before, he, a respectable and modest
man, had found himself, suddenly in the midst of a noisy and boisterous
crew, consisting of a dozen young fellows, his colleagues at the office,
and his new house-mates.

The disappearance of Semyon Ivanovitch made no little stir in the
lodgings. One thing was that he was the favourite; another, that his
passport, which had been in the landlady's keeping, appeared to have
been accidentally mislaid. Ustinya Fyodorovna raised a howl, as was her
invariable habit on all critical occasions. She spent two days in
abusing and upbraiding the lodgers. She wailed that they had chased away
her lodger like a chicken, and all those spiteful scoffers had been the
ruin of him; and on the third day she sent them all out to hunt for the
fugitive and at all costs to bring him back, dead or alive. Towards
evening Sudbin first came back with the news that traces had been
discovered, that he had himself seen the runaway in Tolkutchy Market and
other places, had followed and stood close to him, but had not dared to
speak to him; he had been near him in a crowd watching a house on fire
in Crooked Lane. Half an hour later Okeanov and Kantarev came in and
confirmed Sudbin's story, word for word; they, too, had stood near, had
followed him quite close, had stood not more than ten paces from him,
but they also had not ventured to speak to him, but both observed that
Semyon Ivanovitch was walking with a drunken cadger. The other lodgers
were all back and together at last, and after listening attentively they
made up their minds that Prohartchin could not be far off and would not
be long in returning; but they said that they had all known beforehand
that he was about with a drunken cadger. This drunken cadger was a
thoroughly bad lot, insolent and cringing, and it seemed evident that he
had got round Semyon Ivanovitch in some way. He had turned up just a
week before Semyon Ivanovitch's disappearance in company with Remnev,
had spent a little time in the flat telling them that he had suffered in
the cause of justice, that he had formerly been in the service in the
provinces, that an inspector had come down on them, that he and his
associates had somehow suffered in a good cause, that he had come to
Petersburg and fallen at the feet of Porfiry Grigoryevitch, that he had
been got, by interest, into a department; but through the cruel
persecution of fate he had been discharged from there too, and that
afterwards through reorganization the office itself had ceased to exist,
and that he had not been included in the new revised staff of clerks
owing as much to direct incapacity for official work as to capacity for
something else quite irrelevant--all this mixed up with his passion for
justice and of course the trickery of his enemies. After finishing his
story, in the course of which Mr. Zimoveykin more than once kissed his
sullen and unshaven friend Remnev, he bowed down to all in the room in
turn, not forgetting Avdotya the servant, called them all his
benefactors, and explained that he was an undeserving, troublesome,
mean, insolent and stupid man, and that good people must not be hard on
his pitiful plight and simplicity. After begging for their kind
protection Mr. Zimoveykin showed his livelier side, grew very cheerful,
kissed Ustinya Fyodorovna's hands, in spite of her modest protests that
her hand was coarse and not like a lady's; and towards evening promised
to show the company his talent in a remarkable character dance. But next
day his visit ended in a lamentable _denouement_. Either because there
had been too much character in the character-dance, or because he had,
in Ustinya Fyodorovna's own words, somehow "insulted her and treated her
as no lady, though she was on friendly terms with Yaroslav Ilyitch
himself, and if she liked might long ago have been an officer's wife,"
Zimoveykin had to steer for home next day. He went away, came back
again, was again turned out with ignominy, then wormed his way into
Semyon Ivanovitch's good graces, robbed him incidentally of his new
breeches, and now it appeared he had led Semyon Ivanovitch astray.

As soon as the landlady knew that Semyon Ivanovitch was alive and well,
and that there was no need to hunt for his passport, she promptly left
off grieving and was pacified. Meanwhile some of the lodgers determined
to give the runaway a triumphal reception; they broke the bolt and moved
away the screen from Mr. Prohartchin's bed, rumpled up the bed a little,
took the famous box, put it at the foot of the bed; and on the bed laid
the sister-in-law, that is, a dummy made up of an old kerchief, a cap
and a mantle of the landlady's, such an exact counterfeit of a
sister-in-law that it might have been mistaken for one. Having finished
their work they waited for Semyon Ivanovitch to return, meaning to tell
him that his sister-in-law had arrived from the country and was there
behind his screen, poor thing! But they waited and waited.

Already, while they waited, Mark Ivanovitch had staked and lost half a
month's salary to Prepolovenko and Kantarev; already Okeanov's nose had
grown red and swollen playing "flips on the nose" and "three cards;"
already Avdotya the servant had almost had her sleep out and had twice
been on the point of getting up to fetch the wood and light the stove,
and Zinovy Prokofyevitch, who kept running out every minute to see
whether Semyon Ivanovitch were coming, was wet to the skin; but there
was no sign of any one yet--neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor the drunken
cadger. At last every one went to bed, leaving the sister-in-law behind
the screen in readiness for any emergency; and it was not till four
o'clock that a knock was heard at the gate, but when it did come it was
so loud that it quite made up to the expectant lodgers for all the
wearisome trouble they had been through. It was he--he himself--Semyon
Ivanovitch, Mr. Prohartchin, but in such a condition that they all cried
out in dismay, and no one thought about the sister-in-law. The lost man
was unconscious. He was brought in, or more correctly carried in, by a
sopping and tattered night-cabman. To the landlady's question where the
poor dear man had got so groggy, the cabman answered: "Why, he is not
drunk and has not had a drop, that I can tell you, for sure; but
seemingly a faintness has come over him, or some sort of a fit, or maybe
he's been knocked down by a blow."

They began examining him, propping the culprit against the stove to do
so more conveniently, and saw that it really was not a case of
drunkenness, nor had he had a blow, but that something else was wrong,
for Semyon Ivanovitch could not utter a word, but seemed twitching in a
sort of convulsion, and only blinked, fixing his eyes in bewilderment
first on one and then on another of the spectators, who were all attired
in night array. Then they began questioning the cabman, asking where he
had got him from. "Why, from folks out Kolomna way," he answered. "Deuce
knows what they are, not exactly gentry, but merry, rollicking
gentlemen; so he was like this when they gave him to me; whether they
had been fighting, or whether he was in some sort of a fit, goodness
knows what it was; but they were nice, jolly gentlemen!"

Semyon Ivanovitch was taken, lifted high on the shoulders of two or
three sturdy fellows, and carried to his bed. When Semyon Ivanovitch on
being put in bed felt the sister-in-law, and put his feet on his sacred
box, he cried out at the top of his voice, squatted up almost on his
heels, and trembling and shaking all over, with his hands and his body
he cleared a space as far as he could in his bed, while gazing with a
tremulous but strangely resolute look at those present, he seemed as it
were to protest that he would sooner die than give up the hundredth part
of his poor belongings to any one....

Semyon Ivanovitch lay for two or three days closely barricaded by the
screen, and so cut off from all the world and all its vain anxieties.
Next morning, of course, every one had forgotten about him; time,
meanwhile, flew by as usual, hour followed hour and day followed day.
The sick man's heavy, feverish brain was plunged in something between
sleep and delirium; but he lay quietly and did not moan or complain; on
the contrary he kept still and silent and controlled himself, lying low
in his bed, just as the hare lies close to the earth when it hears the
hunter. At times a long depressing stillness prevailed in the flat, a
sign that the lodgers had all gone to the office, and Semyon Ivanovitch,
waking up, could relieve his depression by listening to the bustle in
the kitchen, where the landlady was busy close by; or to the regular
flop of Avdotya's down-trodden slippers as, sighing and moaning, she
cleared away, rubbed and polished, tidying all the rooms in the flat.
Whole hours passed by in that way, drowsy, languid, sleepy, wearisome,
like the water that dripped with a regular sound from the locker into
the basin in the kitchen. At last the lodgers would arrive, one by one
or in groups, and Semyon Ivanovitch could very conveniently hear them
abusing the weather, saying they were hungry, making a noise, smoking,
quarrelling, and making friends, playing cards, and clattering the cups
as they got ready for tea. Semyon Ivanovitch mechanically made an effort
to get up and join them, as he had a right to do at tea; but he at once
sank back into drowsiness, and dreamed that he had been sitting a long
time at the tea-table, having tea with them and talking, and that Zinovy
Prokofyevitch had already seized the opportunity to introduce into the
conversation some scheme concerning sisters-in-law and the moral
relation of various worthy people to them. At this point Semyon
Ivanovitch was in haste to defend himself and reply. But the mighty
formula that flew from every tongue--"It has more than once been
observed"--cut short all his objections, and Semyon Ivanovitch could do
nothing better than begin dreaming again that to-day was the first of
the month and that he was receiving money in his office.

Undoing the paper round it on the stairs, he looked about him quickly,
and made haste as fast as he could to subtract half of the lawful wages
he had received and conceal it in his boot. Then on the spot, on the
stairs, quite regardless of the fact that he was in bed and asleep, he
made up his mind when he reached home to give his landlady what was due
for board and lodging; then to buy certain necessities, and to show any
one it might concern, as it were casually and unintentionally, that some
of his salary had been deducted, that now he had nothing left to send
his sister-in-law; then to speak with commiseration of his
sister-in-law, to say a great deal about her the next day and the day
after, and ten days later to say something casually again about her
poverty, that his companions might not forget. Making this determination
he observed that Andrey Efimovitch, that everlastingly silent, bald
little man who sat in the office three rooms from where Semyon
Ivanovitch sat, and hadn't said a word to him for twenty years, was
standing on the stairs, that he, too, was counting his silver roubles,
and shaking his head, he said to him: "Money!" "If there's no money
there will be no porridge," he added grimly as he went down the stairs,
and just at the door he ended: "And I have seven children, sir." Then
the little bald man, probably equally unconscious that he was acting as
a phantom and not as a substantial reality, held up his hand about
thirty inches from the floor, and waving it vertically, muttered that
the eldest was going to school, then glancing with indignation at Semyon
Ivanovitch, as though it were Mr. Prohartchin's fault that he was the
father of seven, pulled his old hat down over his eyes, and with a whisk
of his overcoat he turned to the left and disappeared. Semyon Ivanovitch
was quite frightened, and though he was fully convinced of his own
innocence in regard to the unpleasant accumulation of seven under one
roof, yet it seemed to appear that in fact no one else was to blame but
Semyon Ivanovitch. Panic-stricken he set off running, for it seemed to
him that the bald gentleman had turned back, was running after him, and
meant to search him and take away all his salary, insisting upon the
indisputable number seven, and resolutely denying any possible claim of
any sort of sisters-in-law upon Semyon Ivanovitch. Prohartchin ran and
ran, gasping for breath.... Beside him was running, too, an immense
number of people, and all of them were jingling their money in the
tailpockets of their skimpy little dress-coats; at last every one ran
up, there was the noise of fire engines, and whole masses of people
carried him almost on their shoulders up to that same house on fire
which he had watched last time in company with the drunken cadger. The
drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--was there now, too, he met Semyon
Ivanovitch, made a fearful fuss, took him by the arm, and led him into
the thickest part of the crowd. Just as then in reality, all about them
was the noise and uproar of an immense crowd of people, flooding the
whole of Fontanka Embankment between the two bridges, as well as all the
surrounding streets and alleys; just as then, Semyon Ivanovitch, in
company with the drunken cadger, was carried along behind a fence, where
they were squeezed as though in pincers in a huge timber-yard full of
spectators who had gathered from the street, from Tolkutchy Market and
from all the surrounding houses, taverns, and restaurants. Semyon
Ivanovitch saw all this and felt as he had done at the time; in the
whirl of fever and delirium all sorts of strange figures began flitting
before him. He remembered some of them. One of them was a gentleman who
had impressed every one extremely, a man seven feet high, with whiskers
half a yard long, who had been standing behind Semyon Ivanovitch's back
during the fire, and had given him encouragement from behind, when our
hero had felt something like ecstasy and had stamped as though intending
thereby to applaud the gallant work of the firemen, from which he had an
excellent view from his elevated position. Another was the sturdy lad
from whom our hero had received a shove by way of a lift on to another
fence, when he had been disposed to climb over it, possibly to save some
one. He had a glimpse, too, of the figure of the old man with a sickly
face, in an old wadded dressing-gown, tied round the waist, who had made
his appearance before the fire in a little shop buying sugar and tobacco
for his lodger, and who now, with a milk-can and a quart pot in his
hands, made his way through the crowd to the house in which his wife and
daughter were burning together with thirteen and a half roubles in the
corner under the bed. But most distinct of all was the poor, sinful
woman of whom he had dreamed more than once during his illness--she
stood before him now as she had done then, in wretched bark shoes and
rags, with a crutch and a wicker-basket on her back. She was shouting
more loudly than the firemen or the crowd, waving her crutch and her
arms, saying that her own children had turned her out and that she had
lost two coppers in consequence. The children and the coppers, the
coppers and the children, were mingled together in an utterly
incomprehensible muddle, from which every one withdrew baffled, after
vain efforts to understand. But the woman would not desist, she kept
wailing, shouting, and waving her arms, seeming to pay no attention
either to the fire up to which she had been carried by the crowd from
the street or to the people about her, or to the misfortune of
strangers, or even to the sparks and red-hot embers which were beginning
to fall in showers on the crowd standing near. At last Mr. Prohartchin
felt that a feeling of terror was coming upon him; for he saw clearly
that all this was not, so to say, an accident, and that he would not get
off scot-free. And, indeed, upon the woodstack, close to him, was a
peasant, in a torn smock that hung loose about him, with his hair and
beard singed, and he began stirring up all the people against Semyon
Ivanovitch. The crowd pressed closer and closer, the peasant shouted,
and foaming at the mouth with horror, Mr. Prohartchin suddenly realized
that this peasant was a cabman whom he had cheated five years before in
the most inhuman way, slipping away from him without paying through a
side gate and jerking up his heels as he ran as though he were barefoot
on hot bricks. In despair Mr. Prohartchin tried to speak, to scream, but
his voice failed him. He felt that the infuriated crowd was twining
round him like a many- snake, strangling him, crushing him. He
made an incredible effort and awoke. Then he saw that he was on fire,
that all his corner was on fire, that his screen was on fire, that the
whole flat was on fire, together with Ustinya Fyodorovna and all her
lodgers, that his bed was burning, his pillow, his quilt, his box, and
last of all, his precious mattress. Semyon Ivanovitch jumped up,
clutched at the mattress and ran dragging it after him. But in the
landlady's room into which, regardless of decorum, our hero ran just as
he was, barefoot and in his shirt, he was seized, held tight, and
triumphantly carried back behind the screen, which meanwhile was not on
fire--it seemed that it was rather Semyon Ivanovitch's head that was on
fire--and was put back to bed. It was just as some tattered, unshaven,
ill-humoured organ-grinder puts away in his travelling box the Punch who
has been making an upset, drubbing all the other puppets, selling his
soul to the devil, and who at last ends his existence, till the next
performance, in the same box with the devil, the <DW64>s, the Pierrot,
and Mademoiselle Katerina with her fortunate lover, the captain.

Immediately every one, old and young, surrounded Semyon Ivanovitch,
standing in a row round his bed and fastening eyes full of expectation
on the invalid. Meantime he had come to himself, but from shame or some
other feeling, began pulling up the quilt over him, apparently wishing
to hide himself under it from the attention of his sympathetic friends.
At last Mark Ivanovitch was the first to break silence, and as a
sensible man he began saying in a very friendly way that Semyon
Ivanovitch must keep calm, that it was too bad and a shame to be ill,
that only little children behaved like that, that he must get well and
go to the office. Mark Ivanovitch ended by a little joke, saying that no
regular salary had yet been fixed for invalids, and as he knew for a
fact that their grade would be very low in the service, to his thinking
anyway, their calling or condition did not promise great and substantial
advantages. In fact, it was evident that they were all taking genuine
interest in Semyon Ivanovitch's fate and were very sympathetic. But with
incomprehensible rudeness, Semyon Ivanovitch persisted in lying in bed
in silence, and obstinately pulling the quilt higher and higher over his
head. Mark Ivanovitch, however, would not be gainsaid, and restraining
his feelings, said something very honeyed to Semyon Ivanovitch again,
knowing that that was how he ought to treat a sick man. But Semyon
Ivanovitch would not feel this: on the contrary he muttered something
between his teeth with the most distrustful air, and suddenly began
glancing askance from right to left in a hostile way, as though he would
have reduced his sympathetic friends to ashes with his eyes. It was no
use letting it stop there. Mark Ivanovitch lost patience, and seeing
that the man was offended and completely exasperated, and had simply
made up his mind to be obstinate, told him straight out, without any
softening suavity, that it was time to get up, that it was no use lying
there, that shouting day and night about houses on fire, sisters-in-law,
drunken cadgers, locks, boxes and goodness knows what, was all stupid,
improper, and degrading, for if Semyon Ivanovitch did not want to sleep
himself he should not hinder other people, and please would he bear it
in mind.

This speech produced its effects, for Semyon Ivanovitch, turning
promptly to the orator, articulated firmly, though in a hoarse voice,
"You hold your tongue, puppy! You idle speaker, you foul-mouthed man! Do
you hear, young dandy? Are you a prince, eh? Do you understand what I
say?"

Hearing such insults, Mark Ivanovitch fired up, but realizing that he
had to deal with a sick man, magnanimously overcame his resentment and
tried to shame him out of his humour, but was cut short in that too; for
Semyon Ivanovitch observed at once that he would not allow people to
play with him for all that Mark Ivanovitch wrote poetry. Then followed a
silence of two minutes; at last recovering from his amazement Mark
Ivanovitch, plainly, clearly, in well-chosen language, but with
firmness, declared that Semyon Ivanovitch ought to understand that he
was among gentlemen, and "you ought to understand, sir, how to behave
with gentlemen."

Mark Ivanovitch could on occasion speak effectively and liked to impress
his hearers, but, probably from the habit of years of silence, Semyon
Ivanovitch talked and acted somewhat abruptly; and, moreover, when he
did on occasion begin a long sentence, as he got further into it every
word seemed to lead to another word, that other word to a third word,
that third to a fourth and so on, so that his mouth seemed brimming
over; he began stuttering, and the crowding words took to flying out in
picturesque disorder. That was why Semyon Ivanovitch, who was a sensible
man, sometimes talked terrible nonsense. "You are lying," he said now.
"You booby, you loose fellow! You'll come to want--you'll go begging,
you seditious fellow, you--you loafer. Take that, you poet!"

"Why, you are still raving, aren't you, Semyon Ivanovitch?"

"I tell you what," answered Semyon Ivanovitch, "fools rave, drunkards
rave, dogs rave, but a wise man acts sensibly. I tell you, you don't
know your own business, you loafer, you educated gentleman, you learned
book! Here, you'll get on fire and not notice your head's burning off.
What do you think of that?"

"Why ... you mean.... How do you mean, burn my head off, Semyon
Ivanovitch?"

Mark Ivanovitch said no more, for every one saw clearly that Semyon
Ivanovitch was not yet in his sober senses, but delirious.

But the landlady could not resist remarking at this point that the house
in Crooked Lane had been burnt owing to a bald wench; that there was a
bald-headed wench living there, that she had lighted a candle and set
fire to the lumber room; but nothing would happen in her place, and
everything would be all right in the flats.

"But look here, Semyon Ivanovitch," cried Zinovy Prokofyevitch, losing
patience and interrupting the landlady, "you old fogey, you old crock,
you silly fellow--are they making jokes with you now about your
sister-in-law or examinations in dancing? Is that it? Is that what you
think?"

"Now, I tell you what," answered our hero, sitting up in bed and making
a last effort in a paroxysm of fury with his sympathetic friends. "Who's
the fool? You are the fool, a dog is a fool, you joking gentleman. But I
am not going to make jokes to please you, sir; do you hear, puppy? I am
not your servant, sir."

Semyon Ivanovitch would have said something more, but he fell back in
bed helpless. His sympathetic friends were left gaping in perplexity,
for they understood now what was wrong with Semyon Ivanovitch and did
not know how to begin. Suddenly the kitchen door creaked and opened, and
the drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--timidly thrust in his head,
cautiously sniffing round the place as his habit was. It seemed as
though he had been expected, every one waved to him at once to come
quickly, and Zimoveykin, highly delighted, with the utmost readiness and
haste jostled his way to Semyon Ivanovitch's bedside.

It was evident that Zimoveykin had spent the whole night in vigil and in
great exertions of some sort. The right side of his face was plastered
up; his swollen eyelids were wet from his running eyes, his coat and all
his clothes were torn, while the whole left side of his attire was
bespattered with something extremely nasty, possibly mud from a puddle.
Under his arm was somebody's violin, which he had been taking somewhere
to sell. Apparently they had not made a mistake in summoning him to
their assistance, for seeing the position of affairs, he addressed the
delinquent at once, and with the air of a man who knows what he is about
and feels that he has the upper hand, said: "What are you thinking
about? Get up, Senka. What are you doing, a clever chap like you? Be
sensible, or I shall pull you out of bed if you are obstreperous. Don't
be obstreperous!"

This brief but forcible speech surprised them all; still more were they
surprised when they noticed that Semyon Ivanovitch, hearing all this and
seeing this person before him, was so flustered and reduced to such
confusion and dismay that he could scarcely mutter through his teeth in
a whisper the inevitable protest.

"Go away, you wretch," he said. "You are a wretched creature--you are a
thief! Do you hear? Do you understand? You are a great swell, my fine
gentleman, you regular swell."

"No, my boy," Zimoveykin answered emphatically, retaining all his
presence of mind, "you're wrong there, you wise fellow, you regular
Prohartchin," Zimoveykin went on, parodying Semyon Ivanovitch and
looking round gleefully. "Don't be obstreperous! Behave yourself, Senka,
behave yourself, or I'll give you away, I'll tell them all about it, my
lad, do you understand?"

Apparently Semyon Ivanovitch did understand, for he started when he
heard the conclusion of the speech, and began looking rapidly about him
with an utterly desperate air.

Satisfied with the effect, Mr. Zimoveykin would have continued, but Mark
Ivanovitch checked his zeal, and waiting till Semyon Ivanovitch was
still and almost calm again began judiciously impressing on the uneasy
invalid at great length that, "to harbour ideas such as he now had in
his head was, first, useless, and secondly, not only useless, but
harmful; and, in fact, not so much harmful as positively immoral; and
the cause of it all was that Semyon Ivanovitch was not only a bad
example, but led them all into temptation."

Every one expected satisfactory results from this speech. Moreover by
now Semyon Ivanovitch was quite quiet and replied in measured terms. A
quiet discussion followed. They appealed to him in a friendly way,
inquiring what he was so frightened of. Semyon Ivanovitch answered, but
his answers were irrelevant. They answered him, he answered them. There
were one or two more observations on both sides and then every one
rushed into discussion, for suddenly such a strange and amazing subject
cropped up, that they did not know how to express themselves. The
argument at last led to impatience, impatience led to shouting, and
shouting even to tears; and Mark Ivanovitch went away at last foaming at
the mouth and declaring that he had never known such a blockhead.
Oplevaniev spat in disgust, Okeanov was frightened, Zinovy Prokofyevitch
became tearful, while Ustinya Fyodorovna positively howled, wailing that
her lodger was leaving them and had gone off his head, that he would
die, poor dear man, without a passport and without telling any one,
while she was a lone, lorn woman and that she would be dragged from
pillar to post. In fact, they all saw clearly at last that the seed they
had sown had yielded a hundred-fold, that the soil had been too
productive, and that in their company, Semyon Ivanovitch had succeeded
in overstraining his wits completely and in the most irrevocable manner.
Every one subsided into silence, for though they saw that Semyon
Ivanovitch was frightened, the sympathetic friends were frightened too.

"What?" cried Mark Ivanovitch; "but what are you afraid of? What have
you gone off your head about? Who's thinking about you, my good sir?
Have you the right to be afraid? Who are you? What are you? Nothing,
sir. A round nought, sir, that is what you are. What are you making a
fuss about? A woman has been run over in the street, so are you going to
be run over? Some drunkard did not take care of his pocket, but is that
any reason why your coat-tails should be cut off? A house is burnt down,
so your head is to be burnt off, is it? Is that it, sir, is that it?"

"You ... you ... you stupid!" muttered Semyon Ivanovitch, "if your nose
were cut off you would eat it up with a bit of bread and not notice it."

"I may be a dandy," shouted Mark Ivanovitch, not listening; "I may be a
regular dandy, but I have not to pass an examination to get married--to
learn dancing; the ground is firm under me, sir. Why, my good man,
haven't you room enough? Is the floor giving way under your feet, or
what?"

"Well, they won't ask you, will they? They'll shut one up and that will
be the end of it?"

"The end of it? That's what's up? What's your idea now, eh?"

"Why, they kicked out the drunken cadger."

"Yes; but you see that was a drunkard, and you are a man, and so am I."

"Yes, I am a man. It's there all right one day and then it's gone."

"Gone! But what do you mean by it?"

"Why, the office! The off--off--ice!"

"Yes, you blessed man, but of course the office is wanted and
necessary."

"It is wanted, I tell you; it's wanted to-day and it's wanted to-morrow,
but the day after to-morrow it will not be wanted. You have heard what
happened?"

"Why, but they'll pay you your salary for the year, you doubting Thomas,
you man of little faith. They'll put you into another job on account of
your age."

"Salary? But what if I have spent my salary, if thieves come and take my
money? And I have a sister-in-law, do you hear? A sister-in-law! You
battering-ram...."

"A sister-in-law! You are a man...."

"Yes, I am; I am a man. But you are a well-read gentleman and a fool, do
you hear?--you battering-ram--you regular battering-ram! That's what you
are! I am not talking about your jokes; but there are jobs such that all
of a sudden they are done away with. And Demid--do you hear?--Demid
Vassilyevitch says that the post will be done away with...."

"Ah, bless you, with your Demid! You sinner, why, you know...."

"In a twinkling of an eye you'll be left without a post, then you'll
just have to make the best of it."

"Why, you are simply raving, or clean off your head! Tell us plainly,
what have you done? Own up if you have done something wrong! It's no use
being ashamed! Are you off your head, my good man, eh?"

"He's off his head! He's gone off his head!" they all cried, and wrung
their hands in despair, while the landlady threw both her arms round
Mark Ivanovitch for fear he should tear Semyon Ivanovitch to pieces.

"You heathen, you heathenish soul, you wise man!" Zimoveykin besought
him. "Senka, you are not a man to take offence, you are a polite,
prepossessing man. You are simple, you are good ... do you hear? It all
comes from your goodness. Here I am a ruffian and a fool, I am a beggar;
but good people haven't abandoned me, no fear; you see they treat me
with respect, I thank them and the landlady. Here, you see, I bow down
to the ground to them; here, see, see, I am paying what is due to you,
landlady!" At this point Zimoveykin swung off with pedantic dignity a
low bow right down to the ground.

After that Semyon Ivanovitch would have gone on talking; but this time
they would not let him, they all intervened, began entreating him,
assuring him, comforting him, and succeeded in making Semyon Ivanovitch
thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last, in a faint voice, he asked
leave to explain himself.

"Very well, then," he said, "I am prepossessing, I am quiet, I am good,
faithful and devoted; to the last drop of my blood you know ... do you
hear, you puppy, you swell? ... granted the job is going on, but you see
I am poor. And what if they take it? do you hear, you swell? Hold your
tongue and try to understand! They'll take it and that's all about it
... it's going on, brother, and then not going on ... do you understand?
And I shall go begging my bread, do you hear?"

"Senka," Zimoveykin bawled frantically, drowning the general hubbub with
his voice. "You are seditious! I'll inform against you! What are you
saying? Who are you? Are you a rebel, you sheep's head? A rowdy, stupid
man they would turn off without a character. But what are you?"

"Well, that's just it."

"What?"

"Well, there it is."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, I am free, he's free, and here one lies and thinks...."

"What?"

"What if they say I'm seditious?"

"Se--di--tious? Senka, you seditious!"

"Stay," cried Mr. Prohartchin, waving his hand and interrupting the
rising uproar, "that's not what I mean. Try to understand, only try to
understand, you sheep. I am law-abiding. I am law-abiding to-day, I am
law-abiding to-morrow, and then all of a sudden they kick me out and
call me seditious."

"What are you saying?" Mark Ivanovitch thundered at last, jumping up
from the chair on which he had sat down to rest, running up to the bed
and in a frenzy shaking with vexation and fury. "What do you mean? You
sheep! You've nothing to call your own. Why, are you the only person in
the world? Was the world made for you, do you suppose? Are you a
Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Tell me,
are you a Napoleon?"

But Mr. Prohartchin did not answer this question. Not because he was
overcome with shame at being a Napoleon, and was afraid of taking upon
himself such a responsibility--no, he was incapable of disputing
further, or saying anything.... His illness had reached a crisis. Tiny
teardrops gushed suddenly from his glittering, feverish, grey eyes. He
hid his burning head in his bony hands that were wasted by illness, sat
up in bed, and sobbing, began to say that he was quite poor, that he was
a simple, unlucky man, that he was foolish and unlearned, he begged kind
folks to forgive him, to take care of him, to protect him, to give him
food and drink, not to leave him in want, and goodness knows what else
Semyon Ivanovitch said. As he uttered this appeal he looked about him in
wild terror, as though he were expecting the ceiling to fall or the
floor to give way. Every one felt his heart soften and move to pity as
he looked at the poor fellow. The landlady, sobbing and wailing like a
peasant woman at her forlorn condition, laid the invalid back in bed
with her own hands. Mark Ivanovitch, seeing the uselessness of touching
upon the memory of Napoleon, instantly relapsed into kindliness and came
to her assistance. The others, in order to do something, suggested
raspberry tea, saying that it always did good at once and that the
invalid would like it very much; but Zimoveykin contradicted them all,
saying there was nothing better than a good dose of camomile or
something of the sort. As for Zinovy Prokofyevitch, having a good heart,
he sobbed and shed tears in his remorse, for having frightened Semyon
Ivanovitch with all sorts of absurdities, and gathering from the
invalid's last words that he was quite poor and needing assistance, he
proceeded to get up a subscription for him, confining it for a time to
the tenants of the flat. Every one was sighing and moaning, every one
felt sorry and grieved, and yet all wondered how it was a man could be
so completely panic-stricken. And what was he frightened about? It would
have been all very well if he had had a good post, had had a wife, a lot
of children; it would have been excusable if he were being hauled up
before the court on some charge or other; but he was a man utterly
insignificant, with nothing but a trunk and a German lock; he had been
lying more than twenty years behind his screen, saying nothing, knowing
nothing of the world nor of trouble, saving his half-pence, and now at a
frivolous, idle word the man had actually gone off his head, was utterly
panic-stricken at the thought he might have a hard time of it.... And it
never occurred to him that every one has a hard time of it! "If he would
only take that into consideration," Okeanov said afterwards, "that we
all have a hard time, then the man would have kept his head, would have
given up his antics and would have put up with things, one way or
another."

All day long nothing was talked of but Semyon Ivanovitch. They went up
to him, inquired after him, tried to comfort him; but by the evening he
was beyond that. The poor fellow began to be delirious, feverish. He
sank into unconsciousness, so that they almost thought of sending for a
doctor; the lodgers all agreed together and undertook to watch over
Semyon Ivanovitch and soothe him by turns through the night, and if
anything happened to wake all the rest immediately. With the object of
keeping awake, they sat down to cards, setting beside the invalid his
friend, the drunken cadger, who had spent the whole day in the flat and
had asked leave to stay the night. As the game was played on credit and
was not at all interesting they soon got bored. They gave up the game,
then got into an argument about something, then began to be loud and
noisy, finally dispersed to their various corners, went on for a long
time angrily shouting and wrangling, and as all of them felt suddenly
ill-humoured they no longer cared to sit up, so went to sleep. Soon it
was as still in the flat as in an empty cellar, and it was the more like
one because it was horribly cold. The last to fall asleep was Okeanov.
"And it was between sleeping and waking," as he said afterwards, "I
fancied just before morning two men kept talking close by me." Okeanov
said that he recognized Zimoveykin, and that Zimoveykin began waking his
old friend Remnev just beside him, that they talked for a long time in a
whisper; then Zimoveykin went away and could be heard trying to unlock
the door into the kitchen. The key, the landlady declared afterwards,
was lying under her pillow and was lost that night. Finally--Okeanov
testified--he had fancied he had heard them go behind the screen to the
invalid and light a candle there, "and I know nothing more," he said, "I
fell asleep, and woke up," as everybody else did, when every one in the
flat jumped out of bed at the sound behind the screen of a shriek that
would have roused the dead, and it seemed to many of them that a candle
went out at that moment. A great hubbub arose, every one's heart stood
still; they rushed pell-mell at the shriek, but at that moment there was
a scuffle, with shouting, swearing, and fighting. They struck a light
and saw that Zimoveykin and Remnev were fighting together, that they
were swearing and abusing one another, and as they turned the light on
them, one of them shouted: "It's not me, it's this ruffian," and the
other who was Zimoveykin, was shouting: "Don't touch me, I've done
nothing! I'll take my oath any minute!" Both of them looked hardly like
human beings; but for the first minute they had no attention to spare
for them; the invalid was not where he had been behind the screen. They
immediately parted the combatants and dragged them away, and saw that
Mr. Prohartchin was lying under the bed; he must, while completely
unconscious, have dragged the quilt and pillow after him so that there
was nothing left on the bedstead but the bare mattress, old and greasy
(he never had sheets). They pulled Semyon Ivanovitch out, stretched him
on the mattress, but soon realized that there was no need to make
trouble over him, that he was completely done for; his arms were stiff,
and he seemed all to pieces. They stood over him, he still faintly
shuddered and trembled all over, made an effort to do something with his
arms, could not utter a word, but blinked his eyes as they say heads do
when still warm and bleeding, after being just chopped off by the
executioner.

At last the body grew more and more still; the last faint convulsions
died away. Mr. Prohartchin had set off with his good deeds and his sins.
Whether Semyon Ivanovitch had been frightened by something, whether he
had had a dream, as Remnev maintained afterwards, or there had been some
other mischief--nobody knew; all that can be said is, that if the head
clerk had made his appearance at that moment in the flat and had
announced that Semyon Ivanovitch was dismissed for sedition,
insubordination, and drunkenness; if some old draggle-tailed beggar
woman had come in at the door, calling herself Semyon Ivanovitch's
sister-in-law; or if Semyon Ivanovitch had just received two hundred
roubles as a reward; or if the house had caught fire and Semyon
Ivanovitch's head had been really burning--he would in all probability
not have deigned to stir a finger in any of these eventualities. While
the first stupefaction was passing over, while all present were
regaining their powers of speech, were working themselves up into a
fever of excitement, shouting and flying to conjectures and
suppositions; while Ustinya Fyodorovna was pulling the box from under
his bed, was rummaging in a fluster under the mattress and even in
Semyon Ivanovitch's boots; while they cross-questioned Remnev and
Zimoveykin, Okeanov, who had hitherto been the quietest, humblest, and
least original of the lodgers, suddenly plucked up all his presence of
mind and displayed all his latent talents, by taking up his hat and
under cover of the general uproar slipping out of the flat. And just
when the horrors of disorder and anarchy had reached their height in the
agitated flat, till then so tranquil, the door opened and suddenly there
descended upon them, like snow upon their heads, a personage of
gentlemanly appearance, with a severe and displeased-looking face,
behind him Yaroslav Ilyitch, behind Yaroslav Ilyitch his subordinates
and the functionaries whose duty it is to be present on such occasions,
and behind them all, much embarrassed, Mr. Okeanov. The severe-looking
personage of gentlemanly appearance went straight up to Semyon
Ivanovitch, examined him, made a wry face, shrugged his shoulders and
announced what everybody knew, that is, that the dead man was dead, only
adding that the same thing had happened a day or two ago to a gentleman
of consequence, highly respected, who had died suddenly in his sleep.
Then the personage of gentlemanly, but displeased-looking, appearance
walked away saying that they had troubled him for nothing, and took
himself off. His place was at once filled (while Remnev and Zimoveykin
were handed over to the custody of the proper functionaries), by
Yaroslav Ilyitch, who questioned some one, adroitly took possession of
the box, which the landlady was already trying to open, put the boots
back in their proper place, observing that they were all in holes and no
use, asked for the pillow to be put back, called up Okeanov, asked for
the key of the box which was found in the pocket of the drunken cadger,
and solemnly, in the presence of the proper officials, unlocked Semyon
Ivanovitch's property. Everything was displayed: two rags, a pair of
socks, half a handkerchief, an old hat, several buttons, some old soles,
and the uppers of a pair of boots, that is, all sorts of odds and ends,
scraps, rubbish, trash, which had a stale smell. The only thing of any
value was the German lock. They called up Okeanov and cross-questioned
him sternly; but Okeanov was ready to take his oath. They asked for the
pillow, they examined it; it was extremely dirty, but in other respects
it was like all other pillows. They attacked the mattress, they were
about to lift it up, but stopped for a moment's consideration, when
suddenly and quite unexpectedly something heavy fell with a clink on the
floor. They bent down and saw on the floor a screw of paper and in the
screw some dozen roubles. "A-hey!" said Yaroslav Ilyitch, pointing to a
slit in the mattress from which hair and stuffing were sticking out.
They examined the slit and found that it had only just been made with a
knife and was half a yard in length; they thrust hands into the gap and
pulled out a kitchen knife, probably hurriedly thrust in there after
slitting the mattress. Before Yaroslav Ilyitch had time to pull the
knife out of the slit and to say "A-hey!" again, another screw of money
fell out, and after it, one at a time, two half roubles, a quarter
rouble, then some small change, and an old-fashioned, solid five-kopeck
piece--all this was seized upon. At this point it was realized that it
would not be amiss to cut up the whole mattress with scissors. They
asked for scissors.

Meanwhile, the guttering candle lighted up a scene that would have been
extremely curious to a spectator. About a dozen lodgers were grouped
round the bed in the most picturesque costumes, all unbrushed, unshaven,
unwashed, sleepy-looking, just as they had gone to bed. Some were quite
pale, while others had drops of sweat upon their brows: some were
shuddering, while others looked feverish. The landlady, utterly
stupefied, was standing quietly with her hands folded waiting for
Yaroslav Ilyitch's good pleasure. From the stove above, the heads of
Avdotya, the servant, and the landlady's favourite cat looked down with
frightened curiosity. The torn and broken screen lay cast on the floor,
the open box displayed its uninviting contents, the quilt and pillow lay
tossed at random, covered with fluff from the mattress, and on the
three-legged wooden table gleamed the steadily growing heap of silver
and other coins. Only Semyon Ivanovitch preserved his composure, lying
calmly on the bed and seeming to have no foreboding of his ruin. When
the scissors had been brought and Yaroslav Ilyitch's assistant, wishing
to be of service, shook the mattress rather impatiently to ease it from
under the back of its owner, Semyon Ivanovitch with his habitual
civility made room a little, rolling on his side with his back to the
searchers; then at a second shake he turned on his face, finally gave
way still further, and as the last slat in the bedstead was missing, he
suddenly and quite unexpectedly plunged head downward, leaving in view
only two bony, thin, blue legs, which stuck upwards like two branches of
a charred tree. As this was the second time that morning that Mr.
Prohartchin had poked his head under his bed it at once aroused
suspicion, and some of the lodgers, headed by Zinovy Prokofyevitch,
crept under it, with the intention of seeing whether there were
something hidden there too. But they knocked their heads together for
nothing, and as Yaroslav Ilyitch shouted to them, bidding them release
Semyon Ivanovitch at once from his unpleasant position, two of the more
sensible seized each a leg, dragged the unsuspected capitalist into the
light of day and laid him across the bed. Meanwhile the hair and flock
were flying about, the heap of silver grew--and, my goodness, what a lot
there was!... Noble silver roubles, stout solid rouble and a half
pieces, pretty half rouble coins, plebeian quarter roubles, twenty
kopeck pieces, even the unpromising old crone's small fry of ten and
five kopeck silver pieces--all done up in separate bits of paper in the
most methodical and systematic way; there were curiosities also, two
counters of some sort, one napoleon d'or, one very rare coin of some
unknown kind.... Some of the roubles were of the greatest antiquity,
they were rubbed and hacked coins of Elizabeth, German kreutzers, coins
of Peter, of Catherine; there were, for instance, old fifteen-kopeck
pieces, now very rare, pierced for wearing as earrings, all much worn,
yet with the requisite number of dots ... there was even copper, but all
of that was green and tarnished.... They found one red note, but no
more. At last, when the dissection was quite over and the mattress case
had been shaken more than once without a clink, they piled all the money
on the table and set to work to count it. At the first glance one might
well have been deceived and have estimated it at a million, it was such
an immense heap. But it was not a million, though it did turn out to be
a very considerable sum--exactly 2497 roubles and a half--so that if
Zinovy Prokofyevitch's subscription had been raised the day before there
would perhaps have been just 2500 roubles. They took the money, they put
a seal on the dead man's box, they listened to the landlady's
complaints, and informed her when and where she ought to lodge
information in regard to the dead man's little debt to her. A receipt
was taken from the proper person. At that point hints were dropped in
regard to the sister-in-law; but being persuaded that in a certain sense
the sister-in-law was a myth, that is, a product of the defective
imagination with which they had more than once reproached Semyon
Ivanovitch--they abandoned the idea as useless, mischievous and
disadvantageous to the good name of Mr. Prohartchin, and so the matter
ended.

When the first shock was over, when the lodgers had recovered themselves
and realized the sort of person their late companion had been, they all
subsided, relapsed into silence and began looking distrustfully at one
another. Some seemed to take Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour very much to
heart, and even to feel affronted by it. What a fortune! So the man had
saved up like this! Not losing his composure, Mark Ivanovitch proceeded
to explain why Semyon Ivanovitch had been so suddenly panic-stricken;
but they did not listen to him. Zinovy Prokofyevitch was very
thoughtful, Okeanov had had a little to drink, the others seemed rather
crestfallen, while a little man called Kantarev, with a nose like a
sparrow's beak, left the flat that evening after very carefully packing
up and cording all his boxes and bags, and coldly explaining to the
curious that times were hard and that the terms here were beyond his
means. The landlady wailed without ceasing, lamenting for Semyon
Ivanovitch, and cursing him for having taken advantage of her lone, lorn
state. Mark Ivanovitch was asked why the dead man had not taken his
money to the bank. "He was too simple, my good soul, he hadn't enough
imagination," answered Mark Ivanovitch.

"Yes, and you have been too simple, too, my good woman," Okeanov put in.
"For twenty years the man kept himself close here in your flat, and here
he's been knocked down by a feather--while you went on cooking
cabbage-soup and had no time to notice it.... Ah-ah, my good woman!"

"Oh, the poor dear," the landlady went on, "what need of a bank! If he'd
brought me his pile and said to me: 'Take it, Ustinyushka, poor dear,
here is all I have, keep and board me in my helplessness, so long as I
am on earth,' then, by the holy ikon I would have fed him, I would have
given him drink, I would have looked after him. Ah, the sinner! ah, the
deceiver! He deceived me, he cheated me, a poor lone woman!"

They went up to the bed again. Semyon Ivanovitch was lying properly now,
dressed in his best, though, indeed, it was his only suit, hiding his
rigid chin behind a cravat which was tied rather awkwardly, washed,
brushed, but not quite shaven, because there was no razor in the flat;
the only one, which had belonged to Zinovy Prokofyevitch, had lost its
edge a year ago and had been very profitably sold at Tolkutchy Market;
the others used to go to the barber's.

They had not yet had time to clear up the disorder. The broken screen
lay as before, and exposing Semyon Ivanovitch's seclusion, seemed like
an emblem of the fact that death tears away the veil from all our
secrets, our shifty dodges and intrigues. The stuffing from the mattress
lay about in heaps. The whole room, suddenly so still, might well have
been compared by a poet to the ruined nest of a swallow, broken down and
torn to pieces by the storm, the nestlings and their mother killed, and
their warm little bed of fluff, feather and flock scattered about
them.... Semyon Ivanovitch, however, looked more like a conceited,
thievish old cock-sparrow. He kept quite quiet now, seemed to be lying
low, as though he were not guilty, as though he had had nothing to do
with the shameless, conscienceless, and unseemly duping and deception of
all these good people. He did not heed now the sobs and wailing of his
bereaved and wounded landlady. On the contrary, like a wary, callous
capitalist, anxious not to waste a minute in idleness even in the
coffin, he seemed to be wrapped up in some speculative calculation.
There was a look of deep reflection in his face, while his lips were
drawn together with a significant air, of which Semyon Ivanovitch during
his lifetime had not been suspected of being capable. He seemed, as it
were, to have grown shrewder, his right eye was, as it were, slyly
screwed up. Semyon Ivanovitch seemed wanting to say something, to make
some very important communication and explanation and without loss of
time, because things were complicated and there was not a minute to
lose.... And it seemed as though they could hear him.

"What is it? Give over, do you hear, you stupid woman? Don't whine! Go
to bed and sleep it off, my good woman, do you hear? I am dead; there's
no need of a fuss now. What's the use of it, really? It's nice to lie
here.... Though I don't mean that, do you hear? You are a fine lady, you
are a regular fine lady. Understand that; here I am dead now, but look
here, what if--that is, perhaps it can't be so--but I say what if I'm
not dead, what if I get up, do you hear? What would happen then?"




  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
  BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK




  NOVELS BY FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

  Translated from the Russian by
  CONSTANCE GARNETT.


  THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
  THE IDIOT
  THE POSSESSED
  CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
  THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
  THE INSULTED AND INJURED
  A RAW YOUTH
  THE ETERNAL HUSBAND, etc.
  THE GAMBLER, etc.
  WHITE NIGHTS, etc.
  AN HONEST THIEF, etc. (_shortly_)
  THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY (_in progress_)


  NOVELS BY IVAN TURGENEV

  Translated from the Russian by
  CONSTANCE GARNETT.


  RUDIN
  A HOUSE OF GENTLEFOLK
  ON THE EVE
  FATHERS AND CHILDREN
  SMOKE
  VIRGIN SOIL (2 vols.)
  A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES (2 vols.)
  DREAM TALES AND PROSE POEMS
  THE TORRENTS OF SPRING
  A LEAR OF THE STEPPES, etc.
  THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN, etc.
  A DESPERATE CHARACTER, etc.
  THE JEW, etc.


  NEW YORK
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY




Transcriber's Notes:

The list of novels translated by Constance Garnett was moved from front
of book to the end. Punctuation was standardized. Spaces were removed
from elipses when used to separate syllables within a word, e.g.,
sus...pic...ion. Archaic and non-standard spelling was retained, except
as noted below.

Changes to text:

  'grandchlid' to 'grandchild' ... I tell you this, grandchild, ...
  'terrestial' to 'terrestrial' ... whole terrestrial globe ...
  'consciouness' to 'consciousness' ... to your consciousness ...
  'gentlemen' to 'gentleman' ... I knew a gentleman who ...
  'extraordinary' to 'extraordinarily' ... everything will be
    extraordinarily rational ...
  'freewill' to 'free will' for consistency with remaining text
    ... without free will and without ...
    ... so-called free will ...
  'And' to 'Am' ... Am I a scoundrel?...
  'too' to 'to' ... Where will the poor fellow be off to?...
  'cried' to 'cries' ... I heard cries of bewilderment ...
  'intrgiue' to 'intrigue' ... The intrigue was not such ...

Additions to text:

  added missing 'to' ... if not to-day ...
  added missing 'a' ... It was a waste of time ...





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of White Nights and Other Stories, by
Fyodor Dostoevsky

*** 