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ersity  of 

)uthern  Regio 

ibrary  Facilit 


WHITE   NIGHTS 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  NOVELS  OF 
FYODOR  DOSTOEVSKY 

VOLUME  X 


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  progrtst) 

NOVELS   BY    IVAN  TURGENEV 

Translated  from  tlie  Russian  by  CONSTANCE 
GARXKTT. 

RUDIN 

A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK 

ON  THE  EVE 

FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

SMOKE 

VIRGIN  SOIL(2vols.) 

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,  eto. 

A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER,  etc. 

THE  JEW,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 


WHITE    NIGHTS 

AND    OTHER    STORIES    BY 
FYODOR  DOSTOEVSKY 


FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


NEW   YORK 
THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1918 


Priiited  i^' 


CONTENTS 

WHITE  NIGHTS     ..... 

NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND — 
PART  I.    UNDERGROUND 
PART  II.    A  PROPOS  OF  THE  WET  SNOW 

A  FAINT  HEART  ..... 
A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING  . 
POLZUNKOV  ...... 

A  LITTLE  HERO 

MR.  PROHARTCHIN 


WHITE     NIGHTS 

A  SENTIMENTAL  STORY  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  DREAMEB 

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  oiifi^_jras.  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  Peters- 
burg 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  know- 
ing 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  coun- 
tenance ;  he  is  alway  whispering  to  himself  and  brandishing  his 

B 


2  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  \ve  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  for- 
ward 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  hap- 
pened to  pass  it.  Suddenly  last  week  I  walked  along  the  st  i 
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  1  was  puy./ling  my  brains 
to  think  what  was  ;unks  in  my  corner  ;  why  1  felt  so  un- 
comfortable in  it.  And  in  jH-rplexif y  I  scanned  my  grimy  green 
walls,  my  ceiling  covered  witli  a  spider's  web,  the  growth  of  wliich 


WHITE  NIGHTS  3 

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  win- 
dow, 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  amaze- 
ment 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  !  For- 
give 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  house- 
hold 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 


4  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  Fon- 
tanka  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 — abso- 
lutely 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  some- 
thing. 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,  con- 
sumptive 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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  5 

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  pre- 
occupied 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,"  1  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  some- 
thing," 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 


6  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  over- 
taking— 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  excite- 
ment and  terror.  Oh,  pbtrusive  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 


WHITE  NIGHTS 

that  my  girl  had  intelligence ;  that  is  never  out  of  place  in  com- 
pany 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  hag  nevgj  JbefinJield 
by  a  pretty"  littIe~^rarnl"liTEe  JJ^ours.  I  am  a  complete  stranger 
to  "women;  that  Ts^T"  Have  nftvftr  J^ftnjigpd1o~t.TiRTn .  _Yau  see, 
I  am-ate»e-r-r-r-i~doTi'*t  evelTEnovFEow  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.  .  .  .  Belie_ve__me,  not-jone,  woman,  never,  never  ! 
No  acquaintance  of  ariy  sort !  And  I  do  nothingbut  dreanfevery 
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 


8 

women,  but  what  sort  of  women  were  they  ?  They  were  all  land- 
ladies, 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,!  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  acquaint- 
ance 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  gentle — 
man  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." 

%i  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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  9 

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  .~TTT^t)e|r  youF  pardon  rX-eftid-troinpassioTrr  .  T  ".  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,  look- 
ing 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_sp_raTe^that_I_cannot  help 
going  oveFsuch  m6Tn^rrt5"againLmLniy__dreams.  I  shaJTl^e  dream- 
ing of  you  all  night7  a~whole  week,  a~whole  year.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly 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  -hJaL£e_aIi£ady--two  &r  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  particular!}7  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 


10  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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.  .  .  .  J|ut  you  mustn't  fall  in 
love  with  me,  I  beg  you  !  " 

TTr?w^aT7A^~CTfed",  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  I  .-..-." 

"  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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  11 

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  think- 
ing 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 


12  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  your- 
self. 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  grand- 
mother 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  ?  " 


WHITE  NIGHTS  13 

A  typ&-#^A  type  is  an  original,  it's  an  absurd  person  !  " 
I  said,  infecte<^  by  her  childish  laughter.  "It's  a  character. 
Listen ;  ao~~y6u  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 !  " 

"  Qh,  my  goodness  J_  It  never  entered  my  head,  I  felt  quite  i 
happy  as  it  was.  .  .  ." 

"  My  name  is  Nastenka." 

"  Nastenka  !     And  nothing  else  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else  !  Why,  is  not  that  enough  for  you,  you  in- 
satiable 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  !    WeU  ?  " 

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

I  sat  down  beside  her,  assumed  a  pedantically  serious  atti- 
tude, 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  ?  " 


U  WHITE  NIGHTS 

"  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.     Thedream£tr-if  you  want  an 
exact  definition — is  not  a  human  T>emg7but  a  creature  of  an 
intermediate  sort.     For  the  mna^jiart  h«  «fiUlfiH  in   «"mft  in- 
accessible corner,  as  thoTlgtrtltftTng^frmh  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  com- 
mitted 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  fnend  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  conversa- 
tion, to  show   his  knowledge  of   polite  society,  to  talk,  too,  of 

fair  sex.  and  by  such  humble  endeavour,  to  please  the  poor 
man,  wh<.  hk.  ;i  \\^h  out  of  water  has  mistakenly  come  to  visit 
him  <  Why  does  the  gentleman,  all  at  onee  remembering  some 

.  m-eessnry  business  which  never  existed,  suddenly  seize  his 
hat  and  hurriedly  make  off,  snatching  away  his  hand  from 
the  warm  ^rifi  of  hi.-,  ho.st.  who  was  trying  his  utmost  to 
show  hia  regret  and  retrieve  the  lost  position?  Why  does  the 


WHITE  NIGHTS  15 

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,  fright- 
ened 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  Aveight  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,  Ikiiow  I  describe  , 
splendidly,  but,  excuse  me,  I  don't  know-how  eLsu  to  du  it.  At 
this  -ifTOrnent,  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 


16  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  cogitat- 
ing 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^te-U- 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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  17 

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  walk- 
ing 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  simmer- 
ing, 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  spa&rnodically ;  and  the  book,  picked  up  aimlessly  and 
at  random,  drops  from  my  dreamer's  hand  before  he  has  reached 


18  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  delie 
voluptuous  poison  !     What  is  real  life  to  him  !     To  his  corrupted 

s  we  li ve,  you  and  I,  Nastenka,  so  torpidly,  slowly,  insipidly ; 
in  his  eyes  we  are  all  so  dissatisfied  with  our  fate,  so  exhausted 
life"!  And,  Wuly,  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  un- 
recognized, then  crowned  with  laurels;  of  friendship  with 
Hoffmann,  St.  Bartholomew's  Night,  of  Diana  Vernon,  of  play- 
ing the  hero  at  the  taking  of  Kazan  by  Ivan  Vassil yeviteh,  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  church- 
yard !),  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  whieh  you  and  I  have  such  a  longing?  He  thinks  that  this 
is  a  jxx.r  pitiful  lite,  not  foreseeing  that  for  him  tou,  maybe, 
sometime  tin-  mournful  hour  may  strike,  when  for  one  day  of 
that  pitiful  life  lie  \\ould  ^ive  all  his  years  of  phantasy,  and 
\\oujclgi\r  them  iiut  only  for  joy  ami  for  happiness,  hut  uith- 
'  make  distinctions  in  that  hour  of  .sadness,  remorse 
rief.  Hut  so  far  that  threatening  time  has  not 
:il'ri  •  can.-,.-  he  is  superior  to  all  desire, 

use  lie  has  every  tiling,  because  he  is  satiated,  U-cause  he  is 

t  of  hia  own  life,  and  creates  it  for  himself  every  hour 

to  suit  hia  latest  whim.     And  you  know  this  fantastic  world  of 


WHITE  NIGHTS  19 

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,  sub- 
stantial !  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,  look- 
ing 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  ances- 
tral 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 


20  WHITE  NIGHTS 

innocent,  how  pure  was  their  love,  and  how  (I  need  hardly  say, 
Nastenka)  maUcious~peopTe~were  !  5n37gbod  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  hap- 
pening ;  '  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  remem- 
bered 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  un- 
necessarily 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,  with- 
out 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." 


WHITE  NIGHTS  21 

"  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  Jia_yjsJfistj^tojichi  all  instinct  for 
the_actual,  the  real ;  because  at  last  I  have  cursed  myselff  be- 
cause after  ^y~fantastie- nights- 1  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  inexJiaustible  fancy  is  weary 


22  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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,  aim- 
less, 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 
oneself  what  has  one  done  with  one's  years.  Where  have  you 
buried  your  best  days  ?  Have  you  lived  or  not  ?  Look,  one 
to  oneself,  look  how  cold  the  world  is  growing.  Some  more  years 
will  pass,  ami  after  them  will  come  gloomy  solitude;  then  will 
come  old  age  trembling  on  its  crutch,  and  after  it  misery  and 
desolation.  Your  fantastie  \vorM  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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  23 

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 !  N^ojwjvejshalLbe  two  together.  Now^whatever  happens 
to  mo,  wo  will  never  part.     Listen;    I  am  a  simple  gifl^ I  have 
not  had  much  education,  though  grandmother  did  get  a  teacher  v 
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  1  aM  very  gted  that  you  have  T>een  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  conceal- 
ment, 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  !  "  ~"  Xctkj 

"^Agreed,  Nastenl:a,~agreedT'""T~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.  ..." 


24  WHITE  NIGHTS 

"  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  mv^father  and jnother  are  dead.  It 
must  be  supposed  that  grandmother  was  once  richer,  for  now 
she  recalls  better  days.  She  taught  me  French j^and. then  got  a 
teacher._iof-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  arm- 
chair 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  some- 
thing, 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  mov^iftt^-muuippeijiprcxJ1  Ilrw  lodger." 
"  Then  you  had  an  old  lodger,"  I  observed  casually. 
"  Yes,  of  course,"  answered  Nastenka,  "  and  one  who  knew 


WHITE  NIGHTS  25 

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 
wyasn'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,  grand- 
chlid,  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. 


26  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  F^ojdajyhat 
he  had  a  greatnumber  of  IVejicJb^.boiLka»_ai)^iJjiatJbh^:  \\viv  all 
g(5bd~txK)KS  tha't'Tmight_readJ_JQ_won1d  not,  grandmnt.hpr  like 
me  tojgftdjfoCTrthajTJji^^  ?  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  after- 
wards 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 

•  us  Pushkin,  too^so  that  at  last  I  couIcHlo!  gllt  uirwitlffiut 
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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  27 

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  grand- 
mother ?  ' 

"  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  ! ' 


28  WHITE  NIGHTS 

"  '  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  stair- 
case, 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  ?  Tjthjnnghtr  nnd_thoughl  and  fretted  and 
fretted,  and  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind.  Next  day  he  was  to  go 


WHITE  NIGHTS  29 

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  coukLooiJive.  without— 
him.  Shame_and_jgride  and  love  were  all  clamouring  in  me  at 
dnce7  and'TleU  onJbbTe  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  happi- 
ness. 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  juslr  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  her?  three  days, 
and,  and 


30  WHITE  NIGHTS 

"  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,  "  Nas- 
tenka !  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  1  " 

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.  .  .  .  All,  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 


WHITE  NIGHTS  31 

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  enduie  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  I  "*  - 


32  WHITE  NIGHTS 

"  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 
•v  and  no  letter.  It's  impossible  for  me  to  get  away  from  grand- 
mother in  the  morning.  Give  my  letter  to-morrow  to  those  kind 
people  I  spoke  to  you  about :  thgyjwjll  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. 


WHITE  NIGHTS  33 


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  ^ky  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  brim- 
ming over  with  love  the  heart  is  !  One  seems  longing  to  pour 
out  one's  whole  heart  ;  one  wants  everything  to  be  gay,  every- 
thing 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  couragej  __  Oh, 
the  coquetry  ~of—  kappine'ssT  While  I  .  TT  I  tookTt  all  for 
the  genuine  thing,  I  thought  that  she. 

But,  my  God,  how  could  I  have  thought  it  ?  How  could  I  have 
beensp  blind,  when  everything  had  been  taken  by  another  already, 
wherTnothTng  was^mine  ;  wnen7]m^etrher  very  tenderness  to 

' 


else  hut  joj^tj,h£^tliought_of_seeing  another  man  so  soon,  desire 
to  include  me,  too,  m  her  happiness  ?  .  .  .  When  he  did  not 
conie,^^en~w^^aiteTi"irrvain,  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 
D  <  — 


34  WHITE  NIGHTS 

for  my  poor  love.  So  when  we  are  unhappy  we  feel  the  unhappi- 
ness  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. 

"  Irlikc-yoji, because  you  have  not  fallen  in  love  with  me.  You 
know  that  some~"meirtn  your  place  would  nave  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. 

"  Ciuodncss,  what  a  friend  you  are  !  "  she  began  gravely  a 
minute  later.  "  God  sent  you  to  me.  What  would  have  hap- 
pened to  me  if  you  had  not  been  with  me  now  ?  How  disin- 
terested you  are !  How  truly  you  care  for  me !  When  I  am 
married  we  will  be  great  friends,  more_jjian  brother  and  sister; 
I  sKalTcare  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  ?  " 


WHITE  NIGHTS  35 

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.  Ynur_hai\d  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." 

"  All,  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,  mis- 
chievous; she  took  my  arm,  laughed,  wanted  me  to  laugh  too, 


36  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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. 


WHITE  NIGHTS  37 

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  ? 


_ 
good  as  you,  though  I  love  him  more  than  you." 

I  made  no  answer.     Sli^e^m?3!^^e^pe^rT3erfo  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 


38  WHITE   NIGHTS 

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  de- 
scribed. 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  con- 
vincing 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 
then-,  silt  in<:  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  niirht.  .  .  . 

But  to-morrow,  to-morrow  !    To-im>rrmv  she  will  tell  me  < 
thing.     The  letter  has  not  come  to-day,  however.      But  that  waa 
to  be  expected.     They  are  together  by  now.  .  . 


WHITE    NIGHTS  39 


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-net  a- -line- for. -three 
days  !  How~easy  il1s"lof.him  towoundrto  insult  a  poor,  defence- 
less..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 


40  WHITE   NIGHTS 

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  every- 
thing." 

"  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  aban- 
doned a  girl  who  had  come  to  you  of  herself,  you  would  not  have 
thrown  into  her    face  a  shameless  taunt  at  her  \\cak  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 
If,  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  !  " 


WHITE   NIGHTS  41 

"  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." 


42  WHITE   NIGHTS 

"  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,  con- 
cealing 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  !  " 

Y«-s,  yes  !  tell  me,  talk  to  me,"  said  Nastenka  with  an  inde- 
scribable 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 
riirht,  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 
t  o  1  o  v  e  h  i  m .  Then — I  thought  that  yesterday  and  the  day  before 
••p lay,  Xastenka — then  I  would — I  certainly  would — have 
Mirr.-.-.l,.,!  in  making  you  love  me;  you  know,  you  said  your- 
self. Xastenka,  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  \vmil«l  IKJ  if  you  loved  me,  only  that,  nothing 
morel  Listi-n,  my  friend — for  anyway  you  are  my  friend — 


WHITE  NIGHTS  43 

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  wth  her  handker- 
chief ;  "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  1  " 

"  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 


44  WHITE  NIGHTS 

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  mis- 
chief, 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  M  ill 
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 
UK'  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  !  " 

Knough,  enough  !     Well,  now  it's  quite  enough,"  she  said, 
hardly  able  to  control  herself.     "  Well,  now  all  has  been  said, 


WHITE   NIGHTS     \  45 


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." 


46  WHITE   NIGHTS 

"  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  happen- 
ing 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  tliis  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. 

"  W.-ll.  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. 


WHITE   NIGHTS  47 

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^f^myjarmajind.  rushed  to  meet  him  !  I  stor>d  and 
looEeoTattliem^  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  ! 


48  WHITE   NIGHTS 

"  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  awaken- 
ing ;  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.  Ho 
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. 

arie  !     I  say,  dearie "  Matrona  began. 

"  What  is  it,  Matrona?" 

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


WHITE   NIGHTS  49 

I  looked  at  Matrona.  She  was  still  a  hearty , ..youngish,  old  . 
woman,  but  I^djori't-kaow  why  all  at  once  I  suddenly  pictured 
her  with  lustreless  pyea-,  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_^thLe_sgiders'  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 

A   NOVEL 
PART   I 

UNDERGROUND 


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  ! 

I  have  been  going  on  like  that  for  a  long  time — twenty  years. 

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  circum- 
stances 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 
linn -i -If  and  his  views,  and,  as  it  were,  tries  to  explain  the  causes  owin^  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  thia 
person  concerning  certain  events  in  his  life. — AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

50 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  61 

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  wrere  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  dis- 
gusting 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 — 


52  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

sickened  me,  at  last,  how  they  sickened  me  !  Now,  are  not  you 
fancying,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  expressing  remorse  for  some- 
thing now,  that  I  am  asking  your  forgiveness  for  something  1 
I  am  sure  you  are  fancying  that  .  .  .  However,  I  assure  you  I 
do  not  care  if  you  are.  .  .  i 

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  spite- 
ful 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 
tliis  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  53 

counsellors  and  monitors.  .  .  .  But  I  am  remaining  in  Peters- 
burg ;  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.  g 

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

Answer  :    Of  himself. 

Well,  so  I  will  talk  about  myself. 

n 

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,  gentle- 
men, 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  terrestial  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; 


54  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  tliis  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  tliis  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  con- 
suming 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  some- 
thing 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  wras  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  55 

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  Avas 
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  mag 
nanimity,  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  insult- 
ing 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. 


56  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 


m 

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  gentle- 
men— 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, 
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  lam  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 
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  csetera.  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  67 

of  spite  in  it  than  in  Vhomme  de  la  nature  et  de  la  veriU.  The 
base  and  nasty  desire  to  vent  that  spite  on  its  assailant  rankles 
perhaps  even  more  nastily  in  it  than  in  VJiomme  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  under- 
world for  forty  years,  in  that  acutely  recognized  and  yet  partly 
doubtful  hopelessness  of  one's'position,  in  that  hell  of  unsatisfied 


5S  IBS  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

desires  luiikinl  inward,  in  that  fever  of  oscillations,  of  resolutions 
determined  lor  ever  and  repented  of  again  a  minute  later — that 
tike  savour  of  that  strange  enjoyment  of  which  I  have  spoken 
fie*.  It  is  ao  subtle,  so  difficult  of  analysis,  that  persons  who  are 
even  simply  p*?*""*  of  strong  nerves,  will  not 
of  h.  "  Possibly/-  you  will  add  on 
with  a  grin,  "  people  win  not  understand  it 
who  have  never  received  a  slap  in  the  face,"  and  in  that 
way  yon  wifl  politely  hint  to  me  that  I,  too,  perhaps,  have  had 
the  f*j»MiMMii>  of  a  dap  in  the  face  in  my  hie,  and  so  I  speak 
as  one  who  knows.  I  bet  that  yon  are  thinking  that.  But 
set  your  minds  at  rest,  gentlemen,  I  have  not  received  a  slap 
in  tike  face,  though  it  is  absolutely  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
me  what  JOB  may  think  about  it.  Possibly,  I  even  regret, 
myself,  that  I  have  given  so  lew  slaps  in  the  face  during  my 
file.  Bat  ciuiugh  .  .  .  not  another  word  on  that  subject  of 

to  you. 
-     •"__    ::.:.:/:-     :._:-.  .    :r:_     j 


ffiartum  M  beflow  their 
tins,  let  us  suppose,  does  them  the 
I  have  said  already,  confronted  with  the 
at  once.    The  impossible  means  the 
?    Why,  of  course,  the  laws  of 

\~  '_-  7T~-r  "  '  .  :  r  .:.-•",:".'  -'  ~ :.:-.'  ~~'~.  ",:•-  .- -  -  r.  .-:  - 
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  luust  be  dcaiu  to  you  than  a  hundred  thousand  of  your 
fesW  creatures,  and  that  this  conclusion  is  the  final  solution 
of  afl  so-called  virtues  and  duties  and  afl  such  prejudices  and 
ffsui  •'•,  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  wiD  shout  at  you,  it  is  no  use  protesting : 
it  is  a  case  of  twice  two  makes  four !  Nature  does  not  ask  your 
pnm'iMMBi,  she  hag  nothing  to  do  with  your  wishes,  and  whether 
you  Eke  her  laws  or  dislike  them,  you  are  bound  to  accept 
her  as  she  is,  and  consequently  afl  her  conclusions.  A  wafl, 
you  see,  is  a  wafl  .  .  .  and  so  on,  and  so  on." 

HVjuful  Heavens  !  but  what  do  I  care  lor  the  laws  of  nature 


NOTES   FROM  UNDERGROUND  59 

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  reaDy  hare 
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  became 
it  is  as  true  as  twice  two  makes  four.  Oh,  absurdity  of  absurd- 
ities !  How  much  better  it  is  to  understand  it  all,  to  recognize  it 
all,  all  the  impossibilities  and  the  stone  wall;  not  to  be  recon- 
ciled 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  axe 
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  yon  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  enjoy- 
ment in  them  he  would  not  moan.  It  is  a  good  example,  gentle- 
men, and  I  will  develop  it.  Those  moans  express  in  the  first 
place  all  the  aimlessness  of  your  pain,  wjiich  is  so  humiliating 
to  your  consciouness ;  the  whole  legal  system  of  nature  on  which 


60  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  nine- 
teenth 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 
•  1  i>_rraces  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 
<lfspic;il,le  moans  :  well,  let  it  be  nasty;  here  I  will  let  you  have 
a  nastier  flourish  in  a  minute.  ,  ,  ."  You  do  not  understand 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  61 

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  ? 


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  he,  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, 


62  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  v/as  all  from  ennui,  gentlemen,  all  from  ennui ;  inertia 
overcame  me.  You  know  the  direct,  legitimate  fruit  of  conscious- 
ness 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.  There- 
fore 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,  arid  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  con- 
sciousness, 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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  63 

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  gentlemen  who  prided  himself  all  his  life  on  being  a  con- 
noisseur 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 


64  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  pre- 
cise, 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 
coloured  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. 


vn 

But  these  are  all  golden  dreams.  Oh,  tell  me,  who  was  it  first 
announced,  who  was  it  first  proclaimed,  that  man  only  does  nasty 
tilings  because  he  does  not  know  his  own  interests ;  and  that  if 
ho  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  1  Oh,  the  pure,  innocent  child  !  Why,  in  the  first 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  66 

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  1  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,  gen- 
tlemen, 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 
F 


66 

not  a  friend  !  When  he  prepares  for  any  undertaking  this  gentle- 
man 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  Ms  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,  gentle- 
men, 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,  pros- 
perity— 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  con- 
tinually 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  liis  own  advantage 
IB  to  my  mind  almost  the  same  thing  as  ...  as  to  affirm,  for 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  67 

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  inten- 
'tioiially,  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  loath- 
somely bloodthirsty.  In  old  days  he  saw  justice  in  blood- 
shed 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 


68  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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 
Bay,  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  tabu- 
lated 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 
BO  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  extraordinary  rational.     Of  course 

boredom  may  lead  you  to  anything.     It  is  boredom  sets  one 

st irking  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    l>e    in    the    least 

surprised  if  all  of  a  sudden,  a  propos  of  notlu'ng,  in  the  midst  of 

general  prosperity  a  gentleman  with  an  ignoble,  or  rather  with 

a   reactionary   and   ironical,    countenance    were   to   arise   and, 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  69 

putting  his  arms  akimbo,  say  to  us  all :  "I  say,  gentlemen, 
hadn't  we  better  kick  over  the  whole  show  and  scatter  rational- 
ism 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  inde- 
pendence 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 


70  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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,  with- 
out freewill  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  011  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  dis- 
covered the  laws  of  our  so-called  freewill — 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  t  his  could  be  arranged  there  would  be  nothing  left  for  us  to  do ; 
anyuay,  we  should  have  to  understand  that.  And,  in  fact,  \\e 
ought  unwearyingly  to  repeat  to  ourselves  that  at  such  and  such  a 
time  and  in  such  and  such  circumstances  nature  docs  not  ask  our 
<i;  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, 
tin  re's  no  help  for  it,  we  must  accept  the  retort  too,  or  else  it 
will  be  accepted  without  our  consent.  .  .  ." 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  71 

Yes,    but   here   I   come   to   a  stop !     Gentlemen,   you  must 
excuse  me  for  being  over-philosophical ;  il's  tlae  result  of  forty 
years  underground  !     Allow  me  to  ijidulge  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  I'L-  including  reason  and 
all  the  impulses.     And  although  our  life,  in  this  manifestation 
of  it,  is  often  worthless,  yet  it  is  life  and  not  simpty  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 


72  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

stubbornly  opposed  to  reason  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  ...  do  you 
know  that  that,  too,  is  profitable,  sometimes  even  praise- 
worthy? 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,  per- 
petual— 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-coloured  ?  May  be  it 
is  many-coloured,  too  :  if  one  takes  the  dress  uniforms,  military 
and  civilian,  of  all  peoples  in  all  ages — that  alone  is  worth  some- 
thing, 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 
\\lio  make  it  their  object  to  live  all  their  lives  as  morally  and 
rationally  as  possible,  to  be,  so  to  speak,  a  light  to  their  neigh- 
bours simply  in  order  to  show  them  that  it  is  possible  to  live 
iimrally  and  rationally  in  this  world.  And  yet  we  all  know 
that  those  very  people  sooner  or  later  have  been  false  to  them- 
. 'laying  some  queer  trick,  often  a  most  unseemly  one. 
Now  I  ask  you  :  what  can  be  expected  of  man  since  he  is  a  being 
with  such  strange  qualities?  Shower  upon  him  every 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  73 

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  mathe- 
matics, 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 


74  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  con- 
clusion   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  arith- 
metic 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  some- 
times 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  «au  be  no  disputing  that  he 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  75 

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  inces- 
sant 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  positive- 
ness  is  not  life,  gentlemen,  but  is  the  beginning  of  death.  Any- 
way, 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. 


76  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  extra- 
ordinarily, 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  un- 
thinkable; 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  suffer- 
ing, that  is,  destruction  and  chaos.  Why,  suffering  is  the  sole 
origin  of  consciousness.  Though  I  did  lay  it  down  at  the  be- 
ginning that  consciousness  is  the  greatest  misfortune  for  man, 
yet  I  know  man  prizes  it  and  would  not  give  it  up  for  any  satis- 
faction. 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  contempla- 
tion. While  if  you  stick  to  consciousness,  even  though  the  same 
result  is  attained,  you  can  at  least  flog  j'ourself  at  times,  and  that 
will,  at  any  rate,  liven  you  up.  Reactionary  as  it  is,  corporal 
punishment  is  better  than  nothing. 


Y'>ii  lirlieve  in  a  palace  of  crystal  that  can  never  be  destroyed 
— a  i  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  77 

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  an- 
other 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  con- 
sistent with  the  laws  of  nature  and  actually  exists.  I  will  not 
accept  as  the  crown  of  my  desires  a  block  of  buildings  with  tene- 
ments 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  dis- 
cussing 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 


78  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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 
I  am  lying  because  I  know  myself  that  it  is  not  underground 
that  is  better,  but  something  different,  qiute  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  1  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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  79 

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  some- 
thing, 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 
•orrupt,  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  him- 
self, 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  bis  mind.  The  more 


80  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  auto- 
biography 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  address- 
ing readers,  that  is  simply  because  it  is  easier  for  me  to  wrrite 
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  com- 
pilation 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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  81 

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 

X  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  (trantlated  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 
G 


^2  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  expres- 
sion, and  so  every  day  when  I  turned  up  at  the  office  I  tried  to 
behave  as  independently  as  possible,  and  to  assume  a  lofty  expres- 
sion, 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  pain- 
fully 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  des] 
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 


83 

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.  Per- 
haps 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  (every- 
thing happened  in  phases  to  me),  and  I  wrould  laugh  myself  at 
my  intolerance  and  fastidiousness,  I  would  reproach  myself 
with  being  romaitfic'  At  one  time  I  was-  unwilling  to  speak  to 
any  one,  while  at  other  time*  I  would  not  only  talk,  but  go  to 


84  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  earth- 
quake, 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  tran- 
scendental 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, 
lo  see  everything  and  to  see  it  often  incomparably  more  dearly 
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  beautitul  " 
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 


85 

greatest  rogue  of  all  our  rogues,  I  assure  you.  ...  I  can  assure 
you  from  experience,  indeed.  Of  course,  that  is,  if  he  is  in 
telligent.  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  degrada- 
tion ;  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. 


86  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  under- 
ground 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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  87 

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  explana- 
tion— moved  me  from  where  I  was  standing  to  another  spot  and 
passed  by  as  though  he  had  not  noticed  me.  I  could  have  for- 
given 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  inten- 
tions, 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,  some- 
thing 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 


88  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUOT 

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'tionneur) — 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  prod  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  b'ved  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  Otetchest- 
venniya  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  d'-tcniiincd  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  89 

understanding  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful  he  would  certainly 
haye  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  abject- 
ness  of  my  little  scurrying  figure.  This  was  a  regular  martyr- 
dom, 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 


90  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  recherchd :  the  Counteas  walks  there ;  Prince  D.  walks 
there;  all  the  literary  world  is  then-),  I  must  be  well  dressed; 
that  inspin-s  respect  and  of  itself  puts  us  on  an  equal  footing  in 
the  eyes  of  society  " 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  91 

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 -coloured  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  -coloured 
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  re- 
flected, 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  pre- 
paration, I  was  quite  determined — it  seemed  as  though  we 
should  run  into  one  another  directly — and  before  I  knew  what 


92  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

I  was  doing  I  had  stepped  aside  for  him  again  and  he  had  passed 
Avithout  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  ? 


n 

But  the  period  of  my  dissipation  would  end  and  I  always  ft  h 
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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  93 

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  trans- 
ports.    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 


94  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  spon- 
taneously 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  bare- 
foot 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  th<>r<>  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  con- 
temptible to  drag  all  this  into  public  after  all  the  tears  and 
transports  which  I  have  myself  confessed.  But  why  is  it  con- 
temptible ?  Can  you  imagine  that  I  am  ashunu-d  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  meang 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  95 

badly  composed.  ...  It  did  not  all  happen  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Como.  And  yet  you  are  right — it  really  is  vulgar  and  con- 
temptible. And  most  contemptible  of  all  it  is  that  now  I  am 
attempting  to  justify  myself  to  you.  And  even  more  con- 
temptible 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  man- 
kind ;  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. 


96  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  child- 
hood. 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  srrinrd 
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 
ice,  and  for  my  having  let  myself  sink  so  low,  going  about 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  97 

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  twro  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  par- 
ticularly 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 


98  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  per- 
sonage 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  them- 
selves 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 


NOTES   FROM  UNDERGROUND  99 

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  con- 
ceitedly, 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,  con- 
cluded 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  un- 
expectedly 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 


100  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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?  "  Fetfitchkin  began  in  an  under- 
tone, 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-d-tSte,  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  eilence. 

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


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  101 

"  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  jibea 
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  readi- 
ness 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 


102  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  sub- 
jects, 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.  Every- 
thing 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  mon- 
strously 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.  More- 
over, 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  evrii 
heard.  They  took  a  savage  and  sarcastic  view  of  it,  but  were 
morally  impressed,  especially  as  the  teachers  began  to  notice  me 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  103 

on  those  grounds.  The  mockery  ceased,  but  the  hostility  re- 
mained, 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  un- 
bounded 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  tiling  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,  per- 
haps, 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, 


104  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  ever- 
lasting friendship;  but  what  .was  most  bitter  and  most  humiliat- 
ing 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 
1  went  to  the  window,  opened  the  movable  pane  and  looked  out 
into  the  troubled  darkness  of  the  thickly  falling  wel  SHOW.  At 
last  my  wretched  little  clock  hissed  out  five.  I  seized  my  hat 
urn  I  trying  not  to  look  at  Apollon,  who  had  been  all  day  expecting 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  105 

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  be  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, 


106  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  Jiors  cTaeuvres. 

"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  ..." 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  107 

"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.  Trudo- 
lyubov  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. 


108  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

"To  my  thinking  it's  very  poor,"  Trudolyiibov  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  b'ke  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  1 "  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  alter- 
cation," 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  gentle- 
man 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 
1  •'<  rfitchkin  go  too  far,  though.  The  brutes  imagine  they  are 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  109 

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  torgotten  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  contemptu- 
ously 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.  "JTo  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. 


110  NOTES   FROM  UNDERGROUND 

"  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'D  drink  it,  Mr.  Trudolyubov." 

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

lence  !  "  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  .  .  .  t: 
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  begin- 
ning 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  h: 
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 
our  words  just  now  !  "  I  said  aloud,  turning  with  dignity  to 
:chkin. 

"  A  duel,  you  mean  ?    Certainly/' he  answered.     But  probably 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  111 

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,"  Trudolyu- 
bov  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 


112  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  I  " 

"  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  huir, 
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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  113 

It  sent  a  sharp  pang  to  my  heart. 

"  No,  it's  not  the  duel  I  am  afraid  of,  Ferfitchknr!  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  ? 
And  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 
pitil-  >?ly,  and  ran  to  overtake  them. 
i 


114  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  mj^self.  "  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  recol- 
lection 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  fan- 
tastical— 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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  116 

"  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  every- 
thing :  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  !  Trudo- 
lyubov  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  ad- 
vance 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.  Non- 
sense !  "  I  cried,  lashing  myself  lip  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 


116  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

...  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  1 
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  capti- 
vate 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  ...  for- 
give 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  Silrio 
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 


117 

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  "  milli- 
nery 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  rot  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 


118  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  stran- 
gling 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  wliile 
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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  119 

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  sud- 
denly 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  37our  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  ?  " 


120  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

"  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  con- 
fusion. 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." 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  121 

"  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,  an- 
other house ;  a  year  later — to  a  third,  lower  and  lower,  and  in 
seven  years  you  will  come  to  a  basement  in  the  Haymarket. 


122  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  wanned  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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  123 

"  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." 


124 

"  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.  Be- 
sides, 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  li<  r  in  her  sleep  and  make  the  siirn  of  the  cross  over  her. 
He  would  go  about  in  a  dirty  old  coat,  he  was  stingy  to  every 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  126 

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  t  And  indeed  it's  the  ordinary 


126  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  lovs  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  127 

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  under- 
stood :  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. 


128  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  be- 
trothed and  think  it  an  honour  to  be  allowed  to.  I  should  not 
dan-  to  have  an  impure  thought  about  you.  But  here,  you 
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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  129 

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  every- 
thing 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 


130  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  j'ou  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  over  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 
iilthy  steps  with  that  fish,  drunken  and  dishevelled — what  if  at 
that  very  minute  she  recalled  the  pure  early  days  in  her  father's 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  131 

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.  How- 
ever 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 


132  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  under- 
stood 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.  Sup- 
pressed 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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  133 

took  her  hands ;  she  came  to  herself,  made  an  impulsive  move- 
ment 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  ringers  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, 
mtist  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 


134  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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,  wlio  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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  135 


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  de- 
lighted at  this  that,  as  I  signed  the  I  0  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, 
unconstrained ly  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  super- 
fluous 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 


136  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  polite- 
ness, 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  him- 
self, 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.  Some- 
thing was  not  dead  within  me,  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  and 
conscience  it  would  not  die,  and  it  showed  itself  in  acute  depres- 
sion. For  the  most  part  I  jostled  my  way  through  the  most 
crowded  business  streets,  along  Myeshtehansky  Street,  along 
Su'lovy  Street  and  in  Yusupov  Garden.  I  always  liked  par- 
ticularly sauntering  along  these  streets  in  the  dusk,  just 
when  there  were  crowds  of  working  people  of  all  sorts  going 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  137 

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  satis- 
fied 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  sin- 
cerely 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 


138  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  some- 
times flew  into  a  fury :  "  She'll  come,  she  is  certain  to  come  !  " 
I  cried,  running  about  the  room,  "  if  not-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  under- 
stand? ..." 

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.  .  .  . 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  139 

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  sub- 
tleties 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  hi  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  atten- 
tion 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  glancfe  at  that  flaxen,  smoothly  brushed  head,  at 
the  tuft  of  hair  he  combed  up  on  his  forehead  and  oiled  with 


140  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  in- 
variably 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  ho 
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  :  ho 
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 
CHVC,  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, 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  141 

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  dis- 
respectful, 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  wrhole 
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  before- 
hand, 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  con- 
temptuous. 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  deliber- 
ately 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 


142  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  mano3uvres  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  I  "  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  1  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  " 
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  BUS  .  .  .  pic  .  .  .  ion  how  stupid  it  is — stupid, 
stupid,  stupid,  stupid  1  "... 

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  .  .  . 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  143 

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 
shaU  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 — }rou  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 


144  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  some- 
thing from  me  at  once.  This  naivet6  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." 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  145 

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 
Napoldon.  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,  deliber- 
ately 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. 
L 


146  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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

"  Water,  give  me  water,  over  there  I  "  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  Avaa 
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. 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  147 

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  1  "  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  1  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  over- 
whelmed 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  yon  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 


148  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  1  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  black- 
guard, 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  under- 
stand ?  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  149 

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  accus- 
tomed 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,  tfrat  she  was  now  the  heroine, 
while  I  was  just  such  a  crushed  and  humiliated  creature  as  she 


150  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  pas- 
sion, 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. 


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  humilia- 
tion, and  that  to  my  earlier,  almost  causeless  hatred  was  added 
now  a  personal  haired,  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 

Why  is  it  strange  ?     In  the  first  place,  by  then  I  was 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  151 

incapable  of  love,  for  I  repeat,  with  me  loving  meant  tyrannizing 
and  showing  my  moral  superiority.  I  have  never  in  my  life 
boon  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  under- 
ground world.  Real  life  oppressed  mo  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  shameless- 
ness  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, 


152  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  1  "  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 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  153 

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  happi- 
ness ?  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  suffer- 
ings ?  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 


154  NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND 

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  cripples,  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  har^d  work,  and  we  are  all  privately  agreed 
that  it  is  better  in  books.  And  why  do  we  fuss  and  fume  some- 
times ?  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, 


NOTES  FROM  UNDERGROUND  155 

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,  Jwwever.  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,  wlu'ch  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  I     How  are  you,  dear  boy  ?     Well,  brother  I 

156 


A  FAINT   HEART  167 

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  Ivano- 
vitch.  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  light- 
hearted  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." 

"  TeU  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.  "  Ar- 
kasha !  If  you  like,  I  will  tell  you ;  only  .  .  ." 

"  WeU,  what  ?  .  .  ." 


158  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  169 

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  vezes  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  1  "  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 ; 


160  A  FAINT  HEART 

I  knew  him — he  was  a  fellow,  bless  him  1  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  I 
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 — every- 
thing, in  fact  !...'!  am  ready  to  love  you,  too,  Vassily  Petro- 
vitch,  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  161 

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  hand- 
writing, 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  ! 

M 


162  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  1  " 

"  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  1  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  1  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  163 

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  1  " 

"  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  ?  " 


164  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  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  objec- 
tions ;  "  first  of  all  you  must  get  calm,  you  must  pull  yourself 
together,  mustn't  you  ?  " 

"  Arkasha,  Arkasha ! "  cried  Vasya,  jumping  up  from  bis 
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,  gu/.ed 
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." 


A  FAINT  HEART  166 

"  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  1  " 

"  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,  Ar kasha." 

"  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  fa$on  Manon  Lescaut 


166  A  FAINT  HEART 

— a  delightful  thing.  Cherry-coloured  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  ? 
Tliis  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,  stand- 
ing 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,  everytlung  in  her  glance, 
gesture  and  smile  saying  at  once  :  "  Yes,  you  have  chosen  rightly, 
and  are  worthy  of  the  happiness  which  awaits  you." 


A  FAINT  HEART  167 

"  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  enthusi- 
astically, 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  main- 
tain 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  I  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. 


168  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  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 
">y,    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  \\itli 
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. 


A  FAINT  HEART  169 

but  as  they  were  crossing  the  road  and  heard  almost  in  their  ears 
a  shrill :  "  Hi !  there  I  "  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  con- 
fusion :  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,  vexa- 
tious insufferable  Vasya,  of  course  always  the  same  dear  kind 


170  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  some- 
times 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- 
coloured  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 
cyr  lashes,  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  171 

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  Ivano- 
vitch 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.  Mean- 
while, 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 


172  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  com- 
pletely 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. 
Tim  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  173 

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  every- 
thing, 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.  .  .  .  When- 
ever 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 


174  A  FAINT  HEART 

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,      <asya,"     Arkady     Ivanovitch     began     suddenly, 


A  FAINT  HEART  175 

"  wouldn't  it  be  best  to  sleep  a  little  now  1  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  want- 
ing 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-rnorrow.  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." 


176  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  Why,  why  ?  " 

"  It's  all  right,  you  know,  with  other  people,  but  Yulian 
Mastakovitch  ...  he  has  been  so  kind  to  me,  you  know,  Ar kasha, 
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  lus  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  Mastako- 
vitch 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  advis- 
ing you  for  your  good,  I  really  am  !  How  often  Yulian  Mastako- 
vitch himself  has  said  that  what  he  likes  particularly  about  j'our 
writing  is  its  legibility.  Why,  it  is  all  that  Skoroplehin  cares  for, 
that  writing  should  bo  good  and  distinct  like  a  copy,  so  as  after- 
wards to  pocket  the  paper  and  take  it  home  for  his  children  to 
copy ;  he  can't  buy  copybooks,  the  blockhead  !  Yulian  Mastako- 
vitch 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  alarnml. 

"  Will  you  have  some  water  ?     Vasya  !  Vasya  1  " 

"  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  177 

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  in- 
dication 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.  Ma vra  was  busy 
getting  the  samovar  ready  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Vasya,  Vasya  !  "  Arkady  cried  in  alarm,  "  when  did  you  fall 
asleep  ?  " 

N 


178  A  FAINT  HEART 

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,  wo 
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. 

STes,  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  179 

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  with- 
out 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  T  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  Ivano- 
vitch 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 


180  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  1  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  1  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  yester- 
day. Well,  it's  settled.  Now  try  and  get  over  it,  Vasya.  Good- 
bye, good-bye  1 " 

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  signa- 
ture of  Vasya  Shumkov  1  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  cer- 
tainly going  to  be  trouble,  but  how  ?  And  in  what  form  ? 


A  FAINT  HEART  181 

He  reached  the  Artemyevs  with  gloomy  forebodings ;  he  seemed 
absent-minded  from  the  first,  and  after  talking  a  little  v-ith 
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  1  "  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  Fthe  matter  with  me. 
I.  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  come,  Vasya.  1  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. 


182  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  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. 


-    A  FAINT  HEART  183 

"  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 


184  A  FAINT  HEART 

distressing  him  BO  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  Mastako- 
vitch  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  1  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 '11  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  sud- 
denly, for  no  rhyme  or  reason,  reconciled,  so  that  in  their  joy  they 
might  all  embrace  one  another  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and 


A  FAINT  HEART  185 

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  under- 
stand 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  forlfyou.  I  am  going  to-morrow  to 
Yulian  Mastakovitch,  and  don't  oppose  me.  You|magnify  your 
failure  to  a  crime,  Vasya.  Yulian  Mastakovitch  isa 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 


186  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  toYulian 
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 
BO  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  187 

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  ?  Onlv  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  con- 
sent. 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. 


188  A  FAINT  HEART 

"  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, 
AT  kasha.  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. 


A  FAINT  HEART  189 

"  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  1  " 

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  imme- 
diately controlled  himself,  reflected,  and  hastened  to  conceal 
his  emotion.  He  sat  down  to  his  papers  without  a  word  He 


190  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  1  "  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  I  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. 


A  FAINT  HEART  191 

"  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  Masta- 
kovitch'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  inter- 
rupted 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  non- 
sense I  am  talking.  Oh,  my  God  1  " 

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, 


192  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  lu'm  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  per- 
fectly 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  1  "  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 


A  FAINT  HEART  193 

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  mines  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  to- 
gether 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  pen- 
knife, 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 

o 


194  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  scrub- 
bing 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 
too  ?  "  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  Mastako- 
vitch'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 


A  FAINT  HEART  196 

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  Mastako- 
vitch  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  to- 
gether 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  awray,  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 


196  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  Vas}7a  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  dis- 
cussed his  illness,  while  others  expressed  their  pity  and  high 


A  FAINT  HEART  197 

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  out- 
side 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.  thrust- 
ing 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 


198  A  FAINT  HEART 

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  hap- 
pened 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  under- 
stand 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. 


A  FAINT  HEART  199 

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  keep- 
ing up  the  part  of  a  man  perfectly  happy  and  enjoying  himself. 
I  learned  afterwards  that  this  was  a  gentleman  from  the  pro- 
vinces, 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 
intcn-st,  and  whom  he  had  invited,  out  of  civility,  to  his  children's 
party.  He  did  not  play  cards,  cigars  were  not  oll'eivd  him.  every 
one  avoided  entering  into  conversation  \\ilh  him,  most  likely 
the  bird  from  its  feathers;  and  so  my  gentleman 
200 


A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING         201 

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  agree- 
ably. 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 
alread}r  set  aside  for  her  dowrj^.  I  turned  round  to  glance  at 
the  group  who  were  interested  in  such  a  circumstance,  and  my 


202         A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING 

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  devo- 
tion, 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  ex- 
tremely 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 
Miirsinjf  her  doll,  when  Yulian  Mastakovitch  suddenly  walked 
into  the  room.  He  had  taken  advantage  of  the  general  com- 
motion following  a  quarrel  among  the  children  to  step  out  of 


A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING        203 

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  Mastako- 
vitch,  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  play- 
mates !  " 

"  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  t lu- 
red-haired  boy  was  even  more  alarmed  than  Yulian  Masta- 
kovitch ;  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, 
BO  inspired  and  fascinated  by  them,  that  in  spite  of  his  sorious- 
and  dignity  he  made  up  his  rabid  to  behave  like  a  boy, 


A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING        205 

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  Masta- 
kovitch 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  Masta- 
kovitch, if  it  were  possible  ..." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  Yulian  Mastakovitch  made  haste  to  answer; 
"  no,  excuse  me,  Filip  Alexyevitch,  it's  quite  impossible.  I've 


206         A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING 

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  hoste-s,  \\us 
saying  sometliiiig  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  AM- re  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  conversa- 
tion :  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  after- 
wards 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. 


A  CHRISTMAS  TREE  AND  A  WEDDING        207 

"  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  melan- 
choly. 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  nai've,  fluid,  youthful,  which  seemed 
mutely  begging  for  mercy. 

People  wTere  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  mag- 
netism 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  uneasi- 
ness, his  continual  apprehensive  ness  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  mer- 
cenary considerations.  He  readily  allowed  them  to  laugh  their 
loudest  at  him  and  in  the  most  unseemly  way,  to  liis  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  AM  rv 
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  foolish: 
of  his  position ;  but  the  protest  died  away  in  his  heart  at  once, 
though  it  invariably  sprang  up  again  in  the  most  heroic  way. 

208 


POLZUNKOV  209 

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.  Every- 
thing 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  respect- 
ability 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  incon- 
gruous 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 


210  POLZUNKOV 

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 
Nikolai tch  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  oven  somewhat  tragic  !  " 


POLZUNKOV  211 

"Eh???  1" 

"  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  introduc- 
tion. 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 


212  POLZUNKOV 

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  1  "  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. 

41  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.  .  .  .  Any- 
way, the  serious  expression  of  his  face  did  not  pass  away  till 
the  general  merriment  was  quite  ov»-r. 

"  And  so,"  Polzunkov  began  again  when  all  was  still,  "  though 


POLZUNKOV  213 

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  Niko- 
laitch,' 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  : 


214  POLZUNKOV 

4  You  ungrateful  brigand,  you  accursed  thief  !  '  It  seemed  to 
weigh  a  hundredweight  ...  (if  only  it  had  weighed  a  hundred- 
weight !)....'!  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  1  " 

"  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  bo  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  q< 
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— bavins;  horses   for  the   army — was  light   and   ;\< 
in  cavalry  style,   but    he    settled    himself    solidly  at   Fedosey 
Nikolaitch's,  as  though  he  were  laying  siege  to  it !    I  approached 


POLZUNKOV  215 

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  indig- 
nant, 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 


216  POLZUNKOV 

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  jiigh  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  with- 
out 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 


POLZUNKOV  217 

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  jo}^fully  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  whisper- 
ing— 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 


218  POLZUNKOV 

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,  blun- 
dered, 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  ()>ip  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  yon  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  scoun- 
drel, I  wanted  to  frighten  them.  And  a  nice  way£of  frighten- 


POLZUNKOV  219 

ing  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  1  I  feel  ashamed  to  talk  about  it. 
"  Well,  my  good  friends,  the  end  is  not  far  off  now.  One  day 


220  POLZUNKOV 

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  mj^self,  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  ban- 
daged 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,  t£le-a-tfre. 

"  '  I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you.' 

'•'  '  What  favour  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,  my  dear  boy,  there  is  no  rest  for  me  even  on  my  dcath- 
})<•(!.  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 
Icrcis  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 


POLZUNKOV  221 

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  1  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  for- 
gave 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  1     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. 


222  POLZUNKOV 

"  '  Why,  I  am  dismissed.' 

"  '  Dismissed  ?    how  ?  ' 

"  '  Why,  look  at  this  ! ' 

"  '  WeU,  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  1 ' 

"  '  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  docu- 
ments like  that  ?  Why,  you  are  sometimes  sent  to  Siberia  for 
such  jokes.  Now,  good-bye.  I  am  busy.  We  have  the  Inspec- 
tor 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  1 ' 

"  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,  gentle- 
men ?  " 

'   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  over- 
cast 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 

223 


224  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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  with- 
out dreaming  of  considering  my  age.  But  strange  to  say,  a  sensa- 
tion 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;  be- 
sides, 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  un- 
formed creature  whom  they  at  once  liked  to  pet,  and  with  whom 
tlu-y  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 
prinks  with  me,  and  this  apparently  gave  her  immense  enjoy- 


A  LITTLE  HERO  225 

ment.  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  ah1  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  uncon- 
sciously 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 
Q 


226  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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  pre- 
pared 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  evidentty  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  men- 
tioned 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  to- 
wurds  her,  suddenly,  quite  unexpectedly,  to  my  intense  astonish- 
ment, squeezed  it  in  her  mischievous  warm  fingers,  and  began 
t<>  pinch  my  fingers  till  they  hurt  so  much  that  I  had  to  do  my 
\c  TV  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 


A  LITTLE   HERO  227 

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  mis- 
chief. 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  school- 
boy 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 


228  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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  accom- 
panied 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  suppled 
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 


A  LITTLE  HERO  229 

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  some- 
thing 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 


230  A  LITTLE  HERO 

which  loves  much  grieves  much — though  their  wounds  are  care- 
fully 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  mj'sterious  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 
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  insuffer- 
ably bored  on  such  evenings.  Then  I  stared  at  the  people  round 
me,  listened  to  the  conversation,  of  which  I  often  did  not  under- 
stand one  word,  and  at  that  time  the  mild  eyes,  the  gentle  smile 
and  lovely  face  of  Mine.  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 ; 
1  si  tidied  every  LOslnrv.  ev<  ry  movement  she  made,  listened  to 
every  vibration  of  her  rich,  silvery,  but  rather  nmflled  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 


A  LITTLE  HERO  231 

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  pur- 
posely 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  hand- 
kerchief 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 ;  curst  <l 
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 


232  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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,  wit  a 
European  whiskers,  with  a  self -satisfied,  red  face,  with  teeth 
white  as  sugar,  and  with  an  irreproachably  gentlemanly  de- 
portment. 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  loag  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  ^  ok  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 


A  LITTLE  HERO  233 

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-preserva- 
tion to  get  on  with  people  fairly  successfully.  They  pride  them- 
selves extremely  upon  that.  They  are,  for  instance,  as  good 
as  persuaded  that  almost  the  whole  world  owes  them  some- 
thing ;  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  rogiies,  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  him- 
self 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  every- 
thing and — the  acme  of  ingenuity  on  his  part — the  most  fashion- 
able 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 


234  A  LITTLE  HERO 

most  correct  and  rational  form  of  philanthropy,  and  continual!; 
attacking  romanticism,  in  other  words,  everything  fine  am 
true,  each  atom  of  which  is  more  precious  than  all  their  mollus 
tribe.  But  they  are  too  coarse  to  recognize  the  truth  in  a: 
indirect,  roundabout  and  unfinished  form,  and  they  rejec 
everything  that  is  immature,  still  fermenting  and  unstable.  Th 
well -nourished  man  has  spent  all  his  life  in  merry-making,  witi 
everything  provided,  has  done  nothing  himself  and  does  no 
know  how  hard  every  sort  of  work  is,  and  so  woe  betide  you  i 
you  jar  upon  his  fat  feelings  by  any  sort  of  roughness;  he'] 
never  forgive  you  for  that,  he  will  always  remember  it  and  wi] 
gladly  avenge  it.  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  my  hero  i 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  gigantic,  incredibly  swollen  bag,  fu] 
of  sentences,  fashionable  phrases,  and  labels  of  all  sorts  and  kinds 

M.  M.,  however,  had  a  speciality  and  was  a  very  remarkabl 
man ;  he  was  a  wit,  good  talker  and  story-teller,  and  there  wa 
always  a  circle  round  him  in  every  drawing-room.  That  evminj 
he  was  particularly  successful  in  making  an  impression.  H 
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  fac< 
was  so  sad  that  I  fancied  every  minute  that  tears  would  begh 
quivering  on  her  long  eyelashes.  All  this,  as  I  have  said,  im 
pressed  me  extremely  and  made  me  wonder.  I  went  away  witl 
a  feeling  of  strange  cilriosity,  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  rehearsa 
of  some  tableaux  vivants  in  which  I  had  to  take  part.  Th( 
tableaux  vivants,  theatricals,  and  afterwards  a  dance  were  al 
fixed  for  the  same  evening,  five  days  later — the  birthday  of  oui 
host's  younger  daughter.  To  this  entertainment,  which  vf&t 
almost  improvised,  another  hundred  guests  were  invited  froir 
Moscow  and  from  surrounding  villas,  so  that  there  was  a  greal 
deal  of  fuss,  bustle  and  commotion.  The  rehearsal,  or  rathei 
review  of  the  costumes,  was  fixed  so  early  in  (lie  morning  b< -cause 
our  manager,  a  well-known  artist,  a  friend  of  our  host's,  whc 
had  consented  through  affection  for  him  to  undertake  the 
arrangement  of  the  tableaux  and  the  training  of  us  for  them, 
was  in  haste  no\v  to  get  to  Moscow  to  purchase  projx'rlies  and 
to  make  final  preparations  for  the  fete,  as  there  was  no  time  to 


A  LITTLE  HERO  236 

lose.  I  took  part  in  one  tableau  with  Mrae.  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  re- 
hearsal. 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  good- 
ness, 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 
juat  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  t  "  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) 


236  A  LITTLE  HERO 

"  is  laughing  and  crying  at  the  same  time;  there  Is  no  makir 
her  out.  She  says,  though,  that  you  are  angry  with  N.  aboi 
something  and  so  wouldn't  go  and  see  him  off.  Nonsense,  < 
course  ?  " 

"  She's  laughing,"  said  Mme.  M.,  coming  down  the  veranda 
steps. 

"  So  this  is  your  daily  cavaliere  servente,"  added  M.  M.,  with 
wry  smile,  turning  his  lorgnette  upon  me. 

"  Page  !  "  I  cried,  angered  by  the  lorgnette  and  the  jeei 
and  laughing  straight  in  his  face  I  jumped  down  the  three  stej 
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  sh 
indicated  me  to  her  husband,  and  looked  as  though  she  ha 
invited  me  to  do  so  an  hour  before,  and  as  though  I  had  bee 
accompanying  her  on  her  walks  every  morning  for  the  lag 
month.  But  I  could  not  make  out  why  she  was  so  confused,  s 
embarrassed,  and  what  was  in  her  mind  when  she  brough 
herself  to  have  recourse  to  her  little  lie  ?  Why  had  she  not  simpl 
said  that  she  was  going  alone  ?  I  did  not  know  how  to  loo 
at  her,  but  overwhelmed  with  wonder  I  began  by  degrees  ver 
naively  peeping  into  her  face ;  but  just  as  an  hour  before  a 
the  rehearsal  she  did  not  notice  either  my  looks  or  my  mut 
question.  The  same  anxiety,  only  more  intense  and  more  dig 
tinct,  was  apparent  in  her  face,  in  her  agitation,  in  her  wall 
She  was  in  haste,  and  walked  more  and  more  quickly  and  kep 
looking  uneasily  down  every  avenue,  down  every  path  in  the  woo< 
that  led  in  the  direction  of  the  garden.  And  I,  too,  was  -expcctm] 
something.  Sudden!}'  there  was  the  sound  of  horses'  ho«| 
behind  us.  It  was  the  whole  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  01 
horseback  escorting  N.,  the  gentleman  who  was  so  Buddenl; 
deserting  us. 

Among  the  ladies  was  my  fair  tormentor,  of  whom  M.  M.  ha< 
told  us  that  she  was  in  tears.  But  characteristically  she  wai 
laughing  like  a  child,  and  was  galloping  briskly  on  a  splondk 
bay  horse.  On  reaching  us  N.  took  off  his  hat,  but  did  noi 
slop,  nor  say  one  word  to  Mme.  M.  Soon  all  the  cav\lcad< 
disappeared  from  our  sight.  I  glanced  at  Mme.  M.  and  almosl 
cri'-(l  out  in  wonder ;  she  was  standing  as  white  as  a  handkerchie: 
and  big  tears  were  gushing  from  her  eyes.  By  chance  our  eyet 


A  LITTLE  HERO  237 

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  Chough  she  had  only  suddenly 
realized  it — 

"  All !  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.  .  .  . 
•7}  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  under- 
stand 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  be- 
ginning and  it  was  fruitful  in  events  for  me. 

Dinner  was  very  early  that  day.  An  expedition  to  a  neigh- 
bouring 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 


238  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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  chattel 
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  thai 
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  liis  sharp  wit  and  rare  resourcefulness  not  to  be  com- 
plot'ly  eov<  red  with  ignominy.  The  conflict  was  accompanied 
by  the  continual  and  in-epr.  .-,il»le  laughter  of  all  who  witn< 
and  took  part  in  it.  That  day  was  for  him  very  different  from 
tin-  day  IK  We.  It  was  noticeable  that  Mme.  M.  several  times 
did  IMT  utmost,  to  stop  her  indiscreet  friend,  who  was  certainly 
trying  to  depict  the  jealous  husband  in  the  most  grotesque 


A  LITTLE  HERO  239 

and  absurd  guise,  in  the  guise  of  "  a  blue  beard  "  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  un- 
expectedly. 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  na'ive  gesture,  my 
tears,  and  especially  the  fact  that  I  seemed  to  be  defending 
I  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 


240  A  LITTLE  HERO 

trilling  voices;  they  were  all  twittering  at  once,  like  swal!. 
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  havo 
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  mimi 
had  not  known  what  it  was  :  whether  it  was  good  or  bad,  splendid 
or  shameful,  praiseworthy  or  reprehensible?     Now  in  my  dis- 
tress, 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  tin's  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 
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,  withe  it 
exaggeration.     The  first  untried,  unformed  feeling  had  Ut 
coarsely  handled  in  me,  a  child.    The  first  fragrant,   vii 
modesty  had  been  so  soon  exposed  and  insulted,  and  the  first 
perhaps  very  real  and  aesthetic  impression  had  been  so  outr 
Of  course  there  was  much  my  persecutors  did  not  know  and  did 
not  divine  in  my  sufferings.     One  circumstance,  wlu'ch  I  had 
succeeded  in  analysing  till  then,  of  which  I  had  been  as  it  v 
afraid,  partly  ent<  ivd  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   t\\o 
questions  :  first,  what  had  the  wretched  fair  beauty  seen,  and,  in 


A  LITTLE  HERO  241 

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 
fdte,  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. 


242  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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,  ho  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  em- 
barrassment, 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. 


A  LITTLE  HERO  243 

'  Yet  I  consider  you  are  au  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  Kapat- 
charovo,  waiting  for  your  teeth  to  fall  out.  Come,  take  him  away, 
he  has  frightened  people  enough.  It  was  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  fabulpus  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  an- 
other 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  yoiir  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, 


244  A  LITTLE  HERO 

and  which  he  imagined  to  be  particularly  attractive  to  the  ladies. 
Tliis  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  no  tiling. 

"  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  Mine.  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.  .  .  .  Bui  I  cannot  describe  what  I  felt  at  this  un- 
expected challenge  ficm  the  madcap.  Everything  was  dark 
before  my  eyes  when  1  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  con- 
fusion, and  to  revenge  myself  on  all  of  them  and  before  every- 
one, 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, 
wliich  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, 
1  \v;is  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  1  "  And  clutching  at  Tancred's  mane  I  put  my  foot  in  the 


A  LITTLE  HERO  245 

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  inter- 
cepted 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 


246  A   LITTLE   HERO 

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  cried  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  In-en 
my  irreconcileable  foe,  suddenly  rushed  up  to  embrace  and  kiss 
me.  She  had  hardly  been  able  to  believe  her  ey< -s  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  iho 
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, 


A  LITTLE  HERO  247 

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.  Wo 
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 


24R  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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  nob  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  ?  " 
•X"'  Yes,  T  don't  foci  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." 


A  LITTLE  HERO  249 

She  took  me  upstairs,  and  there  was  no  end  to  the  care  she 
lavished  on  me.  Leaving  ime  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 


250  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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. 
T  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  Mine.  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  n-;i><>n, 
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  wait'inir  half  a  minute  I,  too,  emerged 
from  th(  bushes ;  but  what  was  my  amazement  when  I  saw  lying 


A  LITTLE  HERO  251 

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 


252  A  LITTLE  HERO 

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 
Mine.  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  intrgiue  was  not  such,  perhaps,  as  one 
might  suppose  at  the  first  glance.  Perhaps  that  kiss  was  the 
of  farewell,  perhaps  it  was  the  last  slight  reward  for  the  sacrifice 
made  to  her  peace  and  honour.  N.  was  going  away,  he  was  leav- 
ing 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  thai  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  l)e  convinced,  to  expect,  as  though  it  were  one's  execution, 
that  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  in  a  minute  perhaps,  all  might  be 
di-i -ov. -red,  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 
}H  r  judges.  In  another  minute  their  smiling'  flattering  faces 
would  be  menacing  and  merciless.  She  would  read  mockery, 


A  LITTLE  HERO  263 

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  des- 
pair came  on  her  lips,  and  utterly  worn  out  and  exhausted, 
resigned,  and  making  up  her  mind  to  the  worst,  she  turned  with- 
out 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 


254  A  LITTLE  HERO 

stone,  about  which  grew  ivy,  wild  jasmine,  and  dog-rose ;  the 
whole  wood  was  dotted  with  little  bridges,  arbours,  grottoes, 
and  similar  siarprises.  Mine.  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. 

Sea,  do,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  weak  voice,  with  a    fault 
smile,  at  once  dropping  her  eyes  on  the  book  again. 

"  Or  soon  they  will  be  mowing  the  grass  here  and  there  will  bo 
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  then-  \vjis  a  field  of  rye,  not.  yet  ri]M>.  I  ran  there  for 
cornflowers;  I  mixed  them  with  tall  ears  of  rye,  picking  out  the 


A  LITTLE  HERO  265 

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  pansies,  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.  Mechani- 
cally, 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  Avaved  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 


256  A  LITTLE  HERO 

among  the  flowera  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  < 
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  1  " 

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  throb- 
bing. 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  kercliief  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  stops. 
I  was  alone. 


A  LITTLE  HERO  257 

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  uncon- 
sciously before  me  at  the  surrounding  slopes,  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  pro- 
portionate 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  ob- 
served that  Ustinya  Fj'odorovna,  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  gentle- 
man 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 

258 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  259 

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  imagina- 
tion. What  is  more,  Mr.  Prohartchin,  though  deprived  in  this 
way  of  imagination,  could  never  have  made  a  particularly  favour- 
able 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 


2«0  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  Us  tiny  a  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  dinner  when  he  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  .  .  . 

Here  the  biographer  confesses  that  nothing  would  have  in- 
duced 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  character- 
istic, 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  com- 
pletely forgotten  the  existence  of  linen  on  Semyon  Ivanovitch. 
From  the  landlady's  evidence  it  appeared  that  "  Semyon  Ivano- 
vitch, bless  his  soul,  poor  lamb,  for  twenty  years  had  been  tucked 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  261 

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  extra- 
ordinary 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 


262  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  re- 
proaching 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 


ME.   PROHARTCHIN  263 

about  him,  and  no  one  was  thinking  of  attacking  him,  he  added 
something  in  conclusion  to  the  effect  that  when  Zinovy  Proko- 
fyevitch  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  some- 
thing 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  curio- 
sity 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  Vassilye- 
vitch  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 


264  ME.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  grUteful  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  ex- 
amination 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  appear- 
ances, 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,  d  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 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  265 

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  liis 
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  inappropri- 
ate 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  relation!  with  any  one.  Both  his 


266  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  Ivano- 
vitch  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  occa- 
sions. 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  even- 
ing 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  ob- 
served 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  return- 
ing ;  but  they  said  that  they  had  all  known  beforehand  that  he 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  267 

was  about  with  a  drunken  cadger.  This  drunken  cadger  was  a 
thoroughly  bad  lot,  insolent  and  cringing,  and  it  seemed  evi- 
dent that  he  had  got  round  Semyon  Ivanovitch  in  some  way. 
He  had  turned  up  just  a  week  before  Semyon  Ivanovitch's  dis- 
appearance 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  Peters- 
burg 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  unde- 
serving, 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  Hyitch  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. 


265  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  trium- 
phal reception ;  they  broke  the  bolt  and  moved  away  the  screen 
fom  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;  al- 
ready 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.  Pro- 
hartchin,  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  b)T  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  taae  of  drunkenness,  nor  had  he  had  a  blow,  but  that  something 


MB.   PROHARTCHIN  269 

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  barri- 
caded 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 


270  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  Ivano- 
vitch 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  ever- 
lastingly 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,  hold  up  hi*  hand  about 


MR    PROHARTCHIN  271 

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,  insist- 
ing upon  the  indisputable  number  seven,  and  resolutely  denying 
any  possible  claim  of  any  sort  of  sisters-in-law  upon  Semyon  Ivano- 
vitch. 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  Ivano- 
vitch, made  a  fearful  fuss,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  himinto  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 


272  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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.  Prohart- 
chin  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 


MR.   PROHARTCHIX  273 

speak,  to  scream,  but  his  voice  failed  him.  He  felt  that  the 
infuriated  crowd  was  twining  round  him  like  a  many-coloured 
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  de- 
corum, 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  negroes,  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  him- 
self, 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  Ivano- 
vitch 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  obsti- 
nately pulling  the  quilt  higher  and  higher  over  his  head.  Mark 
T 


274  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  sometliing  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  sjTnpathetic  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  & 
fourth  and  so  on,  so  that  his  mouth  seemed  brimming  over; 


«/ 

"  Why, 
"I  tell 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  276 

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  !  " 

T,  you  are  still  raving,  aren't  you,  Semyon  Ivanovitch  ?  " 
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  li ving  there,  that 
she  had  lighted  a  candle  and  set  fire  to  the  lumber  room;  but 
nothing  would  happen  in  her  place,  arid  everything  would  be 
all  right  in  the  flats. 

"  But  look  here,  Semyon  Ivanovitch,"  cried  Zinovy  Proko- 
fyevitch,  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  sym- 
pathetic 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.  Sud- 
denly the  kitchen  door  creaked  and  opened,  and  the  drunken 
cadger — alias  Mr.  Zimoveykin — timidly  thrust  in  his  head, 


276  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  ZLmoveykin  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  some- 
thing extremely  nasty,  possibly  mud  from  a  puddle.  Under  hi.s 
arm  was  somebody's  violin,  which  he  had  been  taking  some- 
where 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  \\ise  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  stai 
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  con- 
tinued, but  Mark  Ivanovitch  checked  hi.s  zeal,  and  wailing  till 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  277 

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  im- 
patience, 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  block- 
head. 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, 


278  MR.   PROHARTCHIX 

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  Ivano- 
vitch,  "  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  j-ou  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-m'orrow,  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  ? — Dernid 
Vassilyevitch  says  that  the  post  will  be  done  away  with.  ..." 


MR.   PROHARTCHIX  279 

"  Ah,  bless  you,  -with  your  Demid  1  You  sinner,  vrhy,  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  !  "  Zimovey- 
kin  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  under- 
stand ?  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  ?  " 


280  AIR.    PROHARTC'HTN 

"  WeU,  that's  just  it." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  WeU,  there  it  is." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  am  free,  he's  free,  and  here  one  lies  and  thinks  .  .  ." 

"  What  1  " 

"  What  if  they  say  I'm  seditious  ?  " 

"  Se — di — tious  ?     Senka,  you  seditious  !  " 

"  Stay,"  cried  Mr.  Prohartchin,  waving  his  hand  and  in- 
terrupting 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  use- 
of  touching  upon  the  memory  of  Napoleon,  instantly 


MR.   PROHARTCHTN 

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,  con- 
fining 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 


282  MR.   PR05ARTCHIK 

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,  arid  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  land- 
lady 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  b'ght  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  com- 
batants 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 


MR.   PEOHARTCHIN  283 

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  awray.  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  Renmev 
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,  insubordina- 
tion, 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  Fyodo- 
rovna  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  Hyitch, 
behind  Yaroslav  Hyitch  his  subordinates  and  the  functionaries 
whose  duty  it  is  to  be  present  011  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  hig 


284  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  Hyitch,  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. 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  285 

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 -loo  king,  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  stand- 
ing 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  waystill  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  Prokofye- 
vitch,  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 


286  MR.    PROHARTCHIN 

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  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  why  Semyon  Ivanovitch  had  been  so  suddenly 
panic-stricken;  but  they  did  not  listen  to  liim.  Zinovy  Proko- 
fyevitch  was  very  thoughtful,  Okeanov  had  had  a  b'ttle  to  drink, 


MR.   PROHARTCHIN  287 

the  others  seemed  rather  crestfallen,  while  a  little  man  called 
Kantarev,  with  a  nose  like  a  sparrow's  beak,  left  the  flat  that  even- 
ing 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,'  the.n,  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.  .  .  .  Sernyon  Ivanovitch,  however,  looked  more  like  a 


288  MR.   PROHARTCHIN 

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  calcula- 
tion. There  was  a  look  of  deep  reflection  in  his  face,  while  his 
lips  were  drawn  together  with  a  significant  air,  of  which  Semj^on 
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  1  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  ?  " 


PKIKTU>  i»  UKKAT  BRITAIN  or  KICUARD  CI.AV  *  Huns,   LIMITED. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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APR  1 
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'1989 
2  4 1989 


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jversity  of  Califo; 
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