Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (562 page)

“I could not manage to run away on Saturday, however; I had to wait till next day, Sunday, and as luck would have it, Touchard and his wife were going away somewhere for the Sunday; there was no one left in the house but Agafya and me.  I awaited the night in terrible agitation, I remember.  I sat at the window in the schoolroom, looking out at the dusty street, the little wooden houses, and the few passers-by.  Touchard lived in an out-of-the- way street; from the windows I could see one of the city gates; ‘Isn’t it the one?’ I kept wondering.  The sun set in a red glow, the sky was so cold-looking, and a piercing wind was stirring up the dust, just as it is to-day.  It was quite dark at last; I stood before the ikon and began to pray, only very, very quickly, I was in haste; I caught up my bundle, and went on tip-toe down the creaking stairs, horribly afraid that Agafya would hear me from the kitchen.  The door was locked, I turned the key, and at once a dark, dark night loomed black before me like a boundless perilous unknown land, and the wind snatched off my cap.  I was just going out on the same side of the pavement; I heard a hoarse volley of oaths from a drunken man in the street.  I stood, looked, and slowly turned, slowly went upstairs, slowly took off my things, put down my little bundle and lay down flat, without tears, and without thoughts, and it was from that moment, Andrey Petrovitch, that I began to think.  It was from that moment that I realized that besides being a lackey, I was a coward, too, and my real development began!”

“Well, I see through you once and for all from this minute,” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, jumping up from her seat, and so suddenly, that I was utterly unprepared for it; “yes, you were not only a lackey then, you are a lackey now; you’ve the soul of a lackey!  Why should not Andrey Petrovitch have apprenticed you to a shoemaker? it would have been an act of charity to have taught you a trade!  Who would have expected more than that of him?  Your father, Makar Ivanovitch, asked — in fact, he insisted — that you, his children, should not be brought up to be above your station.  Why, you think nothing of his having educated you for the university, and that through him you have received class rights.  The little rascals teased him, to be sure, so he has sworn to avenge himself on humanity. . . . You scoundrel!”

I must confess I was struck dumb by this outburst, I got up and stood for some time staring and not knowing what to say.

“Well, certainly Tatyana Pavlovna has told me something new,” I said at last, turning resolutely to Versilov; “yes, certainly I am such a lackey that I can’t be satisfied with Versilov’s not having apprenticed me to a shoemaker; even ‘rights’ did not touch me.  I wanted the whole of Versilov, I wanted a father . . . that’s what I asked for — like a regular lackey.  Mother, I’ve had it on my conscience for eight years — when you came to Moscow alone to see me at Touchard’s, the way I received you then, but I have no time to speak of it now.  Tatyana Pavlovna won’t let me tell my story, Good-bye till to-morrow, mother; we may see each other again.  Tatyana Pavlovna! what if I am so utterly a lackey that I am quite unable to admit the possibility of a man’s marrying again when his wife is alive?  Yet you know that all but happened to Andrey Petrovitch at Ems!  Mother, if you don’t want to stay with a husband who may take another wife to-morrow, remember you have a son who promises to be a dutiful son to you for ever; remember, and let us go away, only on condition that it is ‘either he, or I’ will you?  I don’t ask you for an answer at once, of course: I know that such questions can’t be answered straight off.”

But I could not go on, partly because I was excited and confused.  My mother turned pale and her voice seemed to fail her: she could not utter a word.  Tatyana Pavlovna said something in a very loud voice and at great length which I could not make out, and twice she pushed me on the shoulder with her fist.  I only remember that she shouted that “my words were a sham, the broodings of a petty soul, counted over and turned inside out.”  Versilov sat motionless and very serious, he was not smiling.  I went upstairs to my room.  The last thing I saw as I went out was the reproach in my sister’s eyes; she shook her head at me sternly.

CHAPTER VII

1

I describe all these scenes without sparing myself, in order to recall it clearly and revive the impression.  As I went up to my attic, I did not know in the least whether I ought to be ashamed or triumphant as though I had done my duty.  Had I been ever so little more experienced, I should have had a misgiving that the least doubt in such cases must be taken as a bad sign, but another fact threw me out in my reckoning: I don’t know what I was pleased about, but I felt awfully pleased, in spite of my being uncertain, and of my realizing distinctly that I had not come off with flying colours downstairs.  Even Tatyana Pavlovna’s spiteful abuse of me struck me as funny and amusing and did not anger me at all.  Probably all this was because I had anyway broken my chains and for the first time felt myself free.

I felt, too, that I had weakened my position: how I was to act in regard to the letter about the inheritance was more obscure than ever.  Now it would be certainly taken for granted that I was revenging myself on Versilov.  But while all this discussion was going on downstairs I had made up my mind to submit the question of the letter to an impartial outsider and to appeal to Vassin for his decision, or, failing Vassin, to take it to some one else.  I had already made up my mind to whom.  I would go to see Vassin once, for that occasion only, I thought to myself, and then — then I would vanish for a long while, for some months, from the sight of all, especially of Vassin.  Only my mother and sister I might see occasionally.  It was all inconsistent and confused; I felt that I had done something, though not in the right way, and I was satisfied: I repeat, I was awfully pleased anyway.

I meant to go to bed rather early, foreseeing I should have a lot to do next day.  Besides finding a lodging and moving, I had another project which in one way or another I meant to carry out.  But the evening was not destined to end without surprises, and Versilov succeeded in astonishing me extremely.  He had certainly never been into my attic, and lo and behold, before I had been an hour in my room I heard his footsteps on the ladder: he called to me to show a light.  I took a candle, and stretching out my hand, which he caught hold of, I helped him up.

“Merci, my dear fellow; I’ve never climbed up here before, not even when I took the lodgings.  I imagined what sort of place it was, but I never supposed it was quite such a hole as this.”  He stood in the middle of my attic, looking around with curiosity.  “Why, this is a coffin, a regular coffin.”

It really had a resemblance to the inside of a coffin, and I positively admired the way he had described it in one word.  It was a long narrow box of a room, the ceiling sloped away from the wall at the height of my shoulder, and the top of it was within easy reach of my hand.  Versilov unconsciously stood stooping, afraid of hitting his head against the ceiling; he did not knock it, however, and, finally more or less reassured, he seated himself on the sofa, where my bed had already been made up.  But I did not sit down, I looked at him in the greatest amazement.

“Your mother says she does not know whether to take the money you gave her this evening for your board for the month.  But for a coffin like this, instead of taking your money, we ought rather to offer you compensation!  I have never been up and . . . I can’t conceive how you can exist here!”

“I am used to it.  But what I can’t get used to is seeing you in my room after what has just happened downstairs.”

“O, yes, you were distinctly rude downstairs, but . . . I, too, have a special object which I will explain to you, though indeed there is nothing extraordinary in my coming; even the scene downstairs is in the regular order of things; but for mercy’s sake do explain this: what you told us downstairs after preparing us and approaching the subject so solemnly was surely not all you meant to disclose or communicate?  Was there really nothing else?”

“That was all, or we’ll assume it was all.”

“It’s not much, my dear fellow: I must own that from your beginning and the way you urged us to laugh, in fact from your eagerness to talk, I expected more.”

“But that does not matter to you, surely?”

“But I speak simply from a sense of proportion; it was not worth making such a fuss about, it was quite disproportionate; you’ve been sitting mute a whole month, preparing to speak, and when it comes — it’s nothing.”

“I meant to say more, but I am ashamed of having said even that.  Not everything can be put into words, there are things it’s better never to say at all; I said a good deal, but you did not understand.”

“Why, so you, too, are sometimes distressed at the impossibility of putting thought into words!  That’s a noble sorrow, my dear fellow, and it’s only vouchsafed to the elect: the fool is always satisfied with what he has said, and always, too, says more than he need; they love to have something to spare.”

“As I see I did, for instance; I said more than I need: I asked for the ‘whole of Versilov,’ that was a great deal too much; I don’t need Versilov at all.”

“My dear fellow, I see you want to retrieve your failure downstairs. It is very evident you repent it, and as repentance among us always involves immediately attacking some one, you are very anxious to hit hard this time.  I have come too soon, and you have not yet cooled down, and besides you are not very good at standing criticism.  But sit down, for mercy’s sake; I have come to tell you something; thank you, that’s right.  From what you said to your mother, as you went out, it’s quite clear that it is better for us to separate.  I have come to persuade you to do so as gently and with as little fuss as possible, to avoid grieving and alarming your mother any further. My coming up here even has cheered her.  She believes in a way that we may still be reconciled and that everything will go on as before. I imagine that if we were to laugh heartily once or twice we should fill their timid hearts with delight.  They may be simple souls, but they are sincere and true- hearted in their love.  Why not humour them on occasion?  Well, that’s one thing.  Another thing: why should we necessarily part thirsting for revenge, gnashing our teeth, vowing vengeance, etc.  Of course there is no manner of need to fall on each other’s necks, but we might part, so to say, with mutual respect, mightn’t we?”

“That’s all nonsense!  I promise to go away without a fuss — and that’s enough.  And is it for my mother’s sake you are anxious?  But it strikes me that my mother’s peace of mind has absolutely nothing to do with it, and you are simply saying that.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“You talk to me just as though I were a baby.”

“I am ready to beg your pardon a thousand times over for that, in fact for everything you bring up against me, for those years of your childhood and the rest of it, but, cher enfant, what will be the use of it?  You are too clever to want to be put into such a stupid position.  To say nothing of my not understanding, so far, the exact nature of your accusations.  What is it you blame me for in reality?  For your not having been born a Versilov?  Bah!  You laugh contemptuously and wave your hands, so that’s not it?”

“No, I assure you.  I assure you I don’t think it an honour to be called Versilov.”

“Let’s leave honour out of the question; and, besides, your answer was bound to be democratic; but if so, what are you blaming me for?”

“Tatyana Pavlovna told me just now all I needed to know, and had always failed to grasp, till she spoke.  That is, that you did not apprentice me to a shoemaker, and that consequently I had to be grateful, too.  I can’t understand why it is I am not grateful, even now, even after I have been taught my lesson.  Isn’t it the pride of your race showing itself in me, Andrey Petrovitch?”

“Probably not, and apart from that, you must admit that by your sallies downstairs you’ve only bullied and tormented your mother instead of crushing me, as you intended.  Yet I should have thought it was not for you to judge her.  Besides, what wrong has she done you?  Explain to me, too, by the way, my dear fellow: for what reason and with what object did you spread abroad that you were illegitimate, at your boarding school and at the grammar school, and everywhere you have been, to every casual stranger, as I hear you have?  I hear that you did this with a peculiar relish.  And yet that’s all nonsense, and a revolting calumny: you are legitimate, a Dolgoruky, the son of Makar Ivanovitch Dolgoruky, a respectable man, remarkable for his intelligence and character.  That you have received a superior education is entirely owing to your former master, Versilov, and what’s the upshot of it?  By proclaiming your illegitimacy, which is a calumny in itself, you first and foremost gave away your mother’s secret, and from a false pride exposed your mother to the criticism of every dirty stranger.  My dear fellow, that was very discreditable, especially as your mother is in no way to blame: she has a nature of the greatest purity, and that her name is not Versilov is simply because her husband is still living.”

“Enough, I entirely agree with you, and I have enough faith in your intelligence to hope that you won’t go on rating at me too long for it.  You are so fond of moderation; and yet there’s a moderation in all things, even in your sudden love for my mother.  I’ll tell you what would be better: since you have gone so far as to come up and see me and mean to spend a quarter of an hour or half an hour with me (I still don’t know what for, we’ll assume for my mother’s peace of mind), and what’s more, in spite of the scene downstairs, seem so eager to talk to me, you had better tell me about my father — tell me about Makar Ivanovitch the pilgrim.  I want to hear from you about him: I have been intending to ask you for some time past.  Now that we are parting perhaps for a long time, I should very much like to get from you an answer to another question: has it really been impossible for you during these twenty years to affect my mother’s traditional ideas — and now my sister’s, too — so as to dissipate by your civilizing influence the primitive darkness of her environment?  Oh, I am not speaking of the purity of her nature.  She’s infinitely nobler than you, morally anyway, excuse my saying so . . . but she’s only an infinitely noble corpse.  Versilov is the only one living, everything else about him and everything connected with him exists only on the express condition of having the honour to nourish him with its force, its living sap.  But I suppose she, too, was once alive, wasn’t she?  I suppose you loved something in her, didn’t you?  I suppose she was once a woman?”