Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (571 page)

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“Vassin,” I said at six o’clock in the morning, “if it had not been for your Stebelkov this might not have happened.”

“Who knows? — most likely it would have happened.  One can’t draw such a conclusion; everything was leading up to it, apart from that. . . .  It is true that Stebelkov sometimes. . . .”

He broke off and frowned disagreeably.  At seven o’clock he went out again; he still had a great deal to do.  I was left at last entirely alone.  It was by now daylight.  I felt rather giddy.  I was haunted by the figure of Versilov: this lady’s story had brought him out in quite a different light.  To think this over better, I lay down on Vassin’s bed just as I was, in my clothes and my boots, just for a minute, with no intention of going to sleep — and suddenly I fell asleep; I don’t remember how it happened, indeed.  I slept almost four hours; nobody waked me.

CHAPTER X

1

I woke about half-past ten, and for a long time I could not believe my eyes: on the sofa on which I had slept the previous night was sitting my mother, and beside her — the unhappy mother of the dead girl.  They were holding each other’s hands, they were talking in whispers, I suppose, that they might not wake me, and both were crying.  I got up from the bed, and flew straight to kiss my mother.  She positively beamed all over, kissed me and make the sign of the cross over me three times with the right hand.  Before we had time to say a word the door opened, and Versilov and Vassin came in.  My mother at once got up and led the bereaved woman away.  Vassin gave me his hand, while Versilov sank into an armchair without saying a word to me.  Mother and he had evidently been here for some time.  His face looked overcast and careworn.

“What I regret most of all,” he began saying slowly to Vassin, evidently in continuation of what they had been discussing outside, “is that I had no time to set it all right yesterday evening; then probably this terrible thing would not have happened!  And indeed there was time, it was hardly eight o’clock.  As soon as she ran away from us last night, I inwardly resolved to follow her and to reassure her, but this unforeseen and urgent business, though of course I might quite well have put it off till to-day . . . or even for a week — this vexatious turn of affairs has hindered and ruined everything.  That’s just how things do happen!”

“Perhaps you would not have succeeded in reassuring her; things had gone too far already, apart from you,” Vassin put in.

“No, I should have succeeded, I certainly should have succeeded. And the idea did occur to me to send Sofia Andreyevna in my place. It flashed across my mind, but nothing more.  Sofia Andreyevna alone would have convinced her, and the unhappy girl would have been alive.  No, never again will I meddle . . . in ‘good works’ . . . and it is the only time in my life I have done it!  And I imagined that I had kept up with the times and understood the younger generation.  But we elders grow old almost before we grow ripe. And, by the way, there are a terrible number of modern people who go on considering themselves the younger generation from habit, because only yesterday they were such, and meantime they don’t notice that they are no longer under the ban of the orthodox.”

“There has been a misunderstanding, and the misunderstanding is quite evident,” Vassin observed reasonably.  “Her mother maintains that after the cruel way she was insulted in that infamous house, she seemed to lose her reason.  Add to that her circumstances, the insult in the first place from the merchant . . . all this might have happened in the past, and, to my mind, is in no way particularly characteristic of the younger generation of to-day.”

“It’s impatient, the present generation, and has little understanding of reality; and, although that’s true of all young people in all ages, it’s particularly so in this . . . tell me, what part had Mr. Stebelkov in the trouble?”

“Mr. Stebelkov,” I put in suddenly, “was the cause of it all.  If it hadn’t been for him nothing would have happened.  He poured oil on the flames.”

Versilov listened, but he did not glance at me.  Vassin frowned.

“I blame myself for one ridiculous circumstance,” Versilov went on deliberately, dwelling on each syllable as before, “I believe that in my usual stupid way I allowed myself to be lively after a fashion — this frivolous little laugh — in fact, I was not sufficiently abrupt, dry and gloomy, three characteristics which seem to be greatly prized by the young generation.  In fact, I gave her grounds for suspecting me of being a gay deceiver.”

“Quite the opposite,” I put in abruptly again, “the mother lays particular stress on your having made the best possible impression through your gravity, severity even, and sincerity — those were her very words.  The dead girl herself praised you on the same grounds directly after you’d gone.”

“Y-yes?” Versilov mumbled with a cursory glance in my direction at last.  “Take this scrap of paper, it’s essential to the business” — he held out a tiny sheet to Vassin.  Vassin took it, and seeing I was looking at him with curiosity, gave it to me to read.  It was a note of two straggling lines scrawled in pencil, and perhaps in the dark:

“Mother darling, forgive me for cutting short my début into life.  Your Olya who is causing you such grief.”

“That was only found this morning,” Vassin explained

“What a strange letter!” I cried in astonishment.

“Why strange?” asked Vassin.

“How can anyone use humorous expressions at such a minute?”

Vassin looked at me inquiringly.

“And the humour is strange too,” I went on.  “It’s the conventional school jargon that schoolfellows use with one another.  Who could write ‘cut short my début into life’ at such a moment, in such a letter to her unhappy mother — and she seems to have loved her mother too.”

“Why not write it?” said Vassin, still not understanding.

“There’s absolutely no humour about it,” observed Versilov at last, “the expression, of course, is inappropriate, and quite incongruous, and may, as you say, have been picked up from some high-school slang or from some journalistic stuff; but the dead girl used it in that awful letter quite simply and earnestly”

“That’s impossible; she had completed her studies and won the silver medal.”

“A silver medal has nothing to do with it.  Lots of them complete their studies as brilliantly nowadays.”

“The younger generation again,” said Vassin, smiling.

“Not at all,” said Versilov, getting up and taking his hat.  If the present generation is deficient on the literary side there’s no doubt that it possesses other qualifications,” he added with unusual gravity.  “At the same time ‘many’ does not mean ‘all’: you, for instance, I don’t accuse of being badly educated on the literary side, and you’re a young man too.”

“Vassin saw nothing wrong in the use of ‘début’ either,” I could not resist saying.

Versilov held out his hand to Vassin without speaking.  The latter took up his cap to go with him, calling out to me:  “Goodbye for now.”  Versilov went out without noticing me.  I too had no time to lose.  Come what might, I had to run and find a lodging — now more necessary than ever.  My mother was not with the landlady.  She had gone out, taking the bereaved woman with her.  I went out into the street, feeling particularly cheerful and confident.  A new and mighty feeling had sprung up in my soul.  As luck would have it, everything helped to maintain this mood.  I was exceptionally fortunate and quickly found a lodging in every way suitable.  Of this lodging later, but for the moment I will continue with what is more important.

It was past one when I went back to Vassin’s to fetch my trunk, and again found him at home.  When he saw me he cried with a sincere and good-humoured air:

“How glad I am you’ve caught me!  I was just going out.  I can tell you a piece of news that I think will interest you particularly.”

“I’m sure of that,” I cried.

“I say, you do look cheerful!  Tell me, did you know anything about a letter that was preserved by Kraft, and came into Versilov’s hands yesterday, something concerning the lawsuit he has just won?  In this letter, the testator declares intentions contrary to the decision in the lawcourts yesterday.  The letter was written long ago.  I know nothing definite about it in fact, but don’t you know something?”

“To be sure I do.  The day before yesterday Kraft took me home with him from those people on purpose to give me the letter, and I gave it to Versilov yesterday.”

“Yes?  That’s just what I thought.  Only fancy, that’s just the business Versilov was speaking of just now, that prevented him from coming yesterday evening to see that girl — -it was owing to that letter.  Versilov went straight yesterday evening to Prince Sokolsky’s lawyer, handed in the letter, and refused to take the fortune he had won.  By now this refusal has been put into legal form.  Versilov is not making Prince Sokolsky a present of the money, but declares that he acknowledges his claim to it.”

I was dumbfoundered, but ecstatic.  I had in reality been convinced that Versilov would destroy the letter, and, what is more, though I had told Kraft that this would be dishonourable, and although I had repeated this to myself in the restaurant, and had told myself that “it was to find a true man, not a man like this that I had come” — yet deeper down, that is, in my inmost soul, I felt that there was nothing to be done but to destroy the letter, that is to say, I looked upon this as quite a natural thing to do.  If I blamed Versilov for it afterwards I simply blamed him on purpose, to keep up appearances, and to maintain my moral superiority.  But hearing now of Versilov’s noble action I was moved to genuine and whole- hearted enthusiasm, blaming myself with shame and remorse for my cynicism and indifference to principle, and instantly exalting Versilov to heights far above me.  I almost embraced Vassin.

“What a man!  What a man!” I exclaimed, rapturously.  “Who else would have done it?”

“I quite agree with you that very many people would not have done it . . . and that it was undoubtedly an extremely disinterested action. . . .”

“But . . .?  Finish, Vassin.  You have a ‘but’?”

“Yes, of course there is a ‘but’; Versilov’s action, to my mind, is a little too hasty, and not quite ingenuous,” said Vassin with a smile.

“Not ingenuous?”

“Yes.  There’s too much of the ‘hero on the pedestal’ about it.  For in any case he might have done the same thing without injuring himself.  Some part of the inheritance, if not half of it, might well have remained with him, even from the most scrupulous standpoint, especially as the letter has no legal significance, and he has already won the case.  The lawyer on the other side shares my opinion.  I’ve just been talking to him.  His conduct would have been no less handsome; but simply through a whim due to pride, things have turned out differently.  What’s more, Mr. Versilov let himself be carried away by his feelings, and acted too precipitately. He said himself yesterday that he might have put it off for a whole week. . . .”

“Do you know, Vassin, I can’t help agreeing with you, but . . . I like it better so, it pleases me more!”

“However, it’s a matter of taste!  You asked for my opinion or I should have held my tongue.”

“Even if there is something of the ‘pedestal’ about it, so much the better,” I said.  “A pedestal may be a pedestal but in itself it’s a very precious thing.  This ‘pedestal’ is, anyway, an ‘ideal’ of a sort, and it’s by no means an improvement that some modern souls are without it: it’s better to have it even in a slightly distorted form!  And I’m sure you think so yourself, Vassin darling, Vassin, my dear Vassin!  I am raving but of course you understand me.  That’s what you’re for, Vassin.  In any case I embrace and kiss you, Vassin!”

“So pleased?”

“Yes, awfully pleased.  For the man ‘was dead and liveth, he was lost and is found’!  Vassin, I’m a miserable wretch of a boy, I’m not as good as you.  I recognize it just because at some moments I’m different, deeper and loftier.  I say this because the day before yesterday I flattered you to your face (and I did that because I had been humiliated and crushed) — I hated you for it for two whole days.  I swore the same night that I would never come and see you, and I came to you yesterday morning simply from spite, do you understand, FROM SPITE.  I sat here alone criticizing your room and you, and every one of your books and your landlady.  I tried to humble you and laugh at you.”

“You shouldn’t say that. . . .”

“Yesterday evening, when I concluded from some phrase of yours that you did not understand women, I felt glad that I was able to detect you in it.  This morning, when I scored off you over the ‘début,’ I was awfully pleased again, and all because I had praised you up so before.”

“I should think so indeed!” Vassin cried at last (he still went on smiling, not in the least surprised at me).  “Why, that happens with almost every one, only no one admits it, and one ought not to confess it at all, because in any case it passes, and leads to nothing.”

“Is it really the same with every one?  Is every one the same?  And you say that quite calmly?  Why, one can’t go on living with such views!”

“You think then that:

          To me more dear the lie ennobling           Than Truth’s dark infamy revealed!”

“But that’s true, you know,” I cried.  “There’s a sacred axiom in those two lines!”

“I don’t know.  I can’t undertake to decide whether those lines are true or not.  Perhaps, as always, the truth lies in the mean: that is, that in one case truth is sacred and in another falsehood.  The only thing I know for certain is that that idea will long remain one of the questions most disputed among men.  In any case I observe that at the moment you’re longing to dance.  Well, dance away then, exercise is wholesome; but I have a mass of work to get through this morning . . . and I’ve lingered on with you till I’m late!”

“I’m going!  I’m going!  I’m just off!  One word only,” I cried, after seizing my trunk, “my ‘throwing myself on your neck’ again; it’s simply because when I came in you told me this news with such genuine pleasure and were ‘so glad’ I had found you, and after the ‘début’ incident this morning; that real gladness of yours turned my ‘youthful ardent soul’ to you again.  Well, good-bye, good-bye, I’ll do my best not to come in the future, and I know that that will please you very much, as I see from your eyes, and it will be an advantage to both of us.”