After “cat and mouse”, another game followed in which the gentlemen sit

on one row of chairs and the ladies on another, and choose each other

for partners. The youngest princess always chose the younger Iwin,

Katenka either Woloda or Ilinka, and Sonetchka Seriosha—nor, to my

extreme astonishment, did Sonetchka seem at all embarrassed when her

cavalier went and sat down beside her. On the contrary, she only

laughed her sweet, musical laugh, and made a sign with her head that he

had chosen right. Since nobody chose _me_, I always had the

mortification of finding myself left over, and of hearing them say,

“Who has been left out? Oh, Nicolinka. Well, _do_ take him, somebody.”

Consequently, whenever it came to my turn to guess who had chosen me, I

had to go either to my sister or to one of the ugly elder princesses.

Sonetchka seemed so absorbed in Seriosha that in her eyes I clearly

existed no longer. I do not quite know why I called her “the traitress”

in my thoughts, since she had never promised to choose me instead of

Seriosha, but, for all that, I felt convinced that she was treating me

in a very abominable fashion. After the game was finished, I actually

saw “the traitress” (from whom I nevertheless could not withdraw my

eyes) go with Seriosha and Katenka into a corner, and engage in secret

confabulation. Stealing softly round the piano which masked the

conclave, I beheld the following:

Katenka was holding up a pocket-handkerchief by two of its corners, so

as to form a screen for the heads of her two companions. “No, you have

lost! You must pay the forfeit!” cried Seriosha at that moment, and

Sonetchka, who was standing in front of him, blushed like a criminal as

she replied, “No, I have _not_ lost! _Have_ I, Mademoiselle Katherine?”

“Well, I must speak the truth,” answered Katenka, “and say that you

_have_ lost, my dear.” Scarcely had she spoken the words when Seriosha

embraced Sonetchka, and kissed her right on her rosy lips! And

Sonetchka smiled as though it were nothing, but merely something very

pleasant!

Horrors! The artful “traitress!”

XIV.

THE RETRIBUTION

Instantly, I began to feel a strong contempt for the female sex in

general and Sonetchka in particular. I began to think that there was

nothing at all amusing in these games—that they were only fit for

girls, and felt as though I should like to make a great noise, or to do

something of such extraordinary boldness that every one would be forced

to admire it. The opportunity soon arrived. St. Jerome said something

to Mimi, and then left the room, I could hear his footsteps ascending

the staircase, and then passing across the schoolroom, and the idea

occurred to me that Mimi must have told him her story about my being

found on the landing, and thereupon he had gone to look at the

register. (In those days, it must be remembered, I believed that St.

Jerome’s whole aim in life was to annoy me.) Some where I have read

that, not infrequently, children of from twelve to fourteen years of

age—that is to say, children just passing from childhood to

adolescence—are addicted to incendiarism, or even to murder. As I look

back upon my childhood, and particularly upon the mood in which I was

on that (for myself) most unlucky day, I can quite understand the

possibility of such terrible crimes being committed by children without

any real aim in view—without any real wish to do wrong, but merely out

of curiosity or under the influence of an unconscious necessity for

action. There are moments when the human being sees the future in such

lurid colours that he shrinks from fixing his mental eye upon it, puts

a check upon all his intellectual activity, and tries to feel convinced

that the future will never be, and that the past has never been. At

such moments—moments when thought does not shrink from manifestations

of will, and the carnal instincts alone constitute the springs of

life—I can understand that want of experience (which is a particularly

predisposing factor in this connection) might very possibly lead a

child, aye, without fear or hesitation, but rather with a smile of

curiosity on its face, to set fire to the house in which its parents

and brothers and sisters (beings whom it tenderly loves) are lying

asleep. It would be under the same influence of momentary absence of

thought—almost absence of mind—that a peasant boy of seventeen might

catch sight of the edge of a newly-sharpened axe reposing near the

bench on which his aged father was lying asleep, face downwards, and

suddenly raise the implement in order to observe with unconscious

curiosity how the blood would come spurting out upon the floor if he

made a wound in the sleeper’s neck. It is under the same influence—the

same absence of thought, the same instinctive curiosity—that a man

finds delight in standing on the brink of an abyss and thinking to

himself, “How if I were to throw myself down?” or in holding to his

brow a loaded pistol and wondering, “What if I were to pull the

trigger?” or in feeling, when he catches sight of some universally

respected personage, that he would like to go up to him, pull his nose

hard, and say, “How do you do, old boy?”

Under the spell, then, of this instinctive agitation and lack of

reflection I was moved to put out my tongue, and to say that I would

not move, when St. Jerome came down and told me that I had behaved so

badly that day, as well as done my lessons so ill, that I had no right

to be where I was, and must go upstairs directly.

At first, from astonishment and anger, he could not utter a word.

“_C’est bien!_” he exclaimed eventually as he darted towards me.

“Several times have I promised to punish you, and you have been saved

from it by your Grandmamma, but now I see that nothing but the cane

will teach you obedience, and you shall therefore taste it.”

This was said loud enough for every one to hear. The blood rushed to my

heart with such vehemence that I could feel that organ beating

violently—could feel the colour rising to my cheeks and my lips

trembling. Probably I looked horrible at that moment, for, avoiding my

eye, St. Jerome stepped forward and caught me by the hand. Hardly

feeling his touch, I pulled away my hand in blind fury, and with all my

childish might struck him.

“What are you doing?” said Woloda, who had seen my behaviour, and now

approached me in alarm and astonishment.

“Let me alone!” I exclaimed, the tears flowing fast. “Not a single one

of you loves me or understands how miserable I am! You are all of you

odious and disgusting!” I added bluntly, turning to the company at

large.

At this moment St. Jerome—his face pale, but determined—approached me

again, and, with a movement too quick to admit of any defence, seized

my hands as with a pair of tongs, and dragged me away. My head swam

with excitement, and I can only remember that, so long as I had

strength to do it, I fought with head and legs; that my nose several

times collided with a pair of knees; that my teeth tore some one’s

coat; that all around me I could hear the shuffling of feet; and that I

could smell dust and the scent of violets with which St. Jerome used to

perfume himself.

Five minutes later the door of the store-room closed behind me.

“Basil,” said a triumphant but detestable voice, “bring me the cane.”

XV.

DREAMS

Could I at that moment have supposed that I should ever live to survive

the misfortunes of that day, or that there would ever come a time when

I should be able to look back upon those misfortunes composedly?

As I sat there thinking over what I had done, I could not imagine what

the matter had been with me. I only felt with despair that I was for

ever lost.

At first the most profound stillness reigned around me—at least, so it

appeared to me as compared with the violent internal emotion which I

had been experiencing; but by and by I began to distinguish various

sounds. Basil brought something downstairs which he laid upon a chest

outside. It sounded like a broom-stick. Below me I could hear St.

Jerome’s grumbling voice (probably he was speaking of me), and then

children’s voices and laughter and footsteps; until in a few moments

everything seemed to have regained its normal course in the house, as

though nobody knew or cared to know that here was I sitting alone in

the dark store-room!

I did not cry, but something lay heavy, like a stone, upon my heart.

Ideas and pictures passed with extraordinary rapidity before my

troubled imagination, yet through their fantastic sequence broke

continually the remembrance of the misfortune which had befallen me as

I once again plunged into an interminable labyrinth of conjectures as

to the punishment, the fate, and the despair that were awaiting me. The

thought occurred to me that there must be some reason for the general

dislike—even contempt—which I fancied to be felt for me by others. I

was firmly convinced that every one, from Grandmamma down to the

coachman Philip, despised me, and found pleasure in my sufferings. Next

an idea struck me that perhaps I was not the son of my father and

mother at all, nor Woloda’s brother, but only some unfortunate orphan

who had been adopted by them out of compassion, and this absurd notion

not only afforded me a certain melancholy consolation, but seemed to me

quite probable. I found it comforting to think that I was unhappy, not

through my own fault, but because I was fated to be so from my birth,

and conceived that my destiny was very much like poor Karl Ivanitch’s.

“Why conceal the secret any longer, now that I have discovered it?” I

reflected. “To-morrow I will go to Papa and say to him, ‘It is in vain

for you to try and conceal from me the mystery of my birth. I know it

already.’ And he will answer me, ‘What else could I do, my good fellow?

Sooner or later you would have had to know that you are not my son, but

were adopted as such. Nevertheless, so long as you remain worthy of my

love, I will never cast you out.’ Then I shall say, ‘Papa, though I

have no right to call you by that name, and am now doing so for the

last time, I have always loved you, and shall always retain that love.

At the same time, while I can never forget that you have been my

benefactor, I cannot remain longer in your house. Nobody here loves me,

and St. Jerome has wrought my ruin. Either he or I must go forth, since

I cannot answer for myself. I hate the man so that I could do

anything—I could even kill him.’ Papa will begin to entreat me, but I

shall make a gesture, and say, ‘No, no, my friend and benefactor! We

cannot live together. Let me go’—and for the last time I shall embrace

him, and say in French, ‘_O mon père, O mon bienfaiteur, donne moi,

pour la dernière fois, ta bénédiction, et que la volonté de Dieu soit

faite!_’”

I sobbed bitterly at these thoughts as I sat on a trunk in that dark

storeroom. Then, suddenly recollecting the shameful punishment which

was awaiting me, I would find myself back again in actuality, and the

dreams had fled. Soon, again, I began to fancy myself far away from the

house and alone in the world. I enter a hussar regiment and go to war.

Surrounded by the foe on every side, I wave my sword, and kill one of

them and wound another—then a third,—then a fourth. At last, exhausted

with loss of blood and fatigue, I fall to the ground and cry,

“Victory!” The general comes to look for me, asking, “Where is our

saviour?” whereupon I am pointed out to him. He embraces me, and, in

his turn, exclaims with tears of joy, “Victory!” I recover and, with my

arm in a black sling, go to walk on the boulevards. I am a general now.

I meet the Emperor, who asks, “Who is this young man who has been

wounded?” He is told that it is the famous hero Nicolas; whereupon he

approaches me and says, “My thanks to you! Whatsoever you may ask for,

I will grant it.” To this I bow respectfully, and, leaning on my sword,

reply, “I am happy, most august Emperor, that I have been able to shed

my blood for my country. I would gladly have died for it. Yet, since

you are so generous as to grant any wish of mine, I venture to ask of

you permission to annihilate my enemy, the foreigner St. Jerome” And

then I step fiercely before St. Jerome and say, “_you_ were the cause

of all my fortunes! Down now on your knees!”

Unfortunately this recalled to my mind the fact that at any moment the

_real_ St. Jerome might be entering with the cane; so that once more I

saw myself, not a general and the saviour of my country, but an

unhappy, pitiful creature.

Then the idea of God occurred to me, and I asked Him boldly why He had

punished me thus, seeing that I had never forgotten to say my prayers,

either morning or evening. Indeed, I can positively declare that it was

during that hour in the store-room that I took the first step towards

the religious doubt which afterwards assailed me during my youth (not

that mere misfortune could arouse me to infidelity and murmuring, but

that, at moments of utter contrition and solitude, the idea of the

injustice of Providence took root in me as readily as bad seed takes

root in land well soaked with rain). Also, I imagined that I was going

to die there and then, and drew vivid pictures of St. Jerome’s

astonishment when he entered the store-room and found a corpse there

instead of myself! Likewise, recollecting what Natalia Savishna had

told me of the forty days during which the souls of the departed must

hover around their earthly home, I imagined myself flying through the

rooms of Grandmamma’s house, and seeing Lubotshka’s bitter tears, and

hearing Grandmamma’s lamentations, and listening to Papa and St. Jerome

talking together. “He was a fine boy,” Papa would say with tears in his

eyes. “Yes,” St. Jerome would reply, “but a sad scapegrace and

good-for-nothing.” “But you should respect the dead,” would expostulate

Papa. “_You_ were the cause of his death; _you_ frightened him until he

could no longer bear the thought of the humiliation which you were

about to inflict upon him. Away from me, criminal!” Upon that St.

Jerome would fall upon his knees and implore forgiveness, and when the

forty days were ended my soul would fly to Heaven, and see there

something wonderfully beautiful, white, and transparent, and know that

it was Mamma.

And that something would embrace and caress me. Yet, all at once, I

should feel troubled, and not know her. “If it be you,” I should say to

her, “show yourself more distinctly, so that I may embrace you in

return.” And her voice would answer me, “Do you not feel happy thus?”

and I should reply, “Yes, I do, but you cannot _really_ caress me, and

I cannot _really_ kiss your hand like this.” “But it is not necessary,”

she would say. “There can be happiness here without that,”—and I should

feel that it was so, and we should ascend together, ever higher and

higher, until—Suddenly I feel as though I am being thrown down again,

and find myself sitting on the trunk in the dark store-room (my cheeks

wet with tears and my thoughts in a mist), yet still repeating the

words, “Let us ascend together, higher and higher.” Indeed, it was a

long, long while before I could remember where I was, for at that

moment my mind’s eye saw only a dark, dreadful, illimitable void. I

tried to renew the happy, consoling dream which had been thus

interrupted by the return to reality, but, to my surprise, I found

that, as soon as ever I attempted to re-enter former dreams, their

continuation became impossible, while—which astonished me even

more—they no longer gave me pleasure.

XVI.

“KEEP ON GRINDING, AND YOU’LL HAVE FLOUR”

I passed the night in the store-room, and nothing further happened,

except that on the following morning—a Sunday—I was removed to a small

chamber adjoining the schoolroom, and once more shut up. I began to

hope that my punishment was going to be limited to confinement, and

found my thoughts growing calmer under the influence of a sound, soft

sleep, the clear sunlight playing upon the frost crystals of the

windowpanes, and the familiar noises in the street.

Nevertheless, solitude gradually became intolerable. I wanted to move

about, and to communicate to some one all that was lying upon my heart,

but not a living creature was near me. The position was the more

unpleasant because, willy-nilly, I could hear St. Jerome walking about

in his room, and softly whistling some hackneyed tune. Somehow, I felt

convinced that he was whistling not because he wanted to, but because

he knew it annoyed me.

At two o’clock, he and Woloda departed downstairs, and Nicola brought

me up some luncheon. When I told him what I had done and what was

awaiting me he said:

“Pshaw, sir! Don’t be alarmed. ‘Keep on grinding, and you’ll have

flour.’”

Although this expression (which also in later days has more than once

helped me to preserve my firmness of mind) brought me a little comfort,

the fact that I received, not bread and water only, but a whole

luncheon, and even dessert, gave me much to think about. If they had

sent me no dessert, it would have meant that my punishment was to be

limited to confinement; whereas it was now evident that I was looked

upon as not yet punished—that I was only being kept away from the

others, as an evil-doer, until the due time of punishment. While I was

still debating the question, the key of my prison turned, and St.

Jerome entered with a severe, official air.

“Come down and see your Grandmamma,” he said without looking at me.

I should have liked first to have brushed my jacket, since it was

covered with dust, but St. Jerome said that that was quite unnecessary,

since I was in such a deplorable moral condition that my exterior was

not worth considering. As he led me through the salon, Katenka,

Lubotshka, and Woloda looked at me with much the same expression as we

were wont to look at the convicts who on certain days filed past my

grandmother’s house. Likewise, when I approached Grandmamma’s arm-chair

to kiss her hand, she withdrew it, and thrust it under her mantilla.

“Well, my dear,” she began after a long pause, during which she

regarded me from head to foot with the kind of expression which makes

one uncertain where to look or what to do, “I must say that you seem to

value my love very highly, and afford me great consolation.” Then she

went on, with an emphasis on each word, “Monsieur St. Jerome, who, at

my request, undertook your education, says that he can no longer remain

in the house. And why? Simply because of you.” Another pause ensued.

Presently she continued in a tone which clearly showed that her speech

had been prepared beforehand, “I had hoped that you would be grateful

for all his care, and for all the trouble that he has taken with you,

that you would have appreciated his services; but you—you baby, you

silly boy!—you actually dare to raise your hand against him! Very well,

very good. I am beginning to think that you cannot understand kind

treatment, but require to be treated in a very different and

humiliating fashion. Go now directly and beg his pardon,” she added in

a stern and peremptory tone as she pointed to St. Jerome, “Do you hear

me?”

I followed the direction of her finger with my eye, but on that member

alighting upon St. Jerome’s coat, I turned my head away, and once more

felt my heart beating violently as I remained where I was.

“What? Did you not hear me when I told you what to do?”

I was trembling all over, but I would not stir.

“Koko,” went on my grandmother, probably divining my inward sufferings,

“Koko,” she repeated in a voice tender rather than harsh, “is this

you?”

“Grandmamma, I cannot beg his pardon for—” and I stopped suddenly, for

I felt the next word refuse to come for the tears that were choking me.

“But I ordered you, I begged of you, to do so. What is the matter with

you?”

“I-I-I will not—I cannot!” I gasped, and the tears, long pent up and

accumulated in my breast, burst forth like a stream which breaks its

dikes and goes flowing madly over the country.

“_C’est ainsi que vous obéissez à votre seconde mère, c’est ainsi que

vous reconnaissez ses bontés!_” remarked St. Jerome quietly, “_A

genoux!_”

“Good God! If _she_ had seen this!” exclaimed Grandmamma, turning from

me and wiping away her tears. “If she had seen this! It may be all for

the best, yet she could never have survived such grief—never!” and

Grandmamma wept more and more. I too wept, but it never occurred to me

to ask for pardon.

“_Tranquillisez-vous au nom du ciel, Madame la Comtesse_,” said St.

Jerome, but Grandmamma heard him not. She covered her face with her

hands, and her sobs soon passed to hiccups and hysteria. Mimi and Gasha

came running in with frightened faces, salts and spirits were applied,

and the whole house was soon in a ferment.

“You may feel pleased at your work,” said St. Jerome to me as he led me

from the room.

“Good God! What have I done?” I thought to myself. “What a terribly bad

boy I am!”

As soon as St. Jerome, bidding me go into his room, had returned to

Grandmamma, I, all unconscious of what I was doing, ran down the grand

staircase leading to the front door. Whether I intended to drown

myself, or whether merely to run away from home, I do not remember. I

only know that I went blindly on, my face covered with my hands that I

might see nothing.

“Where are you going to?” asked a well-known voice. “I want you, my

boy.”

I would have passed on, but Papa caught hold of me, and said sternly:

“Come here, you impudent rascal. How could you dare to do such a thing

as to touch the portfolio in my study?” he went on as he dragged me

into his room. “Oh! you are silent, eh?” and he pulled my ear.

“Yes, I _was_ naughty,” I said. “I don’t know myself what came over me

then.”

“So you don’t know what came over you—you don’t know, you don’t know?”

he repeated as he pulled my ear harder and harder. “Will you go and put

your nose where you ought not to again—will you, will you?”

Although my ear was in great pain, I did not cry, but, on the contrary,

felt a sort of morally pleasing sensation. No sooner did he let go of

my ear than I seized his hand and covered it with tears and kisses.

“Please whip me!” I cried, sobbing. “Please hurt me the more and more,

for I am a wretched, bad, miserable boy!”

“Why, what on earth is the matter with you?” he said, giving me a

slight push from him.

“No, I will not go away!” I continued, seizing his coat. “Every one

else hates me—I know that, but do _you_ listen to me and protect me, or

else send me away altogether. I cannot live with _him_. He tries to

humiliate me—he tells me to kneel before him, and wants to strike me. I

can’t stand it. I’m not a baby. I can’t stand it—I shall die, I shall

kill myself. _He_ told Grandmamma that I was naughty, and now she is

ill—she will die through me. It is all his fault. Please let me—W-why

should-he-tor-ment me?”

The tears choked my further speech. I sat down on the sofa, and, with

my head buried on Papa’s knees, sobbed until I thought I should die of

grief.

“Come, come! Why are you such a water-pump?” said Papa compassionately,

as he stooped over me.

“He is such a bully! He is murdering me! I shall die! Nobody loves me

at all!” I gasped almost inaudibly, and went into convulsions.

Papa lifted me up, and carried me to my bedroom, where I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was late. Only a solitary candle burned in the room,

while beside the bed there were seated Mimi, Lubotshka, and our doctor.

In their faces I could discern anxiety for my health, so, although I

felt so well after my twelve-hours’ sleep that I could have got up

directly, I thought it best to let them continue thinking that I was

unwell.

XVII.

HATRED

Yes, it was the real feeling of hatred that was mine now—not the hatred

of which one reads in novels, and in the existence of which I do not

believe—the hatred which finds satisfaction in doing harm to a

fellow-creature, but the hatred which consists of an unconquerable

aversion to a person who may be wholly deserving of your esteem, yet

whose very hair, neck, walk, voice, limbs, movements, and everything

else are disgusting to you, while all the while an incomprehensible

force attracts you towards him, and compels you to follow his slightest

acts with anxious attention.

This was the feeling which I cherished for St. Jerome, who had lived

with us now for a year and a half.

Judging coolly of the man at this time of day, I find that he was a

true Frenchman, but a Frenchman in the better acceptation of the term.

He was fairly well educated, and fulfilled his duties to us

conscientiously, but he had the peculiar features of fickle egotism,

boastfulness, impertinence, and ignorant self-assurance which are

common to all his countrymen, as well as entirely opposed to the

Russian character.

All this set me against him, Grandmamma had signified to him her

dislike for corporal punishment, and therefore he dared not beat us,

but he frequently _threatened_ us, particularly myself, with the cane,

and would utter the word _fouetter_ as though it were _fouatter_ in an

expressive and detestable way which always gave me the idea that to

whip me would afford him the greatest possible satisfaction.

I was not in the least afraid of the bodily pain, for I had never

experienced it. It was the mere idea that he could beat me that threw

me into such paroxysms of wrath and despair.

True, Karl Ivanitch sometimes (in moments of exasperation) had recourse

to a ruler or to his braces, but that I can look back upon without

anger. Even if he had struck me at the time of which I am now speaking

(namely, when I was fourteen years old), I should have submitted

quietly to the correction, for I loved him, and had known him all my

life, and looked upon him as a member of our family, but St. Jerome was

a conceited, opinionated fellow for whom I felt merely the unwilling

respect which I entertained for all persons older than myself. Karl

Ivanitch was a comical old “Uncle” whom I loved with my whole heart,

but who, according to my childish conception of social distinctions,

ranked below us, whereas St. Jerome was a well-educated, handsome young

dandy who was for showing himself the equal of any one.

Karl Ivanitch had always scolded and punished us coolly, as though he

thought it a necessary, but extremely disagreeable, duty. St. Jerome,

on the contrary, always liked to emphasise his part as _judge_ when

correcting us, and clearly did it as much for his own satisfaction as

for our good. He loved authority. Nevertheless, I always found his

grandiloquent French phrases (which he pronounced with a strong

emphasis on all the final syllables) inexpressibly disgusting, whereas

Karl, when angry, had never said anything beyond, “What a foolish

puppet-comedy it is!” or “You boys are as irritating as Spanish fly!”

(which he always called “_Spaniard_” fly). St. Jerome, however, had

names for us like “_mauvais sujet_,” “_villain_,” “_garnement_,” and so

forth—epithets which greatly offended my self-respect. When Karl

Ivanitch ordered us to kneel in the corner with our faces to the wall,

the punishment consisted merely in the bodily discomfort of the

position, whereas St. Jerome, in such cases, always assumed a haughty

air, made a grandiose gesture with his hand, and exclaiming in a

pseudo-tragic tone, “_A genoux, mauvais sujet!_” ordered us to kneel

with our faces towards him, and to crave his pardon. His punishment

consisted in humiliation.

However, on the present occasion the punishment never came, nor was the

matter ever referred to again. Yet, I could not forget all that I had

gone through—the shame, the fear, and the hatred of those two days.

From that time forth, St. Jerome appeared to give me up in despair, and

took no further trouble with me, yet I could not bring myself to treat

him with indifference. Every time that our eyes met I felt that my look

expressed only too plainly my dislike, and, though I tried hard to

assume a careless air, he seemed to divine my hypocrisy, until I was

forced to blush and turn away.

In short, it was a terrible trial to me to have anything to do with

him.

XVIII.

THE MAIDSERVANTS’ ROOM

I began to feel more and more lonely, until my chief solace lay in

solitary reflection and observation. Of the favourite subject of my

reflections I shall speak in the next chapter. The scene where I

indulged in them was, for preference, the maidservants’ room, where a

plot suitable for a novel was in progress—a plot which touched and

engrossed me to the highest degree. The heroine of the romance was, of

course, Masha. She was in love with Basil, who had known her before she

had become a servant in our house, and who had promised to marry her

some day. Unfortunately, fate, which had separated them five years ago,

and afterwards reunited them in Grandmamma’s abode, next proceeded to

interpose an obstacle between them in the shape of Masha’s uncle, our

man Nicola, who would not hear of his niece marrying that “uneducated

and unbearable fellow,” as he called Basil. One effect of the obstacle

had been to make the otherwise slightly cool and indifferent Basil fall

as passionately in love with Masha as it is possible for a man to be

who is only a servant and a tailor, wears a red shirt, and has his hair

pomaded. Although his methods of expressing his affection were odd (for

instance, whenever he met Masha he always endeavoured to inflict upon

her some bodily pain, either by pinching her, giving her a slap with

his open hand, or squeezing her so hard that she could scarcely

breathe), that affection was sincere enough, and he proved it by the

fact that, from the moment when Nicola refused him his niece’s hand,

his grief led him to drinking, and to frequenting taverns, until he

proved so unruly that more than once he had to be sent to undergo a

humiliating chastisement at the police-station.

Nevertheless, these faults of his and their consequences only served to

elevate him in Masha’s eyes, and to increase her love for him. Whenever

he was in the hands of the police, she would sit crying the whole day,

and complain to Gasha of her hard fate (Gasha played an active part in

the affairs of these unfortunate lovers). Then, regardless of her

uncle’s anger and blows, she would stealthily make her way to the

police-station, there to visit and console her swain.

Excuse me, reader, for introducing you to such company. Nevertheless,

if the cords of love and compassion have not wholly snapped in your

soul, you will find, even in that maidservants’ room, something which

may cause them to vibrate again.

So, whether you please to follow me or not, I will return to the alcove

on the staircase whence I was able to observe all that passed in that

room. From my post I could see the stove-couch, with, upon it, an iron,

an old cap-stand with its peg bent crooked, a wash-tub, and a basin.

There, too, was the window, with, in fine disorder before it, a piece

of black wax, some fragments of silk, a half-eaten cucumber, a box of

sweets, and so on. There, too, was the large table at which _she_ used

to sit in the pink cotton dress which I admired so much and the blue

handkerchief which always caught my attention so. She would be

sewing-though interrupting her work at intervals to scratch her head a

little, to bite the end of her thread, or to snuff the candle—and I

would think to myself: “Why was she not born a lady—she with her blue

eyes, beautiful fair hair, and magnificent bust? How splendid she would

look if she were sitting in a drawing-room and dressed in a cap with

pink ribbons and a silk gown—not one like Mimi’s, but one like the gown

which I saw the other day on the Tverski Boulevard!” Yes, she would

work at the embroidery-frame, and I would sit and look at her in the

mirror, and be ready to do whatsoever she wanted—to help her on with

her mantle or to hand her food. As for Basil’s drunken face and horrid

figure in the scanty coat with the red shirt showing beneath it, well,

in his every gesture, in his every movement of his back, I seemed

always to see signs of the humiliating chastisements which he had

undergone.

“Ah, Basil! _Again?_” cried Masha on one occasion as she stuck her

needle into the pincushion, but without looking up at the person who

was entering.

“What is the good of a man like _him?_” was Basil’s first remark.

“Yes. If only he would say something _decisive!_ But I am powerless in

the matter—I am all at odds and ends, and through his fault, too.”

“Will you have some tea?” put in Madesha (another servant).

“No, thank you.—But why does he hate me so, that old thief of an uncle

of yours? Why? Is it because of the clothes I wear, or of my height, or

of my walk, or what? Well, damn and confound him!” finished Basil,

snapping his fingers.

“We must be patient,” said Masha, threading her needle.

“You are so—”

“It is my nerves that won’t stand it, that’s all.”

At this moment the door of Grandmamma’s room banged, and Gasha’s angry

voice could be heard as she came up the stairs.

“There!” she muttered with a gesture of her hands. “Try to please

people when even they themselves do not know what they want, and it is

a cursed life—sheer hard labour, and nothing else! If only a certain

thing would happen!—though God forgive me for thinking it!”

“Good evening, Agatha Michaelovna,” said Basil, rising to greet her.

“_You_ here?” she answered brusquely as she stared at him, “That is not

very much to your credit. What do you come here for? Is the maids’ room

a proper place for men?”

“I wanted to see how you were,” said Basil soothingly.

“I shall soon be breathing my last—_that’s_ how I am!” cried Gasha,

still greatly incensed.

Basil laughed.

“Oh, there’s nothing to laugh at when I say that I shall soon be dead.

But that’s how it will be, all the same. Just look at the drunkard!

Marry her, would he? The fool! Come, get out of here!” and, with a

stamp of her foot on the floor, Gasha retreated to her own room, and

banged the door behind her until the window rattled again. For a while

she could be heard scolding at everything, flinging dresses and other

things about, and pulling the ears of her favourite cat. Then the door

opened again, and puss, mewing pitifully, was flung forth by the tail.

“I had better come another time for tea,” said Basil in a whisper—“at

some better time for our meeting.”

“No, no!” put in Madesha. “I’ll go and fetch the urn at once.”

“I mean to put an end to things soon,” went on Basil, seating himself

beside Masha as soon as ever Madesha had left the room. “I had much

better go straight to the Countess, and say ‘so-and-so’ or I will throw

up my situation and go off into the world. Oh dear, oh dear!”

“And am I to remain here?”

“Ah, there’s the difficulty—that’s what I feel so badly about, You have

been my sweetheart so long, you see. Ah, dear me!”

“Why don’t you bring me your shirts to wash, Basil?” asked Masha after

a pause, during which she had been inspecting his wrist-bands.

At this moment Grandmamma’s bell rang, and Gasha issued from her room

again.

“What do you want with her, you impudent fellow?” she cried as she

pushed Basil (who had risen at her entrance) before her towards the

door. “First you lead a girl on, and then you want to lead her further

still. I suppose it amuses you to see her tears. There’s the door, now.

Off you go! We want your room, not your company. And what good can you

see in him?” she went on, turning to Masha. “Has not your uncle been

walking into you to-day already? No; she must stick to her promise,

forsooth! ‘I will have no one but Basil,’ Fool that you are!”

“Yes, I _will_ have no one but him! I’ll never love any one else! I

could kill myself for him!” poor Masha burst out, the tears suddenly

gushing forth.

For a while I stood watching her as she wiped away those tears. Then I

fell to contemplating Basil attentively, in the hope of finding out

what there was in him that she found so attractive; yet, though I

sympathised with her sincerely in her grief, I could not for the life

of me understand how such a charming creature as I considered her to be

could love a man like him.

“When _I_ become a man,” I thought to myself as I returned to my room,

“Petrovskoe shall be mine, and Basil and Masha my servants. Some day,

when I am sitting in my study and smoking a pipe, Masha will chance to

pass the door on her way to the kitchen with an iron, and I shall say,

‘Masha, come here,’ and she will enter, and there will be no one else

in the room. Then suddenly Basil too will enter, and, on seeing her,

will cry, ‘My sweetheart is lost to me!’ and Masha will begin to weep,

Then _I_ shall say, ‘Basil, I know that you love her, and that she

loves you. Here are a thousand roubles for you. Marry her, and may God

grant you both happiness!’ Then I shall leave them together.”

Among the countless thoughts and fancies which pass, without logic or

sequence, through the mind and the imagination, there are always some

which leave behind them a mark so profound that, without remembering

their exact subject, we can at least recall that something good has

passed through our brain, and try to retain and reproduce its effect.

Such was the mark left upon my consciousness by the idea of sacrificing

my feelings to Masha’s happiness, seeing that she believed that she

could attain it only through a union with Basil.

XIX.

BOYHOOD

Perhaps people will scarcely believe me when I tell them what were the

dearest, most constant, objects of my reflections during my boyhood, so

little did those objects consort with my age and position. Yet, in my

opinion, contrast between a man’s actual position and his moral

activity constitutes the most reliable sign of his genuineness.

During the period when I was leading a solitary and self-centred moral

life, I was much taken up with abstract thoughts on man’s destiny, on a

future life, and on the immortality of the soul, and, with all the

ardour of inexperience, strove to make my youthful intellect solve

those questions—the questions which constitute the highest level of

thought to which the human intellect can tend, but a final decision of

which the human intellect can never succeed in attaining.

I believe the intellect to take the same course of development in the

individual as in the mass, as also that the thoughts which serve as a

basis for philosophical theories are an inseparable part of that

intellect, and that every man must be more or less conscious of those

thoughts before he can know anything of the existence of philosophical

theories. To my own mind those thoughts presented themselves with such

clarity and force that I tried to apply them to life, in the fond

belief that I was the first to have discovered such splendid and

invaluable truths.

Sometimes I would suppose that happiness depends, not upon external

causes themselves, but only upon our relation to them, and that,

provided a man can accustom himself to bearing suffering, he need never

be unhappy. To prove the latter hypothesis, I would (despite the

horrible pain) hold out a Tatistchev’s dictionary at arm’s length for

five minutes at a time, or else go into the store-room and scourge my

back with cords until the tears involuntarily came to my eyes!

Another time, suddenly bethinking me that death might find me at any

hour or any minute, I came to the conclusion that man could only be

happy by using the present to the full and taking no thought for the

future. Indeed, I wondered how people had never found that out before.

Acting under the influence of the new idea, I laid my lesson-books

aside for two or three days, and, reposing on my bed, gave myself up to

novel-reading and the eating of gingerbread-and-honey which I had

bought with my last remaining coins.

Again, standing one day before the blackboard and smearing figures on

it with honey, I was struck with the thought, “Why is symmetry so

agreeable to the eye? What is symmetry? Of course it is an innate

sense,” I continued; “yet what is its basis? Perhaps everything in life

is symmetry? But no. On the contrary, _this_ is life”—and I drew an

oblong figure on the board—“and after life the soul passes to

eternity”—here I drew a line from one end of the oblong figure to the

edge of the board. “Why should there not be a corresponding line on the

other side? If there be an eternity on one side, there must surely be a

corresponding one on the other? That means that we have existed in a

previous life, but have lost the recollection of it.”

This conclusion—which seemed to me at the time both clear and novel,

but the arguments for which it would be difficult for me, at this

distance of time, to piece together—pleased me extremely, so I took a

piece of paper and tried to write it down. But at the first attempt

such a rush of other thoughts came whirling though my brain that I was

obliged to jump up and pace the room. At the window, my attention was

arrested by a driver harnessing a horse to a water-cart, and at once my

mind concentrated itself upon the decision of the question, “Into what

animal or human being will the spirit of that horse pass at death?”

Just at that moment, Woloda passed through the room, and smiled to see

me absorbed in speculative thoughts. His smile at once made me feel

that all that I had been thinking about was utter nonsense.

I have related all this as I recollect it in order to show the reader

the nature of my cogitations. No philosophical theory attracted me so

much as scepticism, which at one period brought me to a state of mind

verging upon insanity. I took the fancy into my head that no one nor

anything really existed in the world except myself—that objects were

not objects at all, but that images of them became manifest only so

soon as I turned my attention upon them, and vanished again directly

that I ceased to think about them. In short, this idea of mine (that

real objects do not exist, but only one’s conception of them) brought

me to Schelling’s well-known theory. There were moments when the

influence of this idea led me to such vagaries as, for instance,

turning sharply round, in the hope that by the suddenness of the

movement I should come in contact with the void which I believed to be

existing where I myself purported to be!

What a pitiful spring of moral activity is the human intellect! My

faulty reason could not define the impenetrable. Consequently it

shattered one fruitless conviction after another—convictions which,

happily for my after life, I never lacked the courage to abandon as

soon as they proved inadequate. From all this weary mental struggle I

derived only a certain pliancy of mind, a weakening of the will, a

habit of perpetual moral analysis, and a diminution both of freshness

of sentiment and of clearness of thought. Usually abstract thinking

develops man’s capacity for apprehending the bent of his mind at

certain moments and laying it to heart, but my inclination for abstract

thought developed my consciousness in such a way that often when I

began to consider even the simplest matter, I would lose myself in a

labyrinthine analysis of my own thoughts concerning the matter in

question. That is to say, I no longer thought of the matter itself, but

only of what I was thinking about it. If I had then asked myself, “Of

what am I thinking?” the true answer would have been, “I am thinking of

what I am thinking;” and if I had further asked myself, “What, then,

are the thoughts of which I am thinking?” I should have had to reply,

“They are attempts to think of what I am thinking concerning my own

thoughts”—and so on. Reason, with me, had to yield to excess of reason.

Every philosophical discovery which I made so flattered my conceit that

I often imagined myself to be a great man discovering new truths for

the benefit of humanity. Consequently, I looked down with proud dignity

upon my fellow-mortals. Yet, strange to state, no sooner did I come in

contact with those fellow-mortals than I became filled with a stupid

shyness of them, and, the higher I happened to be standing in my own

opinion, the less did I feel capable of making others perceive my

consciousness of my own dignity, since I could not rid myself of a

sense of diffidence concerning even the simplest of my words and acts.

XX.

WOLODA

The further I advance in the recital of this period of my life, the

more difficult and onerous does the task become. Too rarely do I find

among the reminiscences of that time any moments full of the ardent

feeling of sincerity which so often and so cheeringly illumined my

childhood. Gladly would I pass in haste over my lonely boyhood, the

sooner to arrive at the happy time when once again a tender, sincere,

and noble friendship marked with a gleam of light at once the

termination of that period and the beginning of a phase of my youth

which was full of the charm of poetry. Therefore, I will not pursue my

recollections from hour to hour, but only throw a cursory glance at the

most prominent of them, from the time to which I have now carried my

tale to the moment of my first contact with the exceptional personality

that was fated to exercise such a decisive influence upon my character

and ideas.

Woloda was about to enter the University. Tutors came to give him

lessons independently of myself, and I listened with envy and

involuntary respect as he drew boldly on the blackboard with white

chalk and talked about “functions,” “sines,” and so forth—all of which

seemed to me terms pertaining to unattainable wisdom. At length, one

Sunday before luncheon all the tutors—and among them two

professors—assembled in Grandmamma’s room, and in the presence of Papa

and some friends put Woloda through a rehearsal of his University

examination—in which, to Grandmamma’s delight, he gave evidence of no

ordinary amount of knowledge.

Questions on different subjects were also put to me, but on all of them

I showed complete ignorance, while the fact that the professors

manifestly endeavoured to conceal that ignorance from Grandmamma only

confused me the more. Yet, after all, I was only fifteen, and so had a

year before me in which to prepare for the examinations. Woloda now

came downstairs for luncheon only, and spent whole days and evenings

over his studies in his own room—to which he kept, not from necessity,

but because he preferred its seclusion. He was very ambitious, and

meant to pass the examinations, not by halves, but with flying colours.

The first day arrived. Woloda was wearing a new blue frockcoat with

brass buttons, a gold watch, and shiny boots. At the door stood Papa’s

phaeton, which Nicola duly opened; and presently, when Woloda and St.

Jerome set out for the University, the girls—particularly Katenka—could

be seen gazing with beaming faces from the window at Woloda’s pleasing

figure as it sat in the carriage. Papa said several times, “God go with

him!” and Grandmamma, who also had dragged herself to the window,

continued to make the sign of the cross as long as the phaeton was

visible, as well as to murmur something to herself.

When Woloda returned, every one eagerly crowded round him. “How many

marks? Were they good ones?” “Yes.” But his happy face was an answer in

itself. He had received five marks—the maximum! The next day, he sped

on his way with the same good wishes and the same anxiety for his

success, and was welcomed home with the same eagerness and joy.

This lasted for nine days. On the tenth day there was to be the last

and most difficult examination of all—the one in divinity.

We all stood at the window, and watched for him with greater impatience

than ever. Two o’clock, and yet no Woloda.

“Here they come, Papa! Here they come!” suddenly screamed Lubotshka as

she peered through the window.

Sure enough the phaeton was driving up with St. Jerome and Woloda—the

latter no longer in his grey cap and blue frockcoat, but in the uniform

of a student of the University, with its embroidered blue collar,

three-cornered hat, and gilded sword.

“Ah! If only _she_ had been alive now!” exclaimed Grandmamma on seeing

Woloda in this dress, and swooned away.

Woloda enters the anteroom with a beaming face, and embraces myself,

Lubotshka, Mimi, and Katenka—the latter blushing to her ears. He hardly

knows himself for joy. And how smart he looks in that uniform! How well

the blue collar suits his budding, dark moustache! What a tall, elegant

figure is his, and what a distinguished walk!

On that memorable day we all lunched together in Grandmamma’s room.

Every face expressed delight, and with the dessert which followed the

meal the servants, with grave but gratified faces, brought in bottles

of champagne.

Grandmamma, for the first time since Mamma’s death, drank a full glass

of the wine to Woloda’s health, and wept for joy as she looked at him.

Henceforth Woloda drove his own turn-out, invited his own friends,

smoked, and went to balls. On one occasion, I even saw him sharing a

couple of bottles of champagne with some guests in his room, and the

whole company drinking a toast, with each glass, to some mysterious

being, and then quarrelling as to who should have the bottom of the

bottle!

Nevertheless he always lunched at home, and after the meal would

stretch himself on a sofa and talk confidentially to Katenka: yet from

what I overheard (while pretending, of course, to pay no attention) I

gathered that they were only talking of the heroes and heroines of

novels which they had read, or else of jealousy and love, and so on.

Never could I understand what they found so attractive in these

conversations, nor why they smiled so happily and discussed things with

such animation.

Altogether I could see that, in addition to the friendship natural to

persons who had been companions from childhood, there existed between

Woloda and Katenka a relation which differentiated them from us, and

united them mysteriously to one another.

XXI.

KATENKA AND LUBOTSHKA

Katenka was now sixteen years old—quite a grown-up girl; and although

at that age the angular figures, the bashfulness, and the _gaucherie_

peculiar to girls passing from childhood to youth usually replace the

comely freshness and graceful, half-developed bloom of childhood, she

had in no way altered. Still the blue eyes with their merry glance were

hers, the well-shaped nose with firm nostrils and almost forming a line

with the forehead, the little mouth with its charming smile, the

dimples in the rosy cheeks, and the small white hands. To her, the

epithet of “girl,” pure and simple, was pre-eminently applicable, for

in her the only new features were a new and “young-lady-like”

arrangement of her thick flaxen hair and a youthful bosom—the latter an

addition which at once caused her great joy and made her very bashful.

Although Lubotshka and she had grown up together and received the same

education, they were totally unlike one another. Lubotshka was not

tall, and the rickets from which she had suffered had shaped her feet

in goose fashion and made her figure very bad. The only pretty feature

in her face was her eyes, which were indeed wonderful, being large and

black, and instinct with such an extremely pleasing expression of

mingled gravity and _naïveté_ that she was bound to attract attention.

In everything she was simple and natural, so that, whereas Katenka

always looked as though she were trying to be like some one else,

Lubotshka looked people straight in the face, and sometimes fixed them

so long with her splendid black eyes that she got blamed for doing what

was thought to be improper. Katenka, on the contrary, always cast her

eyelids down, blinked, and pretended that she was short-sighted, though

I knew very well that her sight was excellent. Lubotshka hated being

shown off before strangers, and when a visitor offered to kiss her she

invariably grew cross, and said that she hated “affection”; whereas,

when strangers were present, Katenka was always particularly endearing

to Mimi, and loved to walk about the room arm in arm with another girl.

Likewise, though Lubotshka was a terrible giggler, and sometimes ran

about the room in convulsions of gesticulating laughter, Katenka always

covered her mouth with her hands or her pocket-handkerchief when she

wanted to laugh. Lubotshka, again, loved to have grown-up men to talk

to, and said that some day she meant to marry a hussar, but Katenka

always pretended that all men were horrid, and that she never meant to

marry any one of them, while as soon as a male visitor addressed her

she changed completely, as though she were nervous of something.

Likewise, Lubotshka was continually at loggerheads with Mimi because

the latter wanted her to have her stays so tight that she could not

breathe or eat or drink in comfort, while Katenka, on the contrary,

would often insert her finger into her waistband to show how loose it

was, and always ate very little. Lubotshka liked to draw heads; Katenka

only flowers and butterflies. The former could play Field’s concertos

and Beethoven’s sonatas excellently, whereas the latter indulged in

variations and waltzes, retarded the time, and used the pedals

continuously—not to mention the fact that, before she began, she

invariably struck three chords in _arpeggio_.

Nevertheless, in those days I thought Katenka much the grander person

of the two, and liked her the best.

XXII.

PAPA

Papa had been in a particularly good humour ever since Woloda had

passed into the University, and came much oftener to dine with

Grandmamma. However, I knew from Nicola that he had won a great deal

lately. Occasionally, he would come and sit with us in the evening

before going to the club. He used to sit down to the piano and bid us

group ourselves around him, after which he would beat time with his

thin boots (he detested heels, and never wore them), and make us sing

gipsy songs. At such times you should have seen the quaint enthusiasm

of his beloved Lubotshka, who adored him!

Sometimes, again, he would come to the schoolroom and listen with a

grave face as I said my lessons; yet by the few words which he would

let drop when correcting me, I could see that he knew even less about

the subject than I did. Not infrequently, too, he would wink at us and

make secret signs when Grandmamma was beginning to scold us and find

fault with us all round. “So much for us children!” he would say. On

the whole, however, the impossible pinnacle upon which my childish

imagination had placed him had undergone a certain abasement. I still

kissed his large white hand with a certain feeling of love and respect,

but I also allowed myself to think about him and to criticise his

behaviour until involuntarily thoughts occurred to me which alarmed me

by their presence. Never shall I forget one incident in particular

which awakened thoughts of this kind, and caused me intense

astonishment. Late one evening, he entered the drawing-room in his

black dress-coat and white waistcoat, to take Woloda (who was still

dressing in his bedroom) to a ball. Grandmamma was also in her bedroom,

but had given orders that, before setting out, Woloda was to come and

say goodbye to her (it was her invariable custom to inspect him before

he went to a ball, and to bless him and direct him as to his

behaviour). The room where we were was lighted by a solitary lamp. Mimi

and Katenka were walking up and down, and Lubotshka was playing Field’s

Second Concerto (Mamma’s favourite piece) at the piano. Never was there

such a family likeness as between Mamma and my sister—not so much in

the face or the stature as in the hands, the walk, the voice, the

favourite expressions, and, above all, the way of playing the piano and

the whole demeanour at the instrument. Lubotshka always arranged her

dress when sitting down just as Mamma had done, as well as turned the

leaves like her, tapped her fingers angrily and said “Dear me!”

whenever a difficult passage did not go smoothly, and, in particular,

played with the delicacy and exquisite purity of touch which in those

days caused the execution of Field’s music to be known

characteristically as “_jeu perlé_” and to lie beyond comparison with

the humbug of our modern _virtuosi_.

Papa entered the room with short, soft steps, and approached Lubotshka.

On seeing him she stopped playing.

“No, go on, Luba, go on,” he said as he forced her to sit down again.

She went on playing, while Papa, his head on his hand, sat near her for

a while. Then suddenly he gave his shoulders a shrug, and, rising,

began to pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano he

halted for a moment and looked fixedly at Lubotshka. By his walk and

his every movement, I could see that he was greatly agitated. Once,

when he stopped behind Lubotshka, he kissed her black hair, and then,

wheeling quickly round, resumed his pacing. The piece finished,

Lubotshka went up to him and said, “Was it well played?” whereupon,

without answering, he took her head in his two hands, and kissed her

forehead and eyes with such tenderness as I had never before seen him

display.

“Why, you are crying!” cried Lubotshka suddenly as she ceased to toy

with his watch-chain and stared at him with her great black eyes.

“Pardon me, darling Papa! I had quite forgotten that it was dear

Mamma’s piece which I was playing.”

“No, no, my love; play it often,” he said in a voice trembling with

emotion. “Ah, if you only knew how much good it does me to share your

tears!”

He kissed her again, and then, mastering his feelings and shrugging his

shoulders, went to the door leading to the corridor which ran past

Woloda’s room.

“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried, halting in the middle of

the passage. Just then Masha came along.

“Why, you look prettier every day,” he said to her. She blushed and

passed on.

“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried again, with a cough and a

shake of his shoulders, just as Masha slipped away and he first caught

sight of me.

I loved Papa, but the intellect is independent of the heart, and often

gives birth to thoughts which offend and are harsh and incomprehensible

to the feelings. And it was thoughts of this kind that, for all I

strove to put them away, arose at that moment in my mind.

XXIII.

GRANDMAMMA

Grandmamma was growing weaker every day. Her bell, Gasha’s grumbling

voice, and the slamming of doors in her room were sounds of constant

occurrence, and she no longer received us sitting in the Voltairian

arm-chair in her boudoir, but lying on the bed in her bedroom,

supported on lace-trimmed cushions. One day when she greeted us, I

noticed a yellowish-white swelling on her hand, and smelt the same

oppressive odour which I had smelt five years ago in Mamma’s room. The

doctor came three times a day, and there had been more than one

consultation. Yet the character of her haughty, ceremonious bearing

towards all who lived with her, and particularly towards Papa, never

changed in the least. She went on emphasising certain words, raising

her eyebrows, and saying “my dear,” just as she had always done.

Then for a few days we did not see her at all, and one morning St.

Jerome proposed to me that Woloda and I should take Katenka and

Lubotshka for a drive during the hours generally allotted to study.

Although I observed that the street was lined with straw under the

windows of Grandmamma’s room, and that some men in blue stockings[1]

were standing at our gate, the reason never dawned upon me why we were

being sent out at that unusual hour. Throughout the drive Lubotshka and

I were in that particularly merry mood when the least trifle, the least

word or movement, sets one off laughing.

[1] Undertaker’s men.

A pedlar went trotting across the road with a tray, and we laughed.

Some ragged cabmen, brandishing their reins and driving at full speed,

overtook our sledge, and we laughed again. Next, Philip’s whip got

caught in the side of the vehicle, and the way in which he said,

“Bother the thing!” as he drove to disentangle it almost killed us with

mirth. Mimi looked displeased, and said that only silly people laughed

for no reason at all, but Lubotshka—her face purple with suppressed

merriment—needed but to give me a sly glance, and we again burst out

into such Homeric laughter, when our eyes met, that the tears rushed

into them and we could not stop our paroxysms, although they nearly

choked us. Hardly, again, had we desisted a little when I looked at

Lubotshka once more, and gave vent to one of the slang words which we

then affected among ourselves—words which always called forth hilarity;

and in a moment we were laughing again.

Just as we reached home, I was opening my mouth to make a splendid

grimace at Lubotshka when my eye fell upon a black coffin-cover which

was leaning against the gate—and my mouth remained fixed in its gaping

position.

“Your Grandmamma is dead,” said St. Jerome as he met us. His face was

very pale.

Throughout the whole time that Grandmamma’s body was in the house I was

oppressed with the fear of death, for the corpse served as a forcible

and disagreeable reminder that I too must die some day—a feeling which

people often mistake for grief. I had no sincere regret for Grandmamma,

nor, I think, had any one else, since, although the house was full of

sympathising callers, nobody seemed to mourn for her from their hearts

except one mourner whose genuine grief made a great impression upon me,

seeing that the mourner in question was—Gasha! She shut herself up in

the garret, tore her hair and refused all consolation, saying that, now

that her mistress was dead, she only wished to die herself.

I again assert that, in matters of feeling, it is the unexpected

effects that constitute the most reliable signs of sincerity.

Though Grandmamma was no longer with us, reminiscences and gossip about

her long went on in the house. Such gossip referred mostly to her will,

which she had made shortly before her death, and of which, as yet, no

one knew the contents except her bosom friend, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch.

I could hear the servants talking excitedly together, and making

innumerable conjectures as to the amount left and the probable

beneficiaries: nor can I deny that the idea that we ourselves were

probably the latter greatly pleased me.

Six weeks later, Nicola—who acted as regular news-agent to the

house—informed me that Grandmamma had left the whole of her fortune to

Lubotshka, with, as her trustee until her majority, not Papa, but

Prince Ivan Ivanovitch!

XXIV.

MYSELF

Only a few months remained before I was to matriculate for the

University, yet I was making such good progress that I felt no

apprehensions, and even took a pleasure in my studies. I kept in good

heart, and learnt my lessons fluently and intelligently. The faculty I

had selected was the mathematical one—probably, to tell the truth,

because the terms “tangent,” “differentials,” “integrals,” and so

forth, pleased my fancy.

Though stout and broad-shouldered, I was shorter than Woloda, while my

ugliness of face still remained and tormented me as much as ever. By

way of compensation, I tried to appear original. Yet one thing

comforted me, namely, that Papa had said that I had “an _intelligent_

face.” I quite believed him.

St. Jerome was not only satisfied with me, but actually had taken to

praising me. Consequently, I had now ceased to hate him. In fact, when,

one day, he said that, with my “capacities” and my “intellect,” it

would be shameful for me not to accomplish this, that, or the other

thing, I believe I almost liked him.

I had long ago given up keeping observation on the maidservants’ room,

for I was now ashamed to hide behind doors. Likewise, I confess that

the knowledge of Masha’s love for Basil had greatly cooled my ardour

for her, and that my passion underwent a final cure by their marriage—a

consummation to which I myself contributed by, at Basil’s request,

asking Papa’s consent to the union.

When the newly-married couple brought trays of cakes and sweetmeats to

Papa as a thank-offering, and Masha, in a cap with blue ribbons, kissed

each of us on the shoulder in token of her gratitude, I merely noticed

the scent of the rose pomade on her hair, but felt no other sensation.

In general, I was beginning to get the better of my youthful defects,

with the exception of the principal one—the one of which I shall often

again have to speak in relating my life’s history—namely, the tendency

to abstract thought.

XXV.

WOLODA’S FRIENDS

Although, when in the society of Woloda’s friends, I had to play a part

that hurt my pride, I liked sitting in his room when he had visitors,

and silently watching all they did. The two who came most frequently to

see him were a military adjutant called Dubkoff and a student named

Prince Nechludoff. Dubkoff was a little dark-haired, highly-strung man

who, though short of stature and no longer in his first youth, had a

pleasing and invariably cheerful air. His was one of those limited

natures which are agreeable through their very limitations; natures

which cannot regard matters from every point of view, but which are

nevertheless attracted by everything. Usually the reasoning of such

persons is false and one-sided, yet always genuine and taking;

wherefore their narrow egotism seems both amiable and excusable. There

were two other reasons why Dubkoff had charms for Woloda and

myself—namely, the fact that he was of military appearance, and,

secondly (and principally), the fact that he was of a certain age—an

age with which young people are apt to associate that quality of

“gentlemanliness” which is so highly esteemed at their time of life.

However, he was in very truth _un homme comme il faut_. The only thing

which I did not like about it all was that, in his presence, Woloda

always seemed ashamed of my innocent behaviour, and still more so of my

youthfulness. As for Prince Nechludoff, he was in no way handsome,

since neither his small grey eyes, his low, projecting forehead, nor

his disproportionately long hands and feet could be called good

features. The only good points about him were his unusually tall

stature, his delicate colouring, and his splendid teeth. Nevertheless,

his face was of such an original, energetic character (owing to his

narrow, sparkling eyes and ever-changing expression—now stern, now

childlike, now smiling indeterminately) that it was impossible to help

noticing it. As a rule he was very shy, and would blush to the ears at

the smallest trifle, but it was a shyness altogether different from

mine, seeing that, the more he blushed, the more determined-looking he

grew, as though he were vexed at his own weakness.

Although he was on very good terms with Woloda and Dubkoff, it was

clearly chance which had united them thus, since their tastes were

entirely dissimilar. Woloda and Dubkoff seemed to be afraid of anything

like serious consideration or emotion, whereas Nechludoff was beyond

all things an enthusiast, and would often, despite their sarcastic

remarks, plunge into dissertations on philosophical matters or matters

of feeling. Again, the two former liked talking about the fair objects

of their adoration (these were always numerous, and always shared by

the friends in common), whereas Nechludoff invariably grew annoyed when

taxed with his love for a certain red-haired lady.

Again, Woloda and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to criticise their

relatives, and to find amusement in so doing, but Nechludoff flew into

a tremendous rage when on one occasion they referred to some weak

points in the character of an aunt of his whom he adored. Finally,

after supper Woloda and Dubkoff would usually go off to some place

whither Nechludoff would not accompany them; wherefore they called him

“a dainty girl.”

The very first time that I ever saw Prince Nechludoff I was struck with

his exterior and conversation. Yet, though I could discern a great

similarity between his disposition and my own (or perhaps it was

because I _could_ so discern it), the impression which he produced upon

me at first was anything but agreeable. I liked neither his quick

glance, his hard voice, his proud bearing, nor (least of all) the utter

indifference with which he treated me. Often, when conversing, I burned

to contradict him, to punish his pride by confuting him, to show him

that I was clever in spite of his disdainful neglect of my presence.

But I was invariably prevented from doing so by my shyness.

XXVI.

DISCUSSIONS

Woloda was lying reading a French novel on the sofa when I paid my

usual visit to his room after my evening lessons. He looked up at me

for a moment from his book, and then went on reading. This perfectly

simple and natural movement, however, offended me. I conceived that the

glance implied a question why I had come and a wish to hide his

thoughts from me (I may say that at that period a tendency to attach a

meaning to the most insignificant of acts formed a prominent feature in

my character). So I went to the table and also took up a book to read.

Yet, even before I had actually begun reading, the idea struck me how

ridiculous it was that, although we had never seen one another all day,

we should have not a word to exchange.

“Are you going to stay in to-night, Woloda?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Oh, because—” Seeing that the conversation did not promise to be a

success, I took up my book again, and began to read. Yet it was a

strange thing that, though we sometimes passed whole hours together

without speaking when we were alone, the mere presence of a

third—sometimes of a taciturn and wholly uninteresting person—sufficed

to plunge us into the most varied and engrossing of discussions. The

truth was that we knew one another too well, and to know a person

either too well or too little acts as a bar to intimacy.

“Is Woloda at home?” came in Dubkoff’s voice from the ante-room.

“Yes!” shouted Woloda, springing up and throwing aside his book.

Dubkoff and Nechludoff entered.

“Are you coming to the theatre, Woloda?”

“No, I have no time,” he replied with a blush.

“Oh, never mind that. Come along.”

“But I haven’t got a ticket.”

“Tickets, as many as you like, at the entrance.”

“Very well, then; I’ll be back in a minute,” said Woloda evasively as

he left the room. I knew very well that he wanted to go, but that he

had declined because he had no money, and had now gone to borrow five

roubles of one of the servants—to be repaid when he got his next

allowance.

“How do you do, _diplomat?_” said Dubkoff to me as he shook me by the

hand. Woloda’s friends had called me by that nickname since the day

when Grandmamma had said at luncheon that Woloda must go into the army,

but that she would like to see me in the diplomatic service, dressed in

a black frock-coat, and with my hair arranged _à la coq_ (the two

essential requirements, in her opinion, of a _diplomat_).

“Where has Woloda gone to?” asked Nechludoff.

“I don’t know,” I replied, blushing to think that nevertheless they had

probably guessed his errand.

“I suppose he has no money? Yes, I can see I am right, O diplomatist,”

he added, taking my smile as an answer in the affirmative. “Well, I

have none, either. Have you any, Dubkoff?”

“I’ll see,” replied Dubkoff, feeling for his pocket, and rummaging

gingerly about with his squat little fingers among his small change.

“Yes, here are five copecks-twenty, but that’s all,” he concluded with

a comic gesture of his hand.

At this point Woloda re-entered.

“Are we going?”

“No.”

“What an odd fellow you are!” said Nechludoff. “Why don’t you say that

you have no money? Here, take my ticket.”

“But what are _you_ going to do?”

“He can go into his cousin’s box,” said Dubkoff.

“No, I’m not going at all,” replied Nechludoff.

“Why?”

“Because I hate sitting in a box.”

“And for what reason?”

“I don’t know. Somehow I feel uncomfortable there.”

“Always the same! I can’t understand a fellow feeling uncomfortable

when he is sitting with people who are fond of him. It is unnatural,

_mon cher_.”

“But what else is there to be done _si je suis tant timide? You_ never

blushed in your life, but I do at the least trifle,” and he blushed at

that moment.

“Do you know what that nervousness of yours proceeds from?” said

Dubkoff in a protecting sort of tone, “_D’un excés d’amour propre, mon

cher_.”

“What do you mean by ‘_excés d’amour propre_’?” asked Nechludoff,

highly offended. “On the contrary, I am shy just because I have _too

little amour propre_. I always feel as though I were being tiresome and

disagreeable, and therefore—”

“Well, get ready, Woloda,” interrupted Dubkoff, tapping my brother on

the shoulder and handing him his cloak. “Ignaz, get your master ready.”

“Therefore,” continued Nechludoff, “it often happens with me that—”

But Dubkoff was not listening. “Tra-la-la-la,” and he hummed a popular

air.

“Oh, but I’m not going to let you off,” went on Nechludoff. “I mean to

prove to you that my shyness is not the result of conceit.”

“You can prove it as we go along.”

“But I have told you that I am _not_ going.”

“Well, then, stay here and prove it to the _diplomat_, and he can tell

us all about it when we return.”

“Yes, that’s what I _will_ do,” said Nechludoff with boyish obstinacy,

“so hurry up with your return.”

“Well, _do_ you think I am egotistic?” he continued, seating himself

beside me.

True, I had a definite opinion on the subject, but I felt so taken

aback by this unexpected question that at first I could make no reply.

“Yes, I _do_ think so,” I said at length in a faltering voice, and

colouring at the thought that at last the moment had come when I could

show him that I was clever. “I think that _everybody_ is egotistic, and

that everything we do is done out of egotism.”

“But what do you call egotism?” asked Nechludoff—smiling, as I thought,

a little contemptuously.

“Egotism is a conviction that we are better and cleverer than any one

else,” I replied.

“But how can we _all_ be filled with this conviction?” he inquired.

“Well, I don’t know if I am right or not—certainly no one but myself

seems to hold the opinion—but I believe that I am wiser than any one

else in the world, and that all of you know it.”

“At least I can say for myself,” observed Nechludoff, “that I have met

a _few_ people whom I believe to excel me in wisdom.”

“It is impossible,” I replied with conviction.

“Do you really think so?” he said, looking at me gravely.

“Yes, really,” I answered, and an idea crossed my mind which I

proceeded to expound further. “Let me prove it to you. Why do we love

ourselves better than any one else? Because we think ourselves _better_

than any one else—more worthy of our own love. If we _thought_ others

better than ourselves, we should _love_ them better than ourselves: but

that is never the case. And even if it were so, I should still be

right,” I added with an involuntary smile of complacency.

For a few minutes Nechludoff was silent.

“I never thought you were so clever,” he said with a smile so

goodhumoured and charming that I at once felt happy.

Praise exercises an all-potent influence, not only upon the feelings,

but also upon the intellect; so that under the influence of that

agreeable sensation I straightway felt much cleverer than before, and

thoughts began to rush with extraordinary rapidity through my head.

From egotism we passed insensibly to the theme of love, which seemed

inexhaustible. Although our reasonings might have sounded nonsensical

to a listener (so vague and one-sided were they), for ourselves they

had a profound significance. Our minds were so perfectly in harmony

that not a chord was struck in the one without awakening an echo in the

other, and in this harmonious striking of different chords we found the

greatest delight. Indeed, we felt as though time and language were

insufficient to express the thoughts which seethed within us.

XXVII.

THE BEGINNING OF OUR FRIENDSHIP

From that time forth, a strange, but exceedingly pleasant, relation

subsisted between Dimitri Nechludoff and myself. Before other people he

paid me scanty attention, but as soon as ever we were alone, we would

sit down together in some comfortable corner and, forgetful both of

time and of everything around us, fall to reasoning.

We talked of a future life, of art, service, marriage, and education;

nor did the idea ever occur to us that very possibly all we said was

shocking nonsense. The reason why it never occurred to us was that the

nonsense which we talked was good, sensible nonsense, and that, so long

as one is young, one can appreciate good nonsense, and believe in it.

In youth the powers of the mind are directed wholly to the future, and

that future assumes such various, vivid, and alluring forms under the

influence of hope—hope based, not upon the experience of the past, but

upon an assumed possibility of happiness to come—that such dreams of

expected felicity constitute in themselves the true happiness of that

period of our life. How I loved those moments in our metaphysical

discussions (discussions which formed the major portion of our

intercourse) when thoughts came thronging faster and faster, and,

succeeding one another at lightning speed, and growing more and more

abstract, at length attained such a pitch of elevation that one felt

powerless to express them, and said something quite different from what

one had intended at first to say! How I liked those moments, too, when,

carried higher and higher into the realms of thought, we suddenly felt

that we could grasp its substance no longer and go no further!

At carnival time Nechludoff was so much taken up with one festivity and

another that, though he came to see us several times a day, he never

addressed a single word to me. This offended me so much that once again

I found myself thinking him a haughty, disagreeable fellow, and only

awaited an opportunity to show him that I no longer valued his company

or felt any particular affection for him. Accordingly, the first time

that he spoke to me after the carnival, I said that I had lessons to

do, and went upstairs, but a quarter of an hour later some one opened

the schoolroom door, and Nechludoff entered.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, although I had at first intended to say that I had a

great deal to do.

“Then why did you run away just now? It is a long while since we had a

talk together, and I have grown so accustomed to these discussions that

I feel as though something were wanting.”

My anger had quite gone now, and Dimitri stood before me the same good

and lovable being as before.

“You know, perhaps, why I ran away?” I said.

“Perhaps I do,” he answered, taking a seat near me. “However, though it

is possible I know why, I cannot say it straight out, whereas _you_

can.”

“Then I will do so. I ran away because I was angry with you—well, not

angry, but grieved. I always have an idea that you despise me for being

so young.”

“Well, do you know why _I_ always feel so attracted towards you?” he

replied, meeting my confession with a look of kind understanding, “and

why I like you better than any of my other acquaintances or than any of

the people among whom I mostly have to live? It is because I found out

at once that you have the rare and astonishing gift of sincerity.”

“Yes, I always confess the things of which I am most ashamed—but only

to people in whom I trust,” I said.

“Ah, but to trust a man you must be his friend _completely_, and we are

not friends yet, Nicolas. Remember how, when we were speaking of

friendship, we agreed that, to be real friends, we ought to trust one

another implicitly.”

“I trust you in so far as that I feel convinced that you would never

repeat a word of what I might tell you,” I said.

“Yet perhaps the most interesting and important thoughts of all are

just those which we never tell one another, while the mean thoughts

(the thoughts which, if we only knew that we had to confess them to one

another, would probably never have the hardihood to enter our

minds)—Well, do you know what I am thinking of, Nicolas?” he broke off,

rising and taking my hand with a smile. “I propose (and I feel sure

that it would benefit us mutually) that we should pledge our word to

one another to tell each other _everything_. We should then really know

each other, and never have anything on our consciences. And, to guard

against outsiders, let us also agree never to speak of one another to a

third person. Suppose we do that?”

“I agree,” I replied. And we did it. What the result was shall be told

hereafter.

Kerr has said that every attachment has two sides: one loves, and the

other allows himself to be loved; one kisses, and the other surrenders

his cheek. That is perfectly true. In the case of our own attachment it

was I who kissed, and Dimitri who surrendered his cheek—though he, in

his turn, was ready to pay me a similar salute. We loved equally

because we knew and appreciated each other thoroughly, but this did not

prevent him from exercising an influence over me, nor myself from

rendering him adoration.

It will readily be understood that Nechludoff’s influence caused me to

adopt his bent of mind, the essence of which lay in an enthusiastic

reverence for ideal virtue and a firm belief in man’s vocation to

perpetual perfection. To raise mankind, to abolish vice and misery,

seemed at that time a task offering no difficulties. To educate oneself

to every virtue, and so to achieve happiness, seemed a simple and easy

matter.

Only God Himself knows whether those blessed dreams of youth were

ridiculous, or whose the fault was that they never became realised.