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STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION
AND
THE PLAN OF
THE LIFE OF A GREAT SINNER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
F. M. DOSTOEVSKY
STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION
AND
THE PLAN OF
THE LIFE OF A GREAT SINNER
WITH INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES
TRANSLATED BY
S. S. KOTELIANSKY AND VIRGINIA WOOLF
PUBLISHED BY LEONARD & VIRGINIA WOOLF AT
THE HOGARTH PRESS, PARADISE ROAD, RICHMOND
1922
------------------------------------------------------------------------
All rights reserved
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSLATORS’ NOTE
THE Russian Government has recently published a small paper-covered book
containing _Stavrogin’s Confession_, unpublished chapters of
Dostoevsky’s novel _The Possessed_, and Dostoevsky’s plan or sketch of a
novel which he never actually wrote but which he called _The Life of a
Great Sinner_. The circumstances in which these MSS. were discovered are
described in the note of the Russian Government which we give below. Our
translation of _Stavrogin’s Confession_ and of the plan is from the text
as published by the Russian Government. We have added translations of
introductory or explanatory notes upon the two MSS. by V. Friche, V.
Komarovich, and N. Brodsky. The notes by Friche and Komarovich are given
in the book published by the Russian Government, that by M. Komarovich
appeared in _Builoe_ (No. 18, 1922).
It should be added that there are two different versions of the
unpublished chapters of _The Possessed_ in existence, and they have both
been published for the first time this year. The second version, which
is in the Pushkin Department of the Russian Academy of Sciences, was
published in _Builoe_. We have not included it, since it appears to be
an earlier version than that published by the Russian Government. It
should be noted that M. Komarovich’s note refers to this version in the
Academy of Sciences.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
TRANSLATORS’ NOTE 5
NEW MSS. OF F. M. DOSTOEVSKY: NOTE BY THE RUSSIAN 9
GOVERNMENT
STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION. BY F. M. DOSTOEVSKY 17
THE PLAN OF _THE LIFE OF A GREAT SINNER_. BY F. M. 85
DOSTOEVSKY
STAVROGIN’S MEETING WITH TIKHON. BY V. FRICHE 115
INTRODUCTION TO THE UNPUBLISHED CHAPTER OF _THE 125
POSSESSED_. BY V. KOMAROVICH
THE UNFULFILLED IDEA: NOTE ON _THE LIFE OF A GREAT 145
SINNER_. BY N. BRODSKY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NEW MSS. OF F. M. DOSTOEVSKY
NOTE BY THE RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT
ON November 12, 1921, in the presence of A. V. Lunacharsky, Commissar of
Education, and M. N. Pokrovsky, Assistant Commissar of Education, in the
Central Archive Department of the Russian Socialist Federative Soviet
Republic there was opened a white tin case numbered 5038 from the State
Archives containing F. M. Dostoevsky’s papers.
In the case were twenty-three articles: note-books, bags, and bundles of
letters and other documents. On one of these note-books, which is bound
(187 numbered pages), is written: “en cas de ma mort ou une maladie
grave”; these are business papers and instructions of Anna Grigorevna
Dostoevsky, the writer’s wife. On pages 53-55 she has written: “List of
note-books in which Fedor Mikhailovich wrote the plans of his novels and
also some biographical notes, copies of letters, etc.” Madame A. G.
Dostoevsky gives a list of fifteen such note-books with a short
description of their contents and disposal: Nos. 1 and 2, _Crime and
Punishment_; No. 3, _Crime and Punishment_ and _The Idiot_; Nos. 4-5,
_Journal_, 1876; No. 6, _Journal_, 1881; Nos. 7 and 8, _The Raw Youth_;
No. 9, _Brothers Karamazov_; No. 10, _The Idiot_; No. 11, _The Eternal
Husband_; Nos. 12-15, _The Possessed_. Of these fifteen note-books
enumerated by A. G. Dostoevsky the following were deposited on her
instructions in the Historical Museum: No. 7, No. 12, and No. 13.
Note-book No. 8 was in 1901 “transferred to Lubov Fedorovna Dostoevsky”
(Dostoevsky’s daughter), and No. 9 was deposited elsewhere. The other
note-books of Dostoevsky given in A. G. Dostoevsky’s list, with the
exception of No. 11, _i.e._ Nos. 1-6, 10, 14, and 15, were found in the
white case when it was opened on November 12 at the Central Archive
Department.
On the first page of these note-books A. G. Dostoevsky has, in her own
handwriting, given a brief list of their contents, as follows:
No. 1
(147 numbered pages)
1. Variant of the novel _Crime and Punishment_, under the title _On
Trial_. (Raskolnikov tells his story.)
2. Materials for the novel _Crime and Punishment_.
3. Draft of letter to Katkov.
No. 2
(152 pages)
1. Variant of the novel _Crime and Punishment_.
2. Materials for the novel _Crime and Punishment_.
3. Materials for the tale _The Crocodile_.—Answers to
_Sovremennik_.—Notes.
4. Letter to Katkov (1865) explaining the fundamental idea of _Crime
and Punishment_.
No. 3
(154 pages)
1. Materials for the novel _Crime and Punishment_.
2. Materials for the novel _The Idiot_.
No. 4
(Pages not numbered)
_Journal, 1876._ January, February, March.
No. 5
(84 pages)
_Journal, 1876._ April, December.
No. 6
(58 pages)
_Journal, 1881._
No. 10
(136 pages)
_The Idiot._
No. 14
(56 pages)
_The Possessed._ Notes for the end of the novel.
No. 15
(62 pages)
_The Possessed._
In addition to these note-books which were in A. G. Dostoevsky’s list,
there were also found in the white case three other note-books not
mentioned by her, namely, (1) containing materials for _The Raw Youth_,
in a linen binding, 204 pages; (2) unbound, 33½ folios, also containing
material for _The Raw Youth_ (one of these may be either No. 7 or No. 8
above); (3) containing materials for _The Idiot_, 144 pages.[1]
Footnote 1:
This is almost certainly No. 11 above, since it contains, besides
notes for _The Idiot_, notes for _The Eternal Husband_.
Everything of value in these note-books will be published in a book, now
being prepared, which will include Dostoevsky’s letters found in the
case; they cover the period 1839-1855, mostly to his brother, as well as
the period 1866-1880, the latter being to his fiancée and future wife,
A. G. Dostoevsky. The new note-books will make it possible to understand
with some accuracy and completeness the method of work by which
Dostoevsky produced such masterpieces as _Crime and Punishment_, _The
Raw Youth_, and _The Possessed_. Besides these, there are scattered
through the note-books subjects of stories (_The Crank_), long tales
(_The Seekings_), poems (_Imperator_), which were planned but not
written.
In addition to the list which Madame Dostoevsky gives in the note-book
marked “en cas de ma mort, etc.,” she also mentions one other note-book
in which fifteen proof-sheets of _The Possessed_ had been pasted. This
note-book was also found in the white case. On the first page of it A.
G. Dostoevsky has written: “In this note-book (in proof-sheets) are a
few chapters of the novel _The Possessed_, which were not included in it
by F. M. Dostoevsky, when it was published in _Russkìi Vèstnik_. The
first chapter (proof-sheets 1-5) was first published in the eighth
volume of the jubilee edition of the Complete Works in the section
‘Materials for the novel _The Possessed_.’” (This last statement is not
quite correct. In the “Materials,” to which A. G. Dostoevsky refers, the
first chapter is not published in full, the first twenty lines not being
included.) “The other chapters,” A. G. Dostoevsky continues, “have never
been published.”
Below the reader will find the text of these two hitherto unpublished
chapters of _The Possessed_. We have thought it necessary also to
republish the first chapter, because all these chapters form a whole and
should be given together, and also because the beginning of the first
chapter was not published in the Supplement to Vol. VIII. of the jubilee
edition. The fifteen proof-sheets pasted in the note-book—particularly
after the first chapter—are covered, in the margins and the text itself,
with a vast number of corrections, insertions, and additions in
Dostoevsky’s handwriting.
We give below the text of the proofs with only a few of the author’s
corrections. We have omitted passages which Dostoevsky struck out
without substituting a variant, though we give such passages in the
footnotes. We have made a few corrections about which there could be no
doubt. All the other corrections and additions, which are extremely
numerous, will be given in a book of new materials on Dostoevsky which
is under preparation. It is clear that the author himself did not
consider that these marginal corrections and additions were final. This
is shown by the fact that there are several mistakes in the text and the
punctuation is not always correct, while often there are several
different corrections of the text in the margin and it is not clear
which correction is to be preferred; other passages are incompletely
corrected, and, lastly, several corrections inserted in the text give a
rough version in which the same idea is expressed more than once in
different words.
The plan of _The Life of a Great Sinner_, which we give below, is taken
from F. M. Dostoevsky’s note-book which is in the Historical Museum.
This plan has recently been published by L. P. Grossman in his book on
Dostoevsky,[2] but not in full nor accurately, with such important
omissions that the text given below can alone be considered accurately
to reproduce the original.
Footnote 2:
_Dostoevsky’s Genius_, Odessa, 1921.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
STAVROGIN’S CONFESSION
THREE HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED CHAPTERS OF THE NOVEL
_THE POSSESSED_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART SECOND[3]
Footnote 3:
Originally “Chapter IX.”
CHAPTER I
AT TIKHON’S
I
NIKOLAI VSEVOLODOVICH did not sleep that night, and all the time he sat
on the sofa, often gazing fixedly at a particular point in the corner
near the chest of drawers. All night long the lamp burnt in his room.
About seven o’clock in the morning he fell asleep where he sat, and,
when Alexei Egorovich, according to invariable custom, came into his
room at half-past nine precisely with a cup of coffee and, by coming in,
woke him, he seemed unpleasantly surprised that he should have slept so
long and that it was already so late. He hastily drank his coffee,
hastily dressed himself, and hurriedly left the house. To Alexei
Egorovich’s hesitating question “Any orders?” he made no reply. He
walked along the street looking at the ground, deep in thought, save
that now and then he looked up for a moment, raised his head, showing a
certain vague but violent uneasiness. At one crossing, not far from the
house, a crowd of peasants, about fifty or more, crossed the road; they
walked orderly, almost silently, in deliberate order. At the little
shop, where he had to wait a moment, some one said that these were
“Shpigulin’s workmen.” He hardly paid any attention to them. At last,
about half-past ten, he approached the gate of Our Lady Spasso-Efimev
Monastery, on the outskirts of the town, by the river. Here only he
suddenly seemed to remember something alarming and troublesome, stopped,
hastily fumbled for something in his side pocket and—smiled. Upon
entering the enclosure he asked the first youth he met how to find
Bishop Tikhon, who was living in retirement in the Monastery. The youth
began bowing, and immediately showed the way. Near the little flight of
steps, at the end of the long two-storied Monastery buildings, he was
taken over from the youth, authoritatively and promptly, by a fat
grey-haired monk, who took him through a long narrow corridor, also
bowing all the time (though because of his fat he could not bow low, but
only twitched his head frequently and abruptly), and all the time
begging him to follow, though Nikolai Vsevolodovich followed without
being told to. The monk asked questions incessantly and spoke of the
Father Archimandrite, but, receiving no answers, he became more and more
deferential. Stavrogin observed that he was known here, although, so far
as he remembered, he had only been here as a child. When they reached
the door at the very end of the corridor the monk opened it, as if he
had authority, and enquired familiarly of the lay-brother, who instantly
appeared, whether they might go in; then, without waiting for a reply,
he threw the door wide open, and, bending down, let the “dear” visitor
enter. On receiving a gratuity he quickly disappeared, as if in flight.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich entered a small room, and almost at that very
moment there appeared in the door of the adjoining room a tall thin man,
aged about fifty-five, in a simple cassock, looking rather ill, with a
vague smile and with a strange, somewhat shy expression. This was that
very Tikhon of whom Nikolai Vsevolodovich had heard for the first time
from Shatov, and about whom he had since managed to collect in passing
certain information.
The information was varied and contradictory, but there was something
common to it all, namely, that those who liked Tikhon and those who did
not like him (there were such) both kept back something of their
opinion. Those who did not like him probably did it out of contempt for
him; and his adherents, even the ardent ones, from a sort of modesty, as
though wishing to conceal something about him—some weakness, some
craziness perhaps. Nikolai Vsevolodovich had found out that Tikhon had
been living in the Monastery for about six years, and that the humblest
people as well as the most distinguished were in the habit of going to
him there; that even in far-distant Petersburg he had ardent admirers
amongst men, but chiefly among women. Again he had also heard from one
stately-looking old man belonging to our “Club,” a pious old man too,
this opinion, that “that Tikhon is almost a madman[4] and, undoubtedly,
given to drink.” For my own part, I shall add, although this is
anticipating, that the last statement is complete rubbish, but that he
is afflicted with a chronic rheumatic affection in his legs and suffers
at times from nervous tremors. Nikolai Vsevolodovich also learnt that
the Bishop who lived in retreat in the Monastery had not managed to
inspire a particular respect for himself in the Monastery itself, either
through weakness of character or through absentmindedness unforgivable
and improper in one of his rank. It was also said that the Father
Archimandrite, a stern man, conscientious in the discharge of his duties
as Father Superior, and famous too for his scholarship, even cherished a
certain hostility against him and condemned him (not to his face, but
indirectly) for his slovenly mode of life, and almost accused him of
heresy. The monks, too, treated the sick Bishop not exactly with
neglect, but with a sort of familiarity. The two rooms which composed
Tikhon’s cell were also rather strangely furnished. Side by side with
clumsy old pieces of furniture, covered with shabby leather, were three
or four elegant things: a superb easy-chair, a large writing-table of
excellent workmanship, a daintily carved bookcase, little tables,
shelves, all of which had, of course, been given to him as presents.
There was an expensive Bokhara carpet, and also mats. There were
engravings of a “worldly” nature and of mythological subjects, and
alongside with these in the corner there was a large shrine glittering
with gold and silver icons, one of which was of very ancient date and
contained relics. His library also, it was said, was of a too varied and
contradictory character: side by side with the works of the great
ecclesiastics and Christian Fathers there were works “of drama and
fiction, and perhaps something even worse.”
Footnote 4:
After “madman” is struck out: “and at any rate, a perfectly talentless
creature.”
After the first greetings, uttered with an evident awkwardness on both
sides, hurriedly and even indistinctly, Tikhon led his visitor to his
study, and, as if all the while in a hurry, made him sit on the sofa, in
front of the table, and sat down himself nearby in a wicker chair.[5] To
his surprise Nikolai Vsevolodovich was completely at a loss. It looked
as if he was making up his mind with all his might on a step
extraordinary and inevitable, and yet at the same time almost impossible
for him. For a minute he looked about the study, evidently without
seeing what he looked at;[6] he was thinking but, perhaps, without
knowing of what. He was roused by the stillness, and suddenly it
appeared to him that Tikhon cast down his eyes with a kind of shyness,
with a quite unnecessary[7] smile. This instantly roused in him disgust
and reaction; he wanted to get up and go; in his opinion, Tikhon was
decidedly drunk. But the latter suddenly raised his eyes and looked at
him with such a firm and thoughtful gaze, and at the same time with such
an unexpected and enigmatical expression, that he nearly shuddered. And
now it suddenly seemed to him something absolutely different: that
Tikhon already knew why he had come, that he was already warned
(although nobody in the whole world could know the reason), and that if
he did not speak first, it was because he was sparing his feelings, was
afraid of his humiliation.
Footnote 5:
After the words “wicker chair” there stood originally: “Nikolai
Vsevolodovich was still much distracted by some inner overpowering
agitation.”
Footnote 6:
After the words “looked at” originally stood: “he thought and,
certainly, did not know of what.”
Footnote 7:
There is struck out “ridiculous.”
“Do you know me?” he suddenly asked abruptly. “Did I introduce myself
when I came in or not? Pardon me, I am so absent-minded....”
“You did not introduce yourself, but I had the pleasure of seeing you
once about four years ago, here in the Monastery ... by chance.”
Tikhon spoke unhurriedly and evenly, in a soft voice, pronouncing his
words clearly and distinctly.
“I was not in this Monastery four years ago,” Nikolai Vsevolodovich
replied with unnecessary rudeness. “I was here only as a child, when you
were not yet here.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten?” Tikhon observed guardedly and without
insisting upon it.
“No, I have not forgotten; it would be ridiculous if I did not
remember,” Stavrogin on his part insisted rather too hotly. “Perhaps you
have merely heard about me and formed some idea, and thus made the
mistake that you had seen me.”
Tikhon remained silent. Nikolai Vsevolodovich now noticed that a nervous
shudder sometimes passed over his face, a symptom of chronic nervous
exhaustion.
“I see only that you are not well to-day,” he said. “I think it would be
better if I went.”
He even began to rise from his seat.
“Yes, to-day and yesterday I have had violent pains in my legs and I
slept little during the night....”
Tikhon stopped. His visitor suddenly fell into a vague reverie. The
silence lasted long, about two minutes.
“You were watching me?” he suddenly asked with anxiety and suspicion.
“I looked at you, and was reminded of the expression on your mother’s
face. Externally unlike, there is much inner, spiritual resemblance.”
“There is no resemblance at all, certainly no spiritual—absolutely
none!” Nikolai Vsevolodovich grew again uneasy for no reason and too
persistent without knowing why. “You say this just ... out of pity for
my state,”[8] he said without thinking. “Ah! does my mother come and see
you?”
Footnote 8:
There is struck out “and rubbish.”
“She does.”
“I didn’t know. She never told me. Does she come often?”
“Nearly every month, sometimes oftener.”
“I never, never heard of that. I did not know.” He seemed terribly
alarmed by that fact. “And she, of course, told you that I am mad,” he
broke out again.
“No, not exactly that you are mad—though, I’ve heard that notion too,
but from others.”
“You must have a very good memory, if you can remember such trifles. And
did you hear about the slap in the face?”
“I heard something about that.”
“You mean everything. You must have a great deal of time on your hands.
And about the duel too?”[9]
Footnote 9:
After “And about the duel” there followed originally: “You did hear a
great deal here.”
“And about the duel.”
“You don’t need newspapers here. Shatov warned you against me?”
“No, I know Mr. Shatov, though; but I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“Hm.... What’s that map you have got there? Ah, the map of the last war!
What do you want with it?”
“I wanted to refer to it in reading this book. It’s a most interesting
description.”
“Let me see. Yes, the account is not bad.[10] Yet what strange reading
for you.”
Footnote 10:
Originally “This is not a bad account.”
He drew the book towards him and gave it a cursory glance. It was a full
and able account of the circumstances of the last war, not so much from
the military point of view, however, as from the purely literary. Having
turned the book over, he suddenly put it down impatiently.
“I positively do not know why I came here,” he said with aversion,
looking straight into Tikhon’s eyes, as though he expected him to reply.
“You, too, are not feeling well!”
“No, not altogether.”[11]
Footnote 11:
Originally “No, I am not well.”
And suddenly he related, in the shortest and most abrupt manner so that
certain words could hardly be understood, that he was subject,
especially at nights, to a kind of hallucinations, that he sometimes saw
or felt near him a spiteful being, mocking and “rational,” “in various
forms and in various characters, but it is always one and the same and I
always fly into a rage.”
Wild and confused were these revelations, as if indeed they came from a
madman. And yet Nikolai Vsevolodovich spoke with such strange frankness,
never seen in him before, with such a simplicity, quite unnatural to
him, that it seemed as if suddenly and unexpectedly his former self had
completely disappeared. He was not in the least ashamed of showing the
fear with which he spoke of his apparition. But all this was momentary
and went as suddenly as it had come.
“It’s all nonsense,” he said, drawing back with awkward irritation.
“I’ll go and see a doctor.”
“You should, certainly,” Tikhon assented.
“You speak so confidently.... Have you seen people, like me, with such
apparitions?”
“I have, but very rarely. Indeed I remember only one such case in my
life. He was a military officer; it was after he had lost his wife, his
life companion. The other case was mere hearsay. Both men then went to a
cure abroad.[12] Have you been subject to this for long?”
Footnote 12:
Originally “were cured.”
“For about a year, but it’s all nonsense. I’ll see a doctor. This is all
nonsense, utter nonsense. It is myself in various aspects, and nothing
else. But even as I use that phrase, you certainly think that I am still
doubtful and am not sure that it is myself, and not really the devil.”
Tikhon gave him a questioning look.
“And ... you actually see him?” he asked, dismissing, in fact, any
question of its being a false and morbid hallucination. “Do you actually
see a certain image?”
“It is strange that you should lay such stress upon this, when I have
already told you that I do see it.” Stavrogin again began to grow more
and more irritated with each word. “Of course I see it; I see it as
plainly as I see you ... and sometimes I see it and I’m not sure that I
see it, although I do see it ... and sometimes[13] I do not know what is
real: I or it ... it’s all nonsense. And can’t you possibly believe that
this is indeed the devil?” he added, breaking into a laugh and passing
too abruptly into derision. “Surely that would be more in keeping with
your profession.”
Footnote 13:
After “although I do see it ... and sometimes” there originally
followed “I am not sure that I see.”
“It is more likely a disease, although....”
“Although what?”
“Devils certainly exist, but one’s conception of them may be very
various.”
“And you have again just looked down,” Stavrogin broke in with an
irritating laugh, “because you were ashamed that I should believe in the
devil; but I made out that I did not believe and cunningly put the
question to you: does he or does he not really exist?”
Tikhon gave a vague smile.[14]
Footnote 14:
After “smile” there is struck out: “And do you know, it does not suit
you at all to cast your eyes down: it is unnatural, ridiculous, and
affected.”
“Well, know then that I am not at all ashamed, and to make up for my
rudeness I will tell you, seriously and unblushingly: I do believe in
the devil, I believe canonically, in a personal, not allegorical, devil,
and I do not in the least want to extort an answer from any one; now
that’s all.”[15]
Footnote 15:
After “all” there is struck out: “You must be awfully glad.”
He gave a nervous, unnatural laugh. Tikhon looked at him with curiosity,
with a rather timorous, yet gentle look.
“You believe in God?” Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly burst out.
“I do.”
“It is said, if you believe and bid a mountain move, it will move ...
though, pardon me this nonsense. Yet I am curious to know: could you
move a mountain or not?”
“If God will, I could,” Tikhon uttered quickly and calmly, again
beginning to look down at the ground.
“Well, it’s just the same as saying that God Himself could move it. But
you, you, as a reward for your belief in God?”
“Perhaps I could move it.”
“‘Perhaps.’[16] Well, that is not bad, either. But you are still
doubtful?”
Footnote 16:
After “perhaps” there is struck out: “That’s not bad. Why do you have
doubts, then?”—“I believe imperfectly.”
“Through the imperfection of my belief I have doubts.”
“Why, do _you_ believe incompletely?”
“Yes ... perhaps; I do believe and not perfectly,” Tikhon replied.
“That is what I should not think, looking at you!”—he suddenly gave him
a look of some surprise, a perfectly simple look which did not at all
harmonize with the mocking tone of the preceding questions.
“Well, at any rate you do believe that, even if it be with God’s help,
you could move it, and that is something, after all. At least, you wish
to believe. And you take the mountain literally. It is a good principle.
I observed that the progressives among our Levites are greatly inclined
towards Lutheranism. Anyhow it is better than the _très peu_ of the
Archbishop, it is true, under the threat of the sword. You are,
certainly, a Christian too.” Stavrogin spoke quickly, his words now
serious, now mocking.
“May I not be ashamed, Lord, of Thy Cross.” Tikhon almost whispered it,
with a passionate whisper, and bowed his head still lower.[17]
Footnote 17:
After “his head still lower” there is struck out: “the corners of his
lips suddenly began twitching, quickly and nervously.”
“And can one believe in the devil, without believing in God?” Stavrogin
laughed.
“Oh, there are such people everywhere.” Tikhon raised his eyes and
smiled.
“And I am sure that you find such belief more respectable after all than
complete unbelief....”[18] Stavrogin began to laugh.
Footnote 18:
After “unbelief” is struck out: “Oh, parson!”
“On the contrary, complete atheism is more respectable than worldly
indifference,” Tikhon answered, with visible gaiety and good-nature.
“Oho, that’s how you get round it!”
“A complete atheist stands on the last rung but one before absolute
faith (he may or may not step higher), but an indifferent man has no
longer any faith at all, nothing but an ugly fear, and that only on rare
occasions, if he is a sentimental man.”
“Hm ... you have read the Apocalypse?”
“I have.”
“Do you remember, ‘Write to the Angel of the Laodicean Church’?”
“I do.”[19]
Footnote 19:
After “I do” is struck out: “They are fascinating
words.”—“‘Fascinating,’ these are strange words for a bishop; you are
altogether a queer fellow.”
“Where is the book?” Stavrogin began with a strange hurry and anxiety,
searching with his eyes for the book on the table. “I want to read to
you ... you have a Russian translation?”
“I know the passage, I remember it,” Tikhon murmured.
“Do you know it by heart? Read it....”
He at once looked at the ground, rested both his hands on his knees, and
impatiently prepared to listen. Tikhon repeated word for word:
“Write to the Angel of the Laodicean Church: The true and authoritative
witness of the beginning of the creations of God says Amen. I know thy
works; thou art neither cold nor hot. Would that thou wert cold or hot.
But in so far as thou art lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I shall
spew thee out from my lips. For thou sayest: I am rich; I have
everything and need nothing; but thou knowest not that thou art
miserable, and poor and beggarly and blind and naked....”
“Enough,” Stavrogin cut him short.[20] “Do you know, I love you very
much.”
Footnote 20:
After “Stavrogin cut him short” is struck out: “this is for those in
the middle, this is for the indifferent ones, isn’t it?”
“I love you too,” Tikhon replied in a low voice.
Stavrogin fell silent and suddenly lapsed again into his old reverie.
This came as though in fits and now for the third time. And the “I love”
he said to Tikhon was also said almost in an impulse, at any rate
unexpectedly to himself. More than a minute passed.
“Do not be angry,” Tikhon whispered, touching his arm very lightly with
his finger and as though his courage failed him.
Stavrogin shuddered and frowned angrily.
“How did you know that I was angry?” he said hastily. Tikhon was about
to reply, when he suddenly interrupted him in inexplicable alarm:
“Why did you think that I must necessarily become angry? Yes, I was
angry; you are right; and just because I had said to you ‘I love.’ You
are right, but you are a crude cynic, you think slightingly of human
nature. There might have been no anger, had it been any one else but
myself.... Though, it does not matter about others; it concerns me.
After all, you are a queer fellow and crazy.”
He grew more and more irritated, and, strangely, made no attempt to
restrain his language:
“Listen, I do not like spies and thought-readers, at any rate those who
creep into my soul. I do not invite any one into my soul; I need no one;
I am able to shift for myself. You think I am afraid of you,” he raised
his voice and looked up defiantly; “you are quite convinced that I have
come to confide to you some ‘terrible’ secret, and you are waiting for
it with all the hermit curiosity of which you are capable. Understand
then that I will confide nothing to you, no secret, because I can
perfectly well do without you....”[21]
Footnote 21:
Instead of “perfectly, etc.,” the original had “I don’t need you in
the least.”
Tikhon looked at him firmly.
“It surprised you that the Lamb prefers a cold man to a merely lukewarm
one,” he said. “You don’t want to be merely lukewarm. I have a
foreboding that you are possessed by an extraordinary intention, perhaps
a terrible one. I implore you, don’t torment yourself and tell me
everything.”[22]
Footnote 22:
After “tell everything” there is struck out: “for which you came
here.”
“And you knew for certain that I had come with something.”
“I ... guessed it,”[23] Tikhon replied in a whisper, looking down.
Footnote 23:
After “guessed” there is struck out: “from your face.”
Nikolai Vsevolodovich was rather pale; his hands shook a little. For a
few seconds he looked motionlessly and silently, as though coming to a
final decision. At last he took out of the side pocket of his coat a few
printed sheets and put them on the table.
“These sheets are meant for circulation,” he said in a tremulous voice.
“If only one man reads them, then understand that I shall keep them back
no longer, and they will be read by every one. That is settled. I don’t
need you at all, for I have settled it. But read them ... while you are
reading them, say nothing; but after you have read them—say
everything....”
“Shall I read them?” Tikhon asked irresolutely.
“Do; I am calm.”
“No; I shall not be able to read them without glasses; the printing is
pale, foreign.”
“Here are your glasses.” Stavrogin took them from the table and handed
them to him, and leant on the back of the sofa. Tikhon did not look at
him, and plunged straight into the reading.
II
The printing was in fact foreign: three little sheets of ordinary
small-sized writing-paper printed and stitched together. It must have
been printed secretly at a Russian press abroad, and the sheets at the
first glance looked very much like a political pamphlet. The title read:
“From Stavrogin.”
I insert the document literally in my chronicle.[24] I have allowed
myself to correct the spelling, for the mistakes are rather numerous and
have surprised me a little, considering after all that the author was a
man of education and even well-read (of course, relatively speaking).
But in the style I have made no alterations whatever, in spite of its
irregularities. It is at any rate clear that the writer was above all
not a man of letters.[25]
Footnote 24:
After “chronicle” there is struck out: “it must be supposed that it is
now known to many.”
Footnote 25:
After the words “above all not a man of letters” there is written in
Dostoevsky’s hand on the proofs “one remark, only one.” In the text of
the opening of Chapter I., published as a Supplement to Vol. VIII. of
the Jubilee Edition of 1906 of Dostoevsky’s Works, there is the
following passage, which is not in the proofs:
“I shall allow myself one more remark, although I am straying in
advance of my story. This document is, in my opinion, a morbid work, a
work of the devil who took hold of that gentleman. It is like this: as
if a man were suffering from acute pain and tossing about in bed,
trying to find a position to relieve his pain even for a moment. Not
even to relieve the pain, but only to change it, momentarily, for
another. In a situation like that, one of course does not bother about
the becomingness or good sense of the position. The fundamental idea
of the document is a terrible, undisguised craving for
self-punishment, the need for the cross, for immolation in the eyes of
all. And yet this need for the cross in a man who does not believe in
the cross, does not this in itself form ‘an idea,’ as Stepan
Trofimovich expressed himself once, on a different occasion though. On
the other hand, the document is at the same time something wild and
random, although evidently written with a different intention. The
author declares that he could not help writing it, that he was
‘compelled,’ and this is quite likely; he would have been glad to let
that cup pass him by, if only he could; but he indeed, so it seems,
could not do so, and he merely snatched at a convenient excuse for a
fresh outburst. Yes, the sick man tosses about in his bed and wishes
to exchange one pain for another, and now the struggle with society
appears to him the easiest position, and he throws out a challenge to
it.
“Indeed, in the very fact of such a document is implied a new,
unexpected, and unforgivable defiance of society—only to find some
enemy to pick a quarrel with!
“And who can say? perhaps all this, the sheets and their intended
publication, are but the same as the Governor’s bitten ear, only in a
different shape. But why this should come into my mind now, when so
much has already been explained, I can’t understand. I bring forward
no proof, nor do I at all assert that the document is false, that is,
completely made up and fabricated. Most likely the truth ought to be
sought somewhere midway. However, I have already wandered too far in
advance; it is safer to turn to the document itself. This is what
Tikhon read.”
Here ends the first chapter in the Supplement to Vol. VIII. of
Dostoevsky’s Works, Jubilee Edition, 1906.
“From Stavrogin.
“I, Nikolai Stavrogin, retired officer, lived in the year 186.. in
Petersburg, abandoned to vice, in which I found no pleasure. For a
certain period at that time I rented three lodgings. In one of them I
lived myself and boarded and lodged, and there at that time lived Marya
Lebiadkin, now my lawful wife. My other two lodgings I rented by the
month for the purpose of an intrigue: in one I received a certain lady
who loved me, and in the other her maid, and for a time I was much
engrossed with the notion of contriving that both the lady and the maid
should meet each other at my lodging.[26] Knowing the characters of
both, I anticipated for myself great pleasure from that joke.
Footnote 26:
After “should meet, etc.,” there is struck out: “in the presence of my
friends and of her husband.”
“While I was gradually preparing for this meeting, I had to go more
often to one of the two lodgings in a large house in Gorokhovaya Street,
since that was the place where the maid and I met. I had only one room
there, on the fifth floor, which I rented from some Russian
working-class people. They themselves fitted themselves into the
adjoining room, which was smaller than mine and so much so that the door
dividing my room from theirs always stood open, which was what I wanted.
The husband, a clerk in some office, used to be out from early morning
till night. His wife, a woman of about forty, was occupied in cutting
down old clothes and making them up into new, and she also frequently
left the house to deliver her work. I remained alone with their
daughter,[27] who was quite a child to look at. They called her
Matryosha. Her mother loved her, but often beat her, and, as is the
custom of these people, shouted at her horribly. This little girl waited
on me and tidied up after me behind the screens. I declare I have
forgotten the number of the house. Now, upon enquiry, I find that the
old house has been demolished, and, where there were then two or three
houses, there is now one very large new house. I have also forgotten my
landlord’s name (or perhaps I never knew it even at the time). I
remember that the woman was called Stepanida, I believe, Mikhailovna.
Him I do not remember.[28] I suppose that if a search were started and
all possible enquiries made by the Petersburg police, they could be
traced. The flat was in a courtyard, in the corner. All happened in
June. The house was painted a bright sky-blue.
Footnote 27:
After “with their daughter” is struck out: “I think her age was about
fourteen.”
Footnote 28:
After “I do not remember” is struck out: “who they are, from where
they come, and where they are now, I don’t know in the least.”
“One day I missed from my table a penknife which I did not need in the
least, and which lay there for no particular reason. I told my landlady,
without thinking that she would thrash her daughter for it. But the
landlady had just been scolding the little girl[29] for the loss of some
rag, suspecting that she had stolen it, and had even pulled her hair.
When that rag was found under the tablecloth, the little girl did not
utter a single word of complaint, and just looked in silence. I noticed
that, and then for the first time I observed the face of the little
girl, which until then I had hardly noticed properly. She had fair hair,
and a freckled ordinary face, but there was much in it that was childish
and quiet, extraordinarily quiet. The mother did not like it that the
daughter made no complaint for having been beaten for nothing, and she
raised her fist, but did not strike; and just at that moment the subject
of the penknife came up. Besides the three of us, there was in fact
nobody, and only the little girl went behind my screen. The woman flew
into a rage at having for the first time punished her unjustly, and she
rushed for the broom, tore twigs from it, and thrashed the little girl
in my presence until her body was covered with scars, although the child
was already in her twelfth year. Matryosha did not cry at the thrashing,
probably because I was there, but she gave a strange sob at each blow.
And afterwards she sobbed very much for a whole hour.
Footnote 29:
After “girl” is struck out: “(I lived with them on familiar terms, and
they stood on no ceremonies with me).”
“But there was just this before that happened: at the very moment when
the landlady rushed for the broom to pull out twigs, I found the
penknife on my bed, where it had somehow or other fallen from the table.
Instantly it occurred to my mind not to say so, in order that she should
be thrashed. I decided on it instantaneously; in such moments my
breathing always stops. But I mean to tell the whole thing in the
plainest language, so that there can no longer remain anything
concealed.
“Every unusually disgraceful, utterly degrading, dastardly, and, above
all, ridiculous situation, in which I ever happened to be in my life,
always roused in me, side by side with extreme anger, an incredible
delight. I felt exactly this in moments of committing crimes and in
moments when life was in danger. If I stole, I would feel, while
committing the theft, a rapture from the consciousness of the depth of
my vileness. It was not the vileness that I loved (here my mind was
perfectly sound), but I enjoyed rapture from the tormenting
consciousness of the baseness. In the same way each time when, standing
at the barrier, I waited for my opponent to fire, I experienced just the
same disgraceful and wild sensation; and once I did so with
extraordinary vividness. I confess that I often myself looked out for
it, because it is to me the strongest of sensations of the kind. When I
received a slap in the face (and I received two in my life), it was
there too, in spite of my terrible anger. But if the anger is checked by
it, then the delight surpasses anything that can be imagined. I never
spoke of this to any one, even by a hint, and I concealed it as a shame
and disgrace. But when I was once soundly beaten in a public-house in
Petersburg and was dragged by the hair, I did not experience that
sensation, but only an incredible anger, not being intoxicated, and I
put up a fight. But had I been seized by my hair and forced down by the
French Viscount abroad who slapped me on the cheek and whose lower jaw I
shot away for it, I should have felt a rapture and, perhaps, should not
have felt anger. So it seemed to me then.
“I tell all this in order that every one may know that the feeling never
absorbed the whole of me absolutely, but there always remained the most
perfect consciousness (on that consciousness indeed it was all based).
And although it would take hold of me to the pitch of madness, or, so to
say, obstinacy, it would never reach the point of making me forget
myself. It reached in me the point of a perfect fire, but I could at the
same time overcome it completely, even stop it at its climax; only I
never wished to stop it. I am convinced that I could live all my life as
a monk, in spite of the brutal voluptuousness with which I am gifted and
which I always called forth.[30] I am always master of myself when I
want to be. And so let it be understood that I do not claim
irresponsibility for my crimes, either on account of environment or of
disease.
Footnote 30:
After “always called forth” there is struck out: “Having indulged up
to the age of sixteen with extraordinary immoderation in the vice to
which J. J. Rousseau confessed, I stopped it at the very moment which
I had fixed, at the age of seventeen.”
“The thrashing over, I put the penknife in my waistcoat pocket and,
without saying a single word, left the house and threw it away in the
street, a long distance from the house, so that nobody should ever
discover it. Then I waited two days. The little girl, after she had
cried, became even more silent; against me, I am convinced, she had no
spite. Though she was, certainly, ashamed that she had been punished in
that way in my presence.[31] But for the shame she, like the child she
was, assuredly blamed no one but herself.[32]
Footnote 31:
After “presence” is struck out: “she did not cry, but only sobbed
under the blows, certainly because I stood there and saw everything.”
Footnote 32:
After “herself” is struck out: “up till now she perhaps only feared
me, not personally, but as a lodger, a stranger, and, I believe, she
was very timid.”
“It was precisely during those two days that I once put to myself the
question, could I go away and give up the plan I had invented, and I
immediately felt that I could, that I could at any moment and at once.
About that time I wished to kill myself from the disease of
indifference; or rather I don’t know the reason, but during those two or
three days (for it was necessary to wait till the little girl forgot it
all) I, probably in order to divert myself from the idea which obsessed
me, or for fun, committed a theft in the rooms. This was the only theft
of my life.
“There were many people crowded in those rooms. Amongst others there
lived there a minor official with his family in two rooms; he was about
forty, not altogether a fool, and had a decent appearance, but was poor.
I did not make friends with him, and he was afraid of the company that
surrounded me there. He had only just received his salary—thirty-five
roubles. What chiefly influenced me was that I at that moment needed
money (although four days later I received money by post), so that I
stole, as though out of want, and not for fun. It was done impudently
and obviously: I simply entered his room, when he, his wife, and
children were dining in the other little room. There on the chair by the
door lay his folded uniform. The idea suddenly occurred to me when I was
in the corridor. I put my hand into the pocket and took the purse. But
the official heard a movement and looked out of his room. He, it seems,
actually saw, at any rate, something, but as he did not see it all, he,
of course, did not believe his eyes. I said that, as I was passing down
the corridor, I had come in to see the time by his clock. ‘It has
stopped,’ he said, and I went out.
“At that time I drank a great deal, and in my rooms was a whole crowd,
Lebiadkin amongst them. I threw away the purse and the small coins, but
kept the notes. There were thirty-two roubles, three red notes and two
yellow. I immediately changed one red note and sent for champagne; then
I sent the second red note, and the third. About four hours later
towards evening the official was waiting for me in the corridor.
“‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich, when you came in just now, did you by any
chance let my uniform fall off the chair ... it was by the door?’
“‘No, I don’t remember; was your uniform there?’
“‘Yes, it was.’
“‘On the floor?’
“‘First on the chair, and then on the floor.’
“‘Did you pick it up?’
“‘I did.’
“‘Well, what more do you want?’
“‘In that case, it’s all right....’
“He dared not finish, nor did he dare tell anybody in the rooms—so timid
are those people. In the lodgings every one was extremely afraid of me
and respected me. After that I liked to catch his eye a couple of times
in the corridor. Soon I got bored with it.
“After three days[33] I returned to Gorokhovaya Street. The mother was
just going out with a bundle; the man, of course, was not at home;
Matryosha and myself were left alone. The windows were open. The house
was all inhabited by artisans, and all day long from every floor was
heard the knocking of hammers or of singing. About an hour passed.
Matryosha sat in her room, on a bench, with her back to me, and occupied
with her needle. At last, she suddenly began to sing softly, very
softly, as was sometimes her way. I took out my watch and looked at the
time; it was two o’clock. My heart began beating.[34] I got up and began
approaching her stealthily. On their window-sill stood pots of geranium,
and the sun shone very brightly. I quietly sat down near her on the
floor. She started, and at first was terribly frightened and jumped up.
I took her hand and kissed it quietly, sat her down again on the little
bench, and began looking into her eyes. My kissing her hand made her
suddenly laugh like a baby, but only for one second, because she
impetuously jumped up for the second time and was in such a fright that
a spasm passed across her face. She looked at me with eyes motionless
with terror, and her lips began to twitch as if she were about to cry,
but she did not cry. I kissed her hand again, and took her on my
knee.[35] Then she suddenly pulled herself away and smiled as if
ashamed, with a wry smile. All her face flushed with shame. I was
whispering to her all the time, as though drunk. At last, all of a
sudden, such a strange thing happened, which I shall never forget and
which bewildered me: the little girl flung her arms round my neck and
suddenly began to kiss me passionately. Her face expressed perfect
ecstasy. I almost got up to go away—so unpleasant was this to me in the
little creature from the sense of pity that I suddenly felt.[36]...
Footnote 33:
Originally “As soon as the three days were over.”
Footnote 34:
After “beating” is struck out: “but then I suddenly asked myself: can
I stop now, and I instantly answered that I can.”
Footnote 35:
Originally “I kissed her face and legs: when I kissed her legs.”
Footnote 36:
Originally “I wished to get up and go away—so unpleasant was this to
me in such a tiny child, from a sense of pity. But I overcame the
sudden sense of my fear and remained.”
“When all was over, she was confused. I did not try to reassure her and
no longer fondled her. She looked at me, smiling timidly. Her face
suddenly appeared to me stupid. The confusion rapidly with each minute
took an increasing hold over her. At last she covered her face with her
hands and stood in the corner with her face to the wall motionless. I
was afraid that she might be frightened again, as she had been just
before, and silently I left the house.
“I think that all that happened must have seemed to her, in the end,
infinitely horrible, a deadly horror. Notwithstanding the Russian swear
words and all sorts of queer conversations that she must have heard from
her very cradle, I am completely convinced that she did not yet know
anything. For indeed it appeared to her in the end that she had
committed an immense crime, and was guilty of a mortal sin. ‘She had
killed God.’
“That night I had the row in the bar which I mentioned in passing. But I
woke up in my rooms in the morning; Lebiadkin took me home. My first
thought when I awoke was whether she had told or not. It was a minute of
real fear, although as yet not very intense. I was very gay that morning
and extremely good-natured with every one, and the whole company was
very pleased with me. But I left them all and went to Gorokhovaya
Street. I met her downstairs in the passage. She was coming in from the
grocer’s shop where she had been sent for chicory. On seeing me she
dashed off in a terrible fright upstairs. When I entered, her mother had
just given her a cuff[37] for bursting in ‘like a maniac,’ and thus the
real reason of her fright was concealed. So far then all was safe. She
hid in a corner and did not come out while I was there. I stayed about
an hour and then went away.
Footnote 37:
After “cuff” is struck out: “twice on her cheek.”
“Towards evening I again felt the fear, but incomparably more intense.
Of course I could deny all knowledge, but might be given the lie. Penal
servitude glimmered for me in the distance. I had never felt fear, and
all my life, except in this one case, I never before nor after was
afraid of anything—particularly of Siberia, although I might have been
deported there more than once. But this time I was frightened and really
felt fear, I don’t know why, for the first time in my life—a very
tormenting sensation. Besides, that evening in my rooms, I got to hate
her to such an extent that I decided to kill her. My chief hatred was at
the recollection of her smile. I began to feel contempt and immense
loathing for her having, after the whole thing was over, rushed off to
the corner and covered her face with her hands; an inexplicable rage
seized me, and then cold shivering, and, when towards the morning I
began to feel feverish, I was again seized with fear, but such an
intense fear that I never knew any torment more violent. Yet I no longer
hated the little girl—at any rate it did not reach such a paroxysm as on
the previous evening. I realized that intense fear completely drives
away hatred and the feeling of revenge.
“I woke about mid-day, feeling well and surprised even at the force of
yesterday’s sensations. Yet I was in a bad humour and was again
compelled to go to Gorokhovaya Street, in spite of all my aversion. I
remember that I wished intensely at that minute to pick a quarrel on the
way with any one, so long as it was a violent quarrel. But when I
reached Gorokhovaya Street, I suddenly found Nina Savelevna, the maid,
in my room, where she had been waiting for an hour already. I did not
like the girl altogether, so that she had come half afraid that I should
be angry with her for coming unasked. But I suddenly felt very glad to
see her. She was not bad-looking, but unassuming, with those manners of
which common people are very fond, so that my landlady had for long sung
her praises to me. I found them both drinking coffee together, and the
landlady highly pleased with the polite conversation. In the corner of
their room I saw Matryosha. She stood looking at her mother and at the
visitor without stirring. When I came in she did not hide as before and
did not run away. It only appeared to me that she had grown very thin
and was in a fever. I was cordial to Nina, and locked my door against
the landlady, which I had not done for a long time, so that Nina left
perfectly delighted. We left together and for two days I did not return
to Gorokhovaya Street. I was already bored with it. I resolved to put an
end to it all, to give up my rooms and leave Petersburg.
“But when I came to give notice to my landlady, I found her much worried
and distressed: Matryosha had been ill for three days, had a high
temperature, and was delirious every night. Of course I asked what she
said in her delirium (we spoke in whispers in my room); she whispered
back that she raved of ‘horrors’: ‘“I killed God,” she says.’ I offered
to have a doctor at my own expense, but she did not wish it. ‘By God’s
will it will pass without doctors; she is not in bed all the time;
during the day she gets up; she has just run round to the grocer’s
shop.’ I determined to see Matryosha alone, and, as the landlady let out
that she had to go to the Petersburg Road about five o’clock, I decided
to come back in the evening.
“I had a meal in a public-house. Exactly at a quarter past five I
returned. I always let myself in with my key. There was no one there but
Matryosha. She lay on her mother’s bed behind a screen, and I saw her
peep out; but I pretended not to have seen her. All the windows were
open. The air outside was warm, and even hot. I walked up and down and
then sat down on the sofa. I remember everything up to the last moment.
It decidedly gave me pleasure not to speak to Matryosha, but to keep her
in suspense; I don’t know why. I waited a whole hour, when suddenly she
sprang from her bed behind the screen. I heard both her feet thud upon
the floor and then fairly quick steps, and she stood on the threshold of
my room. She stood and looked silently. I was so mean that my heart
thrilled with joy that I had kept up my character and waited for her to
come first. During these days, when I had not once seen her close, she
had grown very thin. Her face had shrunk, and her head, I was sure, was
hot.
“Her eyes had grown large and gazed at me without moving, with a dull
curiosity, as I thought at first. I sat still and looked and did not
move. And then suddenly I felt hatred for her again. But I very soon
noticed that she was not in the least afraid of me, but was perhaps
rather delirious. But she was not delirious either. She suddenly began
shaking her head repeatedly at me, as simple uneducated people without
manners do when they find fault with you. And suddenly she raised her
tiny fist and began threatening from where she stood. The first moment
her gesture seemed to me ridiculous, but then I could stand it no
longer.[38] On her face was such despair as was unendurable to see on a
child’s face. She shook her tiny fist at me all the while threateningly,
and nodded her head reproachfully. I rose and moved towards her in fear,
and warily began saying something softly and kindly, but I saw that she
would not understand. Then suddenly she covered her face impulsively
with both hands, as she had done before, and moved off and stood by the
window with her back to me. I returned to my room and sat by the window.
I cannot possibly make out why I did not leave then, but remained as
though waiting for something. Soon I again heard her quick steps; she
came out of the door on to the wooden landing which led to the stairs. I
hastily ran to my door, opened it, and had just time to see that
Matryosha went into the tiny box-room, which was like a hen-roost and
was next door to the water-closet. A very curious idea shot through my
mind. To this day I can’t make out why all of a sudden this idea came
into my head—everything turned upon it. I half closed the door and sat
down again by the window. Of course, it was still impossible to believe
in this sudden idea:—‘but after all....’ (I remember everything, and my
heart beat violently).
Footnote 38:
After “no longer” is struck out: “I rose and moved close to her.”
“After a minute I looked at my watch and noted the time with perfect
accuracy. Why I should need to know the time so precisely I don’t know,
but I was able to do it, and altogether at that moment I wanted to
notice everything. So that I remember now what I noticed and see it as
if it were before me. The evening drew on. A fly buzzed about my head
and settled continually on my face. I caught it, held it in my fingers,
and put it out of the window. Very loudly a van entered the courtyard
below. Very loudly (and for some time before) a tailor, sitting at his
window in the corner of the courtyard, sang a song. He sat at his work,
and I could see him there. It struck me that, as nobody had met me when
I passed through the gate and came upstairs, it was also, of course, not
necessary that I should be seen now when I should be going downstairs;
and I moved my chair from the window purposely so that I could not be
seen by the lodgers. I took a book, but threw it away, and began looking
at a tiny reddish spider on the leaf of a geranium, and I fell into a
trance. I remember everything up to the last moment.
“Suddenly I took out my watch. Twenty minutes had passed since she went
out of the room. The conjecture was assuming the shape of a probability.
But I determined to wait precisely fifteen minutes more. It also crossed
my mind that perhaps she had come back, and that I perhaps had not heard
her. But that was impossible: there was a dead silence, and I could hear
the hum of every small fly. Suddenly my heart began bounding again. I
looked at my watch: it was three minutes short of the quarter. I sat
them out, though my heart beat so as to hurt me. Then I got up, put on
my hat, buttoned my overcoat, and looked round the room[39]—had I left
any traces of my visit? I moved the chair closer to the window just as
it had been before. At last I gently opened the door, locked it with my
key, and went to the little box-room. It was closed, but not locked; I
knew that it did not lock, but I did not want to open it, and I stood on
tiptoe and began looking through the chink. At that moment, standing on
tiptoe, I remembered that, when I sat by the window and looked at the
little red spider and fell into a trance, I had been thinking of how I
should stand on tiptoe and peer through this very chink. I mention this
detail because I wish to prove fully to what an extent I was obviously
in possession of my mental faculties and I hold myself responsible for
everything. For a long time I peered through the chink, but it was dark
there, but not absolutely, so that at last I saw what I wanted....[40]
Footnote 39:
After “room” is struck out: “to see if everything was in its place as
before.”
Footnote 40:
After “what I wanted” is struck out: “I wanted all the while to be
completely sure.”
“At last I decided to leave.[41] I met no one on the stairs. Three hours
later we were all drinking tea in our shirt-sleeves in our rooms and
playing with a pack of old cards; Lebiadkin recited poetry. Many stories
were told, and, as if on purpose, they were good and amusing, and not as
foolish as usual. Kirillov too was there. No one drank, although there
was a bottle of rum, but only Lebiadkin took a pull at it now and then.
Footnote 41:
Instead of “at last, etc.,” originally stood: “I finally decided that
I could leave and I went downstairs.”
“Prokhor Malov once said that ‘when Nikolai Vsevolodovich is pleased to
be cheerful and does not sulk, the whole lot of us are happy and talk
cleverly.’ I remembered this at that time; consequently I was merry,
cheerful, and not sulky. This was how it looked. But I remember being
conscious that I was simply a low and despicable coward for my joy at
having escaped and that I should never be an honest man.
“About eleven o’clock the doorkeeper’s little daughter came from the
landlady at Gorokhovaya Street, with a message to me that Matryosha had
hanged herself. I went with the little girl and saw that the landlady
herself did not know why she had sent for me. She wailed aloud and beat
her head[42]; there was a crowd and policemen. I stood about for a
time[43] and went away.
Footnote 42:
After “beat her head” is struck out: “there was a commotion.”
Footnote 43:
After “stood” is struck out: “in the lobby.”
“I was scarcely disturbed all that time, yet I was asked the usual
questions. But all I said was that the girl had been ill and delirious,
so that I had offered to call a doctor at my own expense. They also
questioned me about the penknife, and I said that the landlady had
thrashed her, but that there was nothing in that. Nobody knew about my
having been there that evening.[44]
Footnote 44:
There is struck out “I heard nothing of the result of the medical
evidence.”
“For about a week I did not call there. I went at last[45] to give
notice about the room. The landlady was still crying, although she was
already messing about with her rags and sewing as usual. ‘It was for
your penknife that I wronged her,’ she said to me, but without much
reproach. I settled my account with her, and gave as an excuse for going
that I could not remain in a house like that to receive Nina Savelevna.
At parting, she again praised Nina Savelevna to me. When I left, I gave
her five roubles over and above what was due for the room.
Footnote 45:
The words “after she had been long buried” are struck out.
“In the main I was sick of life, to the verge of madness. The incident
in Gorokhovaya Street, after the danger was over, I would have
completely forgotten, just as I forgot all the other events of that
time, had I not for a certain time remembered with anger what a coward I
had been.
“I vented my anger on any one I could find. About that time, altogether
for no definite reason, I took it into my head to cripple my life, but
only in as disgusting a way as possible. Already for about a year I had
been thinking of shooting myself; but something better presented itself.
“One day, as I looked at the lame Marya Timofeevna Lebiadkin, the woman
who in a sense tidied up the rooms, and at that time was not yet mad,
but simply an exalted idiot, in secret madly in love with me (which my
friends had discovered), I suddenly determined to marry her. The idea of
the marriage of Stavrogin with that lowest of creatures excited my
nerves. Anything more monstrous it was impossible to imagine.[46] At any
rate I married her, not simply because of ‘a bet made after dinner in
one’s cups.’ The witnesses were Kirillov and Peter Verkhovensky, who
happened to be in Petersburg; and lastly, Lebiadkin himself and Prokhor
Malov (who is now dead). No one else ever knew of it, and those who did
swore to keep silence. That silence always seemed to me a kind of
meanness, but it has not been broken up till now, although I intended to
make it public; now I make it public as well as the rest.
Footnote 46:
After the word “imagine” is struck out: “I will not decide one way or
another whether into my resolution there entered even unconsciously
(of course, unconsciously) anger for the wild cowardice which had
possessed me after the affair with Matryosha. Really, I do not think
so.”
“The wedding over, I went to the country to stay with my mother. I went
to distract myself.[47] In our town I had left behind me the idea that I
was mad—which idea still persists even now and undoubtedly does me harm,
as I shall explain later. After that I went abroad and remained there
four years.
“I was in the East in the monastery on Mount Athos and attended
religious services which lasted eight hours; I was in Egypt, lived in
Switzerland, travelled even in Iceland; spent a whole year at Göttingen
University. During the last year I became very friendly with a
distinguished Russian family in Paris, and with two Russian girls in
Switzerland. About two years ago, in Frankfort, passing a stationer’s
shop, I noticed amongst the photographs for sale a portrait of a little
girl, dressed in an elegant childish dress, but very much like
Matryosha.
Footnote 47:
After “distract” is struck out: “and because it had become
intolerable.”
I bought the portrait at once, and when I returned to my hotel I put it
on the mantelpiece of my room. There it lay for a week untouched, and I
did not once look at it; and when I left Frankfort I forgot to take it
with me.
“I mention this fact only to prove to what an extent I could master my
memories and had become indifferent to them. I dismissed the whole lot
of them at one go _en masse_, and the whole mass obediently disappeared,
each time, directly I wished it to disappear. To recall the past always
bored me, and I never could talk about the past, as nearly all people
do, the more so that it was, like everything else concerning me, hateful
to me. As for Matryosha, I even forgot to take her picture from the
mantelpiece. About a year ago, in the spring, travelling through
Germany, I forgot absentmindedly to get out at the station where I had
to change, and so went on the wrong line. At the next station I had to
get out; it was past two o’clock in the afternoon and a fine bright day.
It was a tiny German town. I was shown to a hotel. I had to wait, for
the next train did not arrive until eleven o’clock at night. I was even
pleased with my adventure, as I was in no hurry to get anywhere. The
hotel turned out a wretched little place, but it was all wooded and
surrounded with flower-beds. I was given a very small room. I made a
large meal, and, as I had been travelling all night, I fell sound asleep
after lunch at about four o’clock in the afternoon.
“In my sleep I had a dream which was completely new to me, for I had
never had one like it. In the Dresden gallery there is a picture by
Claude Lorraine, called in the catalogue, I think, ‘Acis and Galatea,’
but I always called it ‘The Golden Age,’ I don’t know why. I had seen it
before, but about three days ago, as I passed through Dresden, I saw it
again. I even went on purpose to have a look at it, and possibly for
this alone I stopped at Dresden. It was that picture I dreamt of, but
not as of a picture, but as of a reality.
“A corner of the Greek Archipelago; blue caressing waves, islands and
rocks; fertile shore, a magic vista on the horizon, the appeal of the
setting sun—no words could describe it. Here was the cradle of European
man, here were the first scenes of the mythological world, here its
green paradise.... Here had once lived a beautiful race. They rose and
went to sleep happy and innocent; they filled the woods with their
joyful songs; the great abundance of their virgin powers went out into
love and into simple happiness. The sun bathed these islands and sea in
its beams, rejoicing in its beautiful children. Wonderful dream,
splendid illusion! A dream the most incredible of all that had ever been
dreamt, but upon it the whole of mankind has lavished all its powers
throughout history; for this it has made every sacrifice, for this men
have died on the cross and their prophets have been killed; without
this, nations will not live and are unable even to die. I lived through
all these feelings in my dream; I do not know what exactly I dreamt
about, but the rocks, the sea, and the slanting rays of the setting
sun—all these seemed to be still visible to me, when I woke and opened
my eyes and, for the first time in my life, found them full of tears. A
feeling of happiness, until then unfamiliar to me, went through my whole
heart, even painfully. It was now evening; through the window of my tiny
room, through the green leaves of the flowers standing on the sill,
poured a shaft of bright slanting rays from the setting sun, and bathed
me in their light. I quickly shut my eyes again, as if longing to bring
back the vanished dream, but suddenly, in the middle of the bright,
bright light, I saw a tiny point. The point began suddenly to take a
definite form, and all of a sudden I distinctly pictured to myself a
tiny reddish spider. At once I remembered it on the leaf of the
geranium, upon which, too, had poured the rays of the setting sun. It
was as though something were plunged through me; I raised myself and sat
on my bed.
“(That’s all how it happened then!)
“I saw before me! (Oh, not in the flesh! Would that the vision had been
true!) I saw before me Matryosha, emaciated, with feverish eyes, in
every point exactly as she was when she stood on the threshold of my
room and, shaking her head at me, threatened me with her tiny fist.
Nothing has ever been so agonizing to me! The pitiable despair of a
helpless creature[48] with an unformed mind, threatening me (with what?
what could she do to me, O Lord?), but blaming, of course, herself
alone! Nothing like that has ever happened to me. I sat, till night
came, without moving, having lost count of time. Is this what they call
remorse or repentance? I do not know, and even now cannot say.[49] But
it was intolerable to me, that image of her standing on the threshold
with her raised and threatening little fist, merely that vision of her
then, that moment ‘then,’ that shaking of her head. It is precisely that
which I cannot endure, because since then it has come to me almost every
day. Not that it comes itself, but that I bring it before myself and
cannot help bringing it, although I can’t live with it. Oh, if I could
ever see her in the flesh, even though it were an hallucination![50]
Footnote 48:
After “creature” is struck out: “of ten years.”
Footnote 49:
After “even now” is struck out: “The recollection of the deed itself
is perhaps not even now loathsome to me. Perhaps the memory of it even
now contains something which is gratifying to my passions.”
Footnote 50:
After “hallucination” is struck out: “I have other old memories,
perhaps, worse than this. There was a woman whom I treated worse, and
she died of it. I killed two men in a duel who had done me no harm. I
was once mortally insulted, and did not avenge myself. I have it to my
account that I poisoned some one, deliberately and successfully,
without being found out. If necessary, I will confess it all.”
“Why, then, do no other of the memories of my life rouse in me anything
like this?—and I had indeed many memories, perhaps much worse in the
judgment of men. They rouse merely hatred in me, and that only because
they are stimulated by my present state; but formerly I forgot them
callously and dismissed them from my mind.
“I wandered after that for nearly the whole of the following year, and
tried to find some occupation. I know I can dismiss the thought of
Matryosha even now whenever I want to. I am as completely master of my
will as ever. But the whole point is that I never wanted to do it; I
myself do not want to, and never shall.[51] So it will go on until I go
mad.
Footnote 51:
After “shall” is struck out: “of this I am perfectly sure.”
“In Switzerland two months later I was seized with a fit of the same
passion and one of the same furious impulses which I used to have
before.[52] I felt a terrible temptation to commit a new crime, namely,
to commit bigamy (for I was already married). But I fled on the advice
of another girl to whom I had confided almost everything, even that I
had no love for her whom I desired so much, and that I could never love
any one. Moreover, the fresh crime would not in any way rid me of
Matryosha.
Footnote 52:
Originally “In Switzerland I was able two months after that to fall in
love with a girl, or, to speak more accurately, I experienced a fit,
etc.”
“Thus I decided to have these little sheets printed and three hundred
copies sent to Russia. When the time comes, I shall send some of them to
the police and to the local authorities; simultaneously I shall send
them to the editors of all newspapers with a request that they shall be
published; I shall also send them to a number of people in Petersburg
and in Russia who know me. They will also come out in a translation
abroad. I know that I shall, perhaps, not be worried by the law, at any
rate not to any considerable extent. It is I who am informing against
myself and I have no accuser; besides, the evidence is extraordinarily
slight or non-existent. Finally, the rooted idea that I am mentally
unbalanced and, certainly, the efforts of my family, who will make use
of that idea, will quash any legal prosecution that might threaten me.
By the way, I make this statement in order to prove that I am now of
sound mind and understand my situation. But there will remain those who
will know everything and will look at me, and I at them.[53] I want
every one to look at me. Will it relieve me? I don’t know. I come to
this as to my last resource.
Footnote 53:
Originally “And the more of those, the better.”
“Once more: if a good search be made by the Petersburg police, perhaps
something might be discovered. The landlady and her husband might be
living even now in Petersburg. The house, of course, must be remembered.
It was painted a bright sky-blue. For myself, I shall not go anywhere,
and for a certain length of time (a year or two) I shall always be found
at Skvoreshniki, my mother’s estate. If required, I will appear
anywhere.
“NIKOLAI STAVROGIN.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------