I hurried home and was – amazingly – very pleased with myself. Of course, it isn’t the way to speak to women, and especially to such women, or rather such a woman, as I didn’t count Tatyana Pavlovna. Perhaps one should never say “To hell with your intrigues” to a woman of that class, but I did and was glad I’d done so. Apart from anything else, I was at least convinced that by using that tone I’d erased all that had been ridiculous in my situation. But there wasn’t time to think much about all this: I had Kraft fixed in my mind. It wasn’t that he filled me with anguish, but I was still shaken to the core; even to the extent that the common human feeling of some satisfaction at another’s misfortune – for example when someone breaks a leg, loses his honour or a person dear to him and so on – even that common feeling of despicable satisfaction completely gave way to another absolutely undiluted sensation, of grief, pity for Kraft – I don’t know whether it was pity but it was an extremely strong and kindly feeling. And I was glad about that too. It’s amazing how many irrelevant thoughts are capable of flashing through your mind, particularly when you’re overwhelmed by some colossal news, which really should quash any other feelings and dispel any irrelevant thoughts, especially trivial ones; but those are the ones that, on the contrary, intrude. I remember being gradually overcome by quite a perceptible nervous tremor, which went on for a few minutes and then for the whole time I was home having it out with Versilov.
This talk followed under strange and extraordinary circumstances. I’ve already pointed out that we lived in a separate outhouse in a courtyard; this apartment was marked with the number thirteen. Even before entering the gates I heard a female voice asking loudly, with impatience and frustration: “Where’s apartment number thirteen?” It was a lady asking, right there by the gates, having opened the door to a small shop. But there appeared to be no reply, or else she’d possibly even been chased away, and so she came down the steps, angry and upset.
“Where’s the caretaker then?” she shouted, stamping her foot. I’d already recognized that voice.
“I’m going to apartment thirteen.” I walked over to her. “Who are you looking for?”
“I’ve been looking for the caretaker for a whole hour. I’ve been asking everyone and tried all the stairs.”
“It’s in the courtyard. Don’t you recognize me?”
She already had.
“You want Versilov; you have something to discuss with him and so have I,” I went on. “I came to bid him farewell for ever. Let’s go.”
“You’re his son?”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Still, let’s assume I’m his son, although I’m a Dolgoruky and am illegitimate. That man has a huge number of illegitimate children. When it’s a question of conscience and honour, even a son can leave his home. It’s in the Bible. Moreover, he’s received an inheritance and I don’t want a share of it and will go on by the fruit of my own labours. When necessary, a magnanimous person sacrifices even his own life; Kraft shot himself. Kraft, because of an idea, imagine, a young man, full of promise…This way, this way! We’re in a separate outhouse. And it’s also in the Bible that children leave their fathers and build their own nest… If the idea draws you… if there’s an idea! The idea is the main thing, it’s all in the idea…”
I was prattling on to her the whole time as we climbed up to our place. The reader no doubt has noticed that I don’t spare myself much and give my own excellent testimonial where needed: I want to learn to speak the truth. Versilov was at home. I went in without removing my coat, and she followed. She was terribly flimsily dressed: hanging loosely over her wretched dark little dress was a scrap of cloth, supposed to represent a shawl or a mantilla; on her head she wore an old, worn sailor hat which did nothing for her appearance. When we entered the room, my mother was sitting in her usual place with her work and my sister came out of her room to have a look and stopped in the doorway. Versilov as usual was not doing anything and rose to meet us: he fixed me with a stern, questioning look.
“This has nothing to do with me,” I hastened to say, dismissively waving my hand, and stood to one side. “I only met this person at the gates; she was looking for you and no one was able to show her the way. I’m here on my own business, which I’ll have the pleasure of explaining afterwards…”
Versilov continued to look at me with a curious air.
“Allow me,” the young girl began impatiently; Versilov turned to her. “I’ve thought over a long time why you took it into your head to leave me money yesterday… I… in short… Here’s your money!” she almost shrieked, as she’d done before, and threw a wad of banknotes on the table. “I had to look you up at the address bureau or else I’d have brought them back sooner. Listen, you!” She suddenly turned to my mother, who’d become very pale. “I don’t want to insult you; you look honest and perhaps that’s even your daughter. I don’t know if you’re his wife or not, but do you know that this gentleman cuts out newspaper advertisements on which governesses and teachers have used their last funds and he goes to those unfortunates in search of dishonest profit and drags them into misery with money? I don’t understand how I could have taken his money yesterday! He had such an honest look!… Away with you, not another word! You’re a scoundrel, my dear sir! Even had your intentions been honourable, I wouldn’t want your charity. Not a word, not a word! Oh, how glad I am to have exposed you now in front of your women! A curse on you!”
She quickly ran out, but at the door she turned round for a moment to shriek:
“I’m told you’ve received an inheritance!”
After that she disappeared like a shadow. I’ll say it again: she was in a frenzy. Versilov was deeply shocked: he stood as though considering something in his mind. At last he turned to me:
“Don’t you know her at all?”
“I saw her earlier by chance, as she was ranting and raving in a corridor by Vasin’s apartment; she was shrieking and cursing you. But I didn’t have a conversation with her and don’t know a thing, and just now I met her at the gate. She’s probably the teacher you mentioned yesterday, the one who ‘gives lessons in arithmetic’.”
“Yes, that’s her. For once in my life I did a good deed and… By the way, what’s that you have?”
“It’s a letter,” I replied. “No need to explain, I think: it came from Kraft, who in turn got it from the late Andronikov. You’ll find out from the contents. I’ll add that no one in the whole world knows about this letter besides me, because Kraft, who handed it over to me yesterday, shot himself just after I left him…”
While I was speaking in breathless haste, he took the letter, and holding it at arm’s length in his left hand, watched me closely. When I announced Kraft’s suicide I scrutinized his face with particular attention to watch the impact it made. And then what? The news didn’t make the slightest impression: had he but raised an eyebrow! On the contrary, seeing that I’d stopped, he took out his lorgnette, which he always kept on him, hanging by a black ribbon, held the letter up towards the candle and, glancing at the signature, began to study it intently. I can’t express how offended I was at such arrogant callousness. He must have known Kraft very well, and it was such an extraordinary piece of news! And furthermore I’d naturally wanted it to make some impact. Having waited for about thirty seconds and knowing the letter was a long one, I turned away and left the room. My suitcase was already packed and all I had to do was shove some things into the bundle. I thought about my mother and that I hadn’t gone up to her. Ten minutes later, when I was quite ready and wanted to get hold of a cab, my sister came into my attic room.
“Mama sends you your sixty roubles back and asks you again to forgive her for telling Andrei Petrovich about them, and here are another twenty roubles. You gave her fifty roubles for your keep yesterday; Mama says that it hasn’t amounted to fifty and she can’t take more than thirty from you, so she sends you twenty roubles in change.”
“Well, thank you, if she’s really telling the truth. Bye, sister, I’m off.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“An inn right now, just to avoid staying overnight in this house. Tell Mama that I love her.”
“She knows that. And she knows that you also love Andrei Petrovich. You should be ashamed at having brought along that unfortunate woman.”
“I swear to you that I didn’t: I met her at the entrance.”
“No, you brought her.”
“I assure you—”
“Think about it; ask yourself and you’ll see that you were the reason.”
“I’m just very glad that Versilov has been shamed. Imagine, he has a baby by Lidia Akhmakova… Still, why should I tell you—”
“His child? A baby? But it’s not his child! Where did you hear such lies?”
“How would you know?”
“How would I know? I nursed that child in Luga. Listen, brother: I’ve long seen that you know nothing about anything, and meanwhile you insult Andrei Petrovich, and Mama too.”
“If he’s right, then I’m to blame, that’s all, and it doesn’t make me love you less. Why have you turned so red, sister? And even redder now! Fine then, I’ll still challenge that princeling to a duel for slapping Versilov in Ems. If Versilov was correct with Miss Akhmakova, so much the better.
“Come to your senses, brother – what are you thinking?”
“It’s a good thing that the court case is over… Look, you’ve turned pale now.”
“The prince won’t take up the challenge,” Liza smiled wanly through her fear.
“Then I’ll shame him in public. What’s the matter with you, Liza?”
She’d turned so pale that she wasn’t able to keep to her feet and sank down onto the sofa.
“Liza!” my mother called from downstairs.
She recovered herself and stood up; she smiled tenderly at me.
“Brother, drop this nonsense, or else wait till you know a lot more; you know so terribly little.”
“I’ll remember that you turned pale, Liza, when you heard about my planning a duel!”
“Yes, yes, do remember that too!” She smiled again in farewell and went down.
I ordered a cab and with the driver’s help dragged my stuff from the apartment. No one from the household stood in my way or stopped me. I didn’t look in to say goodbye to my mother, in order to avoid bumping into Versilov. When I’d already climbed into the cab, a thought flashed through my mind.
“Go to Fontanka, to the Semenovsky Bridge,” I suddenly ordered, and made my way to see Vasin again.
It suddenly occurred to me that Vasin already knew about Kraft, and perhaps knew a hundred times more than I did; and that’s exactly how it turned out. Vasin obligingly gave me all the details at once, without great show of emotion, by the way. I concluded that he was tired out, and that’s actually how it was. He’d been over at Kraft’s himself in the morning. Kraft had shot himself with a revolver – the very one – the day before, after sunset, as transpired from his diary. The last entry had been made in the diary before the actual shot, and he’d noted there that he was writing in almost complete darkness, and was having a hard time making out the letters: he hadn’t wanted to light a candle, afraid of causing a fire later. “And to light it to extinguish it again, like my own life, before shooting myself, is not what I want,” he’d added rather oddly, in almost his last sentence. He’d begun that pre-death diary two days before, as soon as he’d returned to St Petersburg, even before visiting Dergachev. After I’d left him he’d made notes every quarter of an hour and had written the last three or four entries every five minutes. I expressed my surprise that Vasin, having had that diary in front of him for a good while (he’d been given it to read), hadn’t made a copy of it, particularly as it wasn’t much more than a sheet and all entries were short: “At least the last entries!” Vasin remarked with a smile that he remembered them anyway, and that the entries followed no particular logic, just anything that had come to his mind. I tried to assure him that it was of value in that form, but left it and began to insist that he recall something, and he did, recalling a few phrases written just an hour before he’d shot himself: about how “he felt chilly”, “that he was thinking of having a drink to warm up, but that the thought of it causing heavier bleeding stopped him”. “All more or less like that,” Vasin concluded.
“And you call these trivialities?” I exclaimed.
“When did I say that? I just didn’t make a copy. But even if they’re not trivial, the diary is really quite ordinary, or rather natural, in fact just as it should be given the circumstances.”
“But these were still his last thoughts, his last thoughts!”
“The last thoughts are sometimes extraordinarily insignificant. One suicide victim complains in his diary that at such an important hour there’d not been at least one ‘lofty thought’ visiting him instead of all those lightweight and empty ones.”
“And is the fact that he felt chilly also an empty thought?”
“Are you actually talking about feeling chilly or about the heavy bleeding? Meanwhile it’s a well-known fact that very many of those who have the strength to think of their imminent death, whether self-inflicted or not, are very often inclined to worry about the way their body will look. It was in that sense that Kraft was afraid of too much bleeding.”
“I don’t know whether it’s a well-known fact… and whether it is so,” I muttered, “but I’m amazed that you consider it all to be so natural, and yet how long has it been since Kraft spoke, was worked up or sat among us? Are you not at all sorry for him?”
“Oh, of course I’m sorry for him – that’s an entirely different matter – but in all events Kraft saw his death as being a logical conclusion. It appears that everything that was said about him yesterday at Dergachev’s is correct: he left behind such a notebook, filled with scientific conclusions about how Russians are a second-rate race on the basis of phrenology, craniology and even mathematics, and that, therefore, as a Russian, there’s no point in living. If you wish, what’s most characteristic here is that you can come to any conclusion you like, but to shoot yourself as a result of it is of course not something that always happens.”
“You must at least salute his character.”
“Perhaps, and not only that,” Vasin remarked rather evasively, but it was clear that he had foolishness or poor judgement in mind. I found it all irritating.
“You yourself spoke of feelings yesterday, Vasin.”
“Nor do I deny them now; but considering what’s happened, there seems to be something so grossly wrong with it that a stern look at it, against one’s will, somehow supplants even pity.”
“You know, looking at your eyes I could tell earlier that you’d criticize Kraft, and in order not to hear your criticisms I decided not to seek your opinion; but you’ve given your point of view yourself and I’m forced, against my will, to agree with you, yet I’m not happy about you! I feel sorry for Kraft.”
“You know, we’ve gone into this far enough—”
“Yes, yes,” I interrupted him, “but there’s comfort at least in that, in these cases, those who are left behind, the judges of the deceased, can always say of themselves: ‘Although a person who’s worthy of all pity and indulgence has shot himself, we’re at least still here, so there’s no point in grieving much.’”
“Yes, of course, if from that angle… Ah yes, it was a joke, I think! Very clever too! I usually have tea at this time and am about to order some; you’ll probably keep me company.”
And he left the room, having sized up my suitcase and bundle.
I’d indeed wanted to make a biting comment to avenge Kraft, and it had come out right, but it was curious that he’d initially taken my idea that “people like us are still here” seriously. But one way or another, he was more correct than I was, even about the feelings. I admitted as much without any displeasure, but I definitely felt that I didn’t like him.
When the tea was brought in, I explained to him that I was asking for his hospitality for just one night and that, if that was impossible, just to tell me so and I’d move on to an inn. Then I gave him a shortened version of my reasons, spelling out plainly and simply that I’d had a final quarrel with Versilov, without going into details. Vasin listened carefully but without showing any emotion. On the whole, he only responded to questions, though he did so cordially and quite fully. I kept completely silent concerning the letter about which I’d earlier come to him for advice, and I explained my recent visit as simply dropping by. Having given my word to Versilov that no one would know about the letter besides me, I considered that I had no right to tell anyone else about it. For some reason I strongly resented telling Vasin certain things. Certain things but not others. I did manage to get him interested in the stories of the recent scenes in his corridor and in his neighbours’ rooms, which had their conclusion in Versilov’s apartment. He listened extremely attentively, particularly concerning Stebelkov. He made me repeat twice how Stebelkov had asked about Dergachev and even became pensive. But he still smiled in the end. In that instant it suddenly seemed to me that nothing could unnerve Vasin. By the way, I remember that when this thought first presented itself to me, it put him in a very flattering light.
“On the whole, I couldn’t make much sense of what Mr Stebelkov was saying,” I concluded about Stebelkov. “He speaks confusingly somehow… as though there’s something rather frivolous about him…”
Vasin instantly looked serious.
“He really doesn’t have a gift for words, but that’s only at first glance; he’s been able to make some extremely keen observations; and on the whole he’s one of those people more involved in business and speculation than with an overall concept; that’s how such people should be judged…”
Exactly what I’d earlier thought he’d say.
“He did however create a terrible stir at your neighbours’ and God knows how it might all have ended.”
About his neighbours, Vasin informed me that they’d been living there about three weeks and had come from somewhere in the provinces, that their room was extremely small, that they were obviously very poor and that they were just sitting and waiting for something. He didn’t know that the younger one had advertised as a teacher in the newspapers, but he’d heard that Versilov had visited them. It had happened when he was out, but he’d been told by the landlady. The two women, on the other hand, kept their distance from everybody, even from the landlady. In the last few days he’d himself become aware that something was indeed not right with them, but there hadn’t been the kind of scenes like the one this morning. I recall all this talk about the neighbours in view of what happened later. Behind the neighbours’ door at the time there reigned a deathly silence. Vasin heard with particular interest that Stebelkov had presumed it necessary to discuss the neighbours with the landlady and that he’d repeated twice: “You’ll see, you’ll see!”
“And you’ll see,” Vasin added, “that this didn’t occur to him out of nowhere. In this respect he has a very keen eye.”
“So you think the landlady should be advised to turn them out?”
“No, not turn them out, but avoid some further incident. Still, all these incidents do come to an end, one way or another… Let’s leave it.”
He absolutely refused to give an opinion about Versilov’s visit to the neighbours.
“It could be anything. The man felt he had money in his pocket… On the other hand, it’s also probable that he simply offered charity; it’s what he’s used to and perhaps what he prefers.”
I told him that Stebelkov had chattered that morning about a “baby”.
“In this case Stebelkov is completely wrong,” Vasin stated particularly seriously and with particular emphasis (I remember this all too well).
“Stebelkov,” he continued, “sometimes puts too much faith in his own practical common sense and therefore jumps to conclusions in tune with his logic, which is often very sharp. Meanwhile the event may be far more fancifully and unexpectedly colourful, when you consider the characters involved. That’s what happened here: having only a partial knowledge of this matter, he came to the conclusion that the child was Versilov’s; however, the child is not Versilov’s.”
I pressed him, and this is what I found out, to my utter amazement: the child was Prince Sergei Sokolsky’s baby. Lidia Akhmakova, as a result of her illness or simply because of her fantasizing nature, sometimes behaved like a madwoman. She’d fallen for the prince before meeting Versilov, and the prince “had found no difficulty in accepting her love”, as Vasin put it. The liaison lasted an instant; they quarrelled, as we already know, and Lidia drove the prince away, “which he, apparently, was glad about”.
“She was a very strange young girl,” Vasin added. “It’s also very possible that she wasn’t always of sound mind. But as he left for Paris, the prince had no idea at all in what state he’d left his victim; he didn’t know till the very end, on his return. Versilov, having befriended the young creature, offered to marry her in view of her situation – which her own parents weren’t aware of until close to the end. The young girl, who was in love, was ecstatic about Versilov’s offer and ‘saw it as more than pure self-sacrifice’, something she also valued, by the way. Still, he knew how to go about it, of course,” Vasin added. “The baby was born one month or six weeks prematurely, was placed somewhere in Germany but then taken back by Versilov and is now somewhere in Russia, perhaps in St Petersburg.”
“And the phosphorus matches?”
“I know nothing about that,” Vasin concluded. “Lidia Akhmakova died about two weeks after giving birth. What happened there I don’t know. The prince, just back from Paris, found out that there was a baby and apparently didn’t believe at first that it was his… On the whole the story has been kept secret on all sides to this day.”
“But what kind of a man is this prince?” I exclaimed in disgust. “What a way to treat a sick young girl!”
“She wasn’t that sick then… And she drove him away herself… True, he may have been unnecessarily quick in making the most of his dismissal.”
“You’re justifying such a scoundrel?”
“No, but I’m not calling him a scoundrel. There’s a lot there besides straightforward meanness. On the whole, it’s a rather ordinary matter.”
“Tell me, Vasin, do you know him intimately? I’d particularly like to seek your opinion regarding a circumstance that has a strong bearing on me.”
But at this point Vasin replied much too guardedly. He knew the prince, but under what circumstances he’d met him he very deliberately didn’t say. He further stated that his character did warrant some indulgence. “He’s full of honest impulses and he’s impressionable, but has neither the judgement nor the willpower to control his desires sufficiently.” He was not well educated; most ideas and facts were beyond him, yet he nevertheless hurled himself at them. For example, he’d insist on something like this: “I’m a prince and a descendant of Rurik;* but why shouldn’t I be a cobbler’s apprentice if I must earn my living and am no good at anything else? The shop sign will say: Cobbler Prince so and so – it’s even noble.” “He’ll say it and act on it – that’s the main thing,” Vasin added. “Yet there’s no strength of conviction here at all and just superficial susceptibility. But it would certainly be followed by repentance and then he’s prepared to go completely to the other extreme; that’s what his whole life consists of. Nowadays many people have fallen into the same trap,” Vasin concluded, “precisely because they were born in our time.”
I had a moment’s hesitation.
“Is it true that he was thrown out of his regiment?” I enquired.
“I don’t know if he was thrown out, but he did leave the regiment owing to some unpleasantness. Were you aware that last autumn, having indeed retired, he’d spent two or three months in Luga?”
“I… I know that you lived in Luga then.”
“Yes, I was there too for some time. The prince was also acquainted with Lizaveta Makarovna.”
“Was he? I didn’t know that. I admit that I’ve spoken so little with my sister… Was he received in my mother’s house?” I shouted.
“Oh no: he was too distantly acquainted, through another family.”
“Oh yes, I believe my sister told me about that child. Was it in Luga too?”
“For some time.”
“And where is it now?”
“Most certainly in St Petersburg.”
“I’ll never believe,” I shouted, extremely worked up, “that my mother might have had any part to play in that affair with Lidia!”
“In that story, except for all those intrigues which I’m not about to unravel, Versilov’s role had in itself nothing particularly reprehensible,” Vasin remarked, smiling indulgently. I think that he was beginning to find it hard to talk to me, but he didn’t show it.
“I’ll never, never believe that a woman could,” I was shouting again, “let another woman have her husband, I just won’t believe that!… I swear that my mother played no part in that!”
“Apparently she didn’t stand in the way, did she?”
“In her place I wouldn’t have stood in the way out of pride!”
“For my part, I absolutely refuse to judge the matter.”
Indeed, for all his intelligence, Vasin probably understood nothing about women, so that a whole range of ideas and occurrences remained unfamiliar to him. I held my tongue. Vasin worked temporarily in a joint-stock company and I knew that he took work home. When pressed by me, he admitted that he had work to do – some accounts – and I fervently begged him not to stand on ceremony on my account. I think he was pleased, but before sitting down with his papers he made up a bed for me on the sofa. At first he offered me his bed, but when I refused I think he was pleased too. We got a blanket and pillow from the landlady. Vasin was extremely polite and friendly, but I somehow found it painful to watch him taking so much trouble over me. I preferred it when I once inadvertently, about three weeks before, had spent the night at Efim’s on the Petersburg Side. I remember him somehow making up a bed for me, also on the sofa, and keeping it secret from his auntie, supposing for some reason that she’d be angry if she knew he had friends to stay overnight. We laughed a lot, spread a shirt in lieu of a sheet and folded a coat instead of a pillow. I remember Efim, after doing this, lovingly patting the sofa and saying:
“Vous dormirez comme un petit roi.”*
And his silly cheerfulness and the French phrase, which suited him like a saddle on a cow, resulted in my sleeping at that fool’s place with exceptional pleasure. As for Vasin, I was extremely glad when he at last sat down to his work with his back to me. I stretched out on the sofa and, staring at his back, reflected for a long time and about many things.
There was indeed plenty to think about. I was very troubled in my soul and nothing felt safe, but some sensations stood out very clearly, though due to their abundance not a single one of them fully engrossed me. Everything flashed by without connection or sequence but I remember that I didn’t in the slightest want to dwell on one thing or put some order into my thoughts. Even the idea of Kraft moved imperceptibly to second place. I was most of all stirred by my own situation: I’d “broken off” and had my suitcase with me; I wasn’t at home and was beginning something entirely new. As if all my intentions and preparations had been a joke until then and only “now, and most importantly all of a sudden, everything had begun for real”. This thought stimulated me and, troubled as I was in my soul by many things, it did cheer me up. But… but there were other feelings too; one in particular strove to rise above the rest and take over my soul, and this feeling, strangely, also stimulated me, as though it evoked something terribly joyful. It initially began with fear: I’d been afraid for a while, from the moment it happened, that I’d given away, in the heat of the moment and unexpectedly, too much about the document to Mrs Akhmakova. “Yes, I said too much,” I thought, “and maybe they guess something… that’s awful! They will of course not leave me alone if they begin to suspect, but… so be it! Perhaps they won’t find me – I’ll hide! So what if they do indeed begin to run after me?…” And then I began to recollect in every detail, and with growing satisfaction, the way I’d stood earlier facing Katerina Nikolayevna and how she’d stared at me with her insolent yet astonished eyes. As I went out, I’d left her in that state of disbelief and I remember thinking: “Her eyes, however, are not completely black… just her eyelashes are very black, which is why her eyes appear so dark…”
And I recall all of a sudden feeling disgusted by the memory… annoyed and sickened, with them and myself. There was something I was reproaching myself for and I tried to think of something else. “Why is it that I’m not in the least bit cross with Versilov regarding the incident with Vasin’s neighbour?” it suddenly occurred to me. On my part I was firmly convinced that he’d been playing a lover’s role and had gone there to enjoy himself, but that didn’t actually fill me with indignation. I even thought there was no other way to imagine him and, though I was glad that he’d been shamed, I didn’t blame him. That wasn’t what was important to me. What mattered was that he’d looked at me so resentfully when I came in with the young woman, a way he’d never looked at me before. “At last he looked at me seriously!” I thought, with my heart in my mouth. Oh, had I not loved him so I wouldn’t have rejoiced so much at his hatred!
I finally dozed off and then fell asleep. I remember, in my sleep, Vasin finishing his work, tidying up carefully and, after looking closely at me on the sofa, undressing and blowing out the candle. It was after midnight.
Almost exactly two hours later, I leapt up like a halfwit, hardly awake, and sat up on the sofa. From the neighbours’ rooms rang out horrifying screams, weeping and howling. Our door was wide open and in the corridor that had already been lit, people were shouting and running. I was about to call Vasin, but guessed that he was no longer in bed. Not knowing where to look for matches, I groped for my clothes and began to dress hurriedly in the dark. The landlady and possibly the other tenants had evidently run over to the neighbours. Yet only one voice was howling, that of the older woman, while the young voice I’d heard the day before, the one I remembered all too well, was completely silent. I recall that being the first thing that occurred to me. I wasn’t yet fully dressed when Vasin came in; knowing his way around, he got hold of matches in a flash and lit up the room. He was in just his underwear, dressing gown and slippers, and at once began to dress.
“What’s happened?” I cried out to him.
“Something utterly unpleasant and utterly troublesome!” he replied almost spitefully. “That young woman next door, the one you’ve mentioned, has hanged herself in her room.”
I screamed. I can’t tell you how my soul began to ache! We ran out into the corridor. I confess I didn’t have the courage to go in next door and only saw the victim later, when they’d already taken her down, and then, in truth, from a distance; she was covered with a sheet, from which protruded two narrow shoe soles. So for some reason I didn’t even glance at her face. The mother was in an awful state; with her was the landlady, who, incidentally, wasn’t greatly alarmed. The other tenants were also crowding round. There were but a few: an elderly sailor, who was always very querulous and demanding but who this time, however, had gone completely quiet, and a couple who’d come from Tver province, an old man and an old woman, husband and wife, quite respectable government employees. I won’t attempt to describe the remainder of that night, the commotion followed by visits from officials. Right up till dawn I was literally suffering from a light tremor and felt obliged not to go to bed, even though I did nothing. Everyone appeared very sprightly, even exceptionally cheerful somehow. Vasin even went off somewhere. The landlady turned out to be quite decent, a lot better than I’d assumed. I convinced her – to my credit – that the mother shouldn’t be left like that, alone with her daughter’s body, and that she should take her to her room at least until the next day. She immediately agreed and, despite the mother’s struggle and tears, refusing to leave the body, she nevertheless went to the landlady’s, who promptly ordered the samovar to be lit. After that the other tenants returned to their rooms as well and closed their doors, but I still wouldn’t lie down and sat at the landlady’s for a long time, and she was pleased at the presence of another person, even more so one who, for his part, could tell her a thing or two about the matter. The samovar came in very handy; in general the samovar is an indispensable Russian thing, especially in moments of catastrophe and misfortune, and particularly when they’re horrifying, sudden and out of the ordinary. Even the mother had two small cups, of course after much insistence and almost by force. Meanwhile, I must truthfully say that I’ve never seen more cruel and genuine grief than when watching that unfortunate woman. After the first outbursts of sobbing and hysteria she began to speak eagerly, and I listened hungrily to her story. You must allow some unfortunates, particularly women, to talk as much as possible in such circumstances. Besides, there are characters that are, you could say, too worn out by grief, having suffered for so long all their life, who’ve endured an extraordinary amount of grief as well as constant trivial pain, who can no longer be surprised by anything, not even unexpected catastrophes and who, most importantly, even when faced with a beloved one’s coffin, never forget a single one of the rules of ingratiating behaviour they’ve acquired at such cost. And I’m not judging; it’s not a question of base selfishness or crude development; you can perhaps find more gold in those hearts than in the hearts of the noblest heroines, but a lifelong habit of subservience, an instinct of self-preservation, long-term fear and oppression bear their own results. The poor victim was not like her mother in that respect. They did however look alike, I thought, although the deceased was positively not bad-looking. The mother was not yet very old, towards fifty, fair-haired like her daughter but with sunken eyes and cheeks and large yellow uneven teeth. Everything about her had a yellow hue: the skin on her face and hands was like parchment, her darkish dress had grown yellow with wear and one fingernail, the one on the forefinger of her right hand, for some reason, was carefully and meticulously pasted with yellow wax.
The story of that poor woman was incoherent in parts. I’ll tell it as I myself understood and remember it.
They’d come from Moscow. She’d long been a widow, “the wife of a court councillor, however”; though her husband worked he left hardly anything behind, “except for two hundred roubles, his pension. But what are two hundred roubles?” Still, she brought up Olya and put her through grammar school… “And how she studied, how she studied; she’d graduated with a silver medal...” (This was of course followed by an abundance of tears.) Her late husband had lost a vast sum, almost four thousand roubles, through a Petersburg merchant. Suddenly that merchant had become rich again: “I have the documents and sought advice and was told: ‘Look for him and you’ll certainly get the money.’ So I went to find him, and the merchant seemed to agree. ‘Go,’ I was told, ‘go there in person.’ Olya and I got ready and arrived here a month ago. We had some means: we took this room because it was the smallest one in a respectable house; we saw that, and for us this mattered most; we’re inexperienced women and are badly treated by one and all. Well, we paid one month’s rent, then it’s back and forth; St Petersburg is beyond our means; our merchant refuses point-blank: ‘I don’t know who you are,’ and my document is invalid, I understand that much. Then I get the following advice: ‘Go and see that famous lawyer; he’s a former professor, not simply a lawyer but a legal expert, and he’ll probably tell you what to do.’ I took him my last fifteen roubles; the lawyer came out and listened to me for all of three minutes: ‘I see,’ he says. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘If the merchant wants to he’ll give it to you; if not he won’t, and then you begin court proceedings – you might have to pay more; best thing is to learn to accept it.’ And he jokingly added from the Gospel: ‘Agree, he says, whiles thou art in the way, till thou hast paid the uttermost copper coin.’* And he sees me to the door, laughing. My fifteen roubles had gone! I go back to Olya; we sit facing each other and I burst into tears. She doesn’t cry, she sits proudly and is indignant. That’s how she was her whole life, even when she was small: she never moaned, she never cried, but she sits, looks cross; I get frightened looking at her. And believe me, I was afraid of her, I really was afraid, had long been afraid: and I wanted to complain just once, but I didn’t dare in front of her. I went to see the merchant for the last time and cried to my heart’s content: ‘All right,’ he says; he doesn’t even listen. Meanwhile I have to confess to you, as we hadn’t counted on it taking so long, we’ve been sitting penniless for a long time now. I began to bring out bits of my clothes little by little; what we can pawn, we live on. We pawned everything we had on: she began to give me her last bits of linen and I cried bitter tears. She stamped her foot, leapt up, ran all the way to the merchant himself. He’s a widower; he said to her: ‘Come,’ he says, ‘the day after tomorrow at five o’clock, perhaps I’ll tell you something then.’ She came home all cheered up: ‘There,’ she says, ‘he may tell us something.’ And I was glad, but my heart felt very troubled: something is bound to happen, but I don’t dare question her. Two days later she comes back from the merchant’s, pale, trembling all over; she throws herself on the sofa – I understand it all and daren’t ask. What do you think: that rogue handed her fifteen roubles and if, he says, ‘I find total virtue, I’ll bring you another forty roubles.’ That’s what he said to her face without any shame. She flung herself at him, so she told me, and he pushed her aside and went off into another room and locked himself away from her. Meanwhile, I admit in all honesty, we had almost nothing left to eat. We brought out a short jacket with hare fur and sold it; she went to the newspaper and put in an advertisement: she can prepare, it says, students for all the sciences and arithmetic. ‘They’ll pay at least thirty copecks,’ she says. And by the very end I began to be terrified for her: she doesn’t say a thing to me, she sits by the window for hours on end, she looks at the roof of the house opposite and all of a sudden cries out: ‘If only I had some ironing or digging to do!’ or such a word here and there and she screams and stamps her foot. And we have no acquaintances here; there’s no one to go to. ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ I think. And I’m still afraid to talk to her. Once, she’s asleep in the daytime, she wakes up, opens her eyes and looks at me; I’m sitting on the trunk and I also look at her: she got up silently, walked over to me, hugged me so so tightly, and there, we couldn’t stand it any longer and burst into tears, we sit and cry and don’t let go of each other. It was the first time like that in her whole life. Only we’re sitting that way together and your Nastasya comes in and says: ‘Some lady has come to ask for you, is enquiring about you.’ This was four days ago. The lady comes in: we see she’s very well dressed; though she speaks Russian, she has some kind of German accent: ‘You advertised,’ she says, ‘in the paper that you give lessons?’ We were so happy then, offered her a seat, and she smiled so sweetly: ‘Not for me, but a niece of mine has two young children: if possible come over to us and we can come to an arrangement.’ She gave us an address, by the Voznesensky Bridge, house number such and such and apartment number such and such. She left. Olechka set off; she ran over there the same day – she came back two hours later, in complete hysterics. Later she told me: ‘I ask the caretaker,’ she says, ‘“Where is apartment number such and such?” The caretaker,’ she says, ‘looked at me: “What do you want,” he says, “with that apartment?”’ He said this so strangely that it could have made you think. But she was so strong-willed and impatient, couldn’t bear any questions or rudeness. ‘Come in,’ he says, and jabbed his finger towards the stairs and then went back into his box room. What do you think? She goes in, asks, and at once women are running to her from all sides: ‘Come in, come in!’ All the women laughed, threw themselves at her, all painted, foul-looking, there’s piano-playing, they drag her inside. ‘I tried to get away,’ she says, ‘but they wouldn’t let me.’ She lost her nerve then; her legs gave way; they won’t let her go; they just coax her, try to persuade her; they uncork some stout, give it to her, entertain her. She leaps up, screams her head off, is shaking all over: ‘Let me go, let me go!’ She hurls herself at the door; they hold the door; she yells; the woman who’d come to see us from before came running in, struck my Olya twice on the cheek and pushed her out through the door: ‘You’re not worthy,’ she says, ‘of being in a respectable house, you slut!’ And another one yells at her on the stairs: ‘You were the one who came, you had nothing to eat, you’re no good to us, we wouldn’t want to look at such an ugly mug!’ She lay in a fever and raved all night, and in the morning her eyes are glittering, she gets up and walks up and down: ‘To court with her,’ she says, ‘to court!’ I say nothing; well, I think to myself, so you take her to court, what proof have you got? She paces up and down, wrings her hands, tears pour down her face, but she presses her lips together, not moving a muscle. And her whole face darkened from that moment on and until the very end. She began to feel better on the third day; she didn’t say anything as though she’d calmed down. And then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Mr Versilov came to visit us.
“I’ll tell you straight: I can’t understand to this moment how Olya, so distrustful, still began to listen to him almost from the first word. And more than anything, what drew us both that time was that he had such a serious air, even stern; he speaks softly, steadily and yet politely – not just politely, respectfully even – and meanwhile there was no sign of him looking for something: it was clear that the gentleman had come in all sincerity. ‘I,’ he says, ‘have read your advertisement in the paper; you, madam,’ he says, ‘didn’t word it well, and it could even do you harm.’ And he began to explain, I confess, I didn’t understand him, something about arithmetic, but I saw that Olya was blushing and became very lively; she listened, joined in the conversation so willingly (he must be a clever man!). I listen, she even thanks him. He asked her about everything in such detail and it was obvious he’d lived in Moscow a long time and knew the headmistress of the grammar school personally, it turned out. ‘I’ll definitely find you lessons,’ he says, ‘because I know many people here and I can even ask many influential people, so that if you’d want a permanent position even that could be looked at… and meanwhile,’ he says, ‘forgive me for putting a straight question to you: can I not be useful to you in some way right now? You’d be doing me a favour, not the other way round,’ he says, ‘if you allow me to help you in whatever way. It can be in the form of a loan, and as soon as you get a position you can settle with me straight away. Believe me, on my honour, when I say that if I were to fall into similar poverty later and you were well provided for I’d come straight to you for some help; I’d send my wife and daughter to you…’ That is, I can’t recall all his words, only I was in tears and I then saw that Olya’s lips were trembling with gratitude: ‘If I accept,’ she replies to him, ‘it is because I trust an honest and humane man, who could be my father…’ She said it beautifully then, briefly and with dignity; ‘a humane man,’ she says. He immediately got up: ‘I’ll definitely, definitely,’ he says, ‘get you lessons and a position; I’ll get going today, because you have all the necessary credentials.’ But I forgot to tell you that at the very beginning, when he came in, he’d looked through all her school documents; she showed them to him and he tested her in various subjects himself… ‘See, dear Mama,’ Olya later says to me, ‘he tested me on several subjects and what a clever man he is,’ she says. ‘How often do you get to talk to such a cultured and educated man?…’ And she’s glowing. Sixty roubles are lying on the table: ‘Take them,’ she says, ‘Mama dear: we’ll get a position, we’ll repay our debt as quickly as possible, we’ll prove that we’re honest, that we’re refined, though he’s seen that already.’ Then she stopped talking, I see her breathing deeply: ‘You know,’ she suddenly says to me. ‘If we were uncouth, we might not have accepted anything from him out of pride, but the fact that we did accept proved to him that we are refined, that we trust him fully as a respectable grey-haired gentleman – I’m right, aren’t I?’ I don’t quite understand at first, but say: ‘Why, Olya, should one not accept charity from a noble and rich man, if he’s also a kind man?’ She frowned at me: ‘No,’ she says, ‘Mama dear, it’s not that; it’s not charity we need, but his “humanity” is what’s dear. And it would have been better even not to take his money at all, Mama dear: if he promised to get us a position, that should be enough… even if we’re in need.’ ‘Well,’ I say, ‘Olya, we’re in such need that it’s impossible to refuse.’ I even smiled. Well, I’m glad, only an hour later she puts to me: ‘You,’ she says, ‘Mama dear, wait before spending that money.’ She said it firmly. ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Just so,’ she says. She broke off and stopped talking. She was silent all evening. Only during the night after one o’clock I wake up, I hear Olya tossing and turning in her bed: ‘Are you sleeping, Mama dear?’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not asleep.’ ‘You know,’ she says, ‘do you think he wanted to insult me?’ ‘What’s this, what are you saying?’ I say. ‘It must be so,’ she says. ‘He’s a vile man; don’t you dare,’ she says, ‘spend a copeck of his money.’ I wanted to say something, even shed a few tears in bed – she turned to the wall: ‘Be quiet,’ she says. ‘Let me sleep!’ In the morning I look at her; she’s not herself; believe me or not, I tell you before God, she wasn’t in her right mind! From that time when they insulted her in that despicable house, her heart had become dulled… and her mind too. I look at her that morning and I’m filled with doubt about her; I’m horrified: I won’t, I think to myself, I won’t contradict even one word she says. ‘He didn’t,’ she says, ‘leave behind any address, Mama dear.’ ‘It’s a sin,’ I say, ‘Olya: you heard him yourself yesterday; you praised him yourself; you were ready to shed tears of gratitude.’ As soon as I said this she shrieked and stamped her foot: ‘You’re a woman of low feelings; you’re old,’ she says, ‘brought up under serfdom!’ And whatever I said, she picked up her hat and ran out, and I call after her; what’s the matter with her, I’m thinking, where has she run off to? But she’d run to the address bureau, found out where Mr Versilov lived and come back: ‘Today I’ll take him back his money,’ she says, ‘and hurl it in his face; he wanted to insult me,’ she says, ‘like Safronov’ – that’s our merchant – ‘only Safronov insulted us like an uncouth peasant, while he did it like a cunning Jesuit.’ And then unfortunately all of a sudden yesterday’s gentleman knocked on the door: ‘I hear you mention Versilov; I can give you information.’ The moment she hears mention of Versilov, she falls upon him in a frenzy and talks and talks, and I look at her in amazement: she’s such a silent one and she’s never talked like that with anyone, and here she is with a stranger. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes flashing… And he goes: ‘It’s absolutely your right, ma’am. Versilov,’ he says, ‘is exactly like our local generals who are described in the newspapers: he gets dressed up with all his medals and goes to visit all the governesses who put advertisements in the papers; he goes and finds what he wants: and if he doesn’t find what he’s after then he’ll sit down, chat, promise the world and leave – he’s found some entertainment anyway.’ Even Olya begins to roar with laughter, but maliciously, and that gentleman, I see, takes her hand and draws it to his heart: ‘I,’ he says, ‘have my own funds and could always make a suggestion to a pretty young girl, but,’ he says, ‘it’s better I should first kiss her sweet little hand…’ And I see, he pulls her hand to kiss it. She leaps up, and there and then she and I throw him out. Towards evening Olya takes the money from me, runs off, and then she’s back: ‘I,’ she says, ‘have taken revenge on a dishonourable man!’ ‘Oh, Olya, Olya,’ I say, ‘perhaps we’ve lost our happiness; you’ve offended an honourable, charitable man!’ I cried with frustration, I couldn’t stand it. She shouts at me: ‘I don’t want it,’ she cries, ‘I don’t want it! Even if he’s the most honest of men, I don’t want his charity! And I don’t want anyone to pity me either!’ I lay down and no longer had any thoughts. How often have I looked at that nail on the wall, the one where there’d been a mirror? I never thought, really never thought, not yesterday or ever, I didn’t think it or guess it and didn’t expect it of Olya at all. I mostly sleep deeply; I snore; the blood usually flows to my head; sometimes it reaches my heart and I cry out in my sleep so that Olya wakes me in the night: ‘How come,’ she says, ‘Mama dear, that you sleep so soundly and that it’s impossible to wake you when necessary?’ ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Olya, soundly, so soundly.’ So I must have been snoring like that yesterday, and she waited and, with no fear of waking me, she climbed up. The belt is from the suitcase, a long one; it had stuck out the whole month and even yesterday morning I thought: ‘I must put it away, not leave it hanging around.’ And she must have pushed the chair away with her foot, and for it not to make a sound she’d put her skirt down there. And I must have, a long time later, a whole hour or more later, woken up: ‘Olya!’ I call her. ‘Olya!’ At once I had an inkling of something, I call her. Either I couldn’t hear her breathing from her bed or looking in the dark I somehow saw her empty bed, only I suddenly got up to feel with my hand: there’s nobody in the bed and the pillow is cold. My heart sank so and I stood without moving, not feeling anything, my mind gone numb. ‘She’s gone out, I think.’ I took some steps, by her bed; I look, in the corner, by the door; she seems to be standing there. I stand, look at her without saying a word, and she seems to look at me from the dark, she doesn’t stir… Only why, I’m thinking, did she get up on the chair? ‘Olya,’ I whisper; I’m afraid now, ‘Olya, can you hear me?’ Only suddenly it’s as though it dawns on me, I take a step, stretch out both arms straight towards her, take hold of her, and she swings in my arms; I grab her and she swings; I understand everything and don’t want to understand… I want to scream, but nothing comes out… Oh, I think! I fell headlong to the floor and then began to scream…”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Vasin,” I said in the morning, already towards six o’clock. “Had it not been for your Stebelkov, this might not have happened.”
“Who knows, it might have happened anyway. You shouldn’t judge; it had all the makings… True, that Stebelkov sometimes…”
He didn’t finish and had a very unpleasant frown. Around seven o’clock he went out again: he kept busy. I remained all on my own. Dawn had broken. My head spun slightly. I imagined Versilov: that lady’s tale put him in a totally different light. To think about it more comfortably, I lay on Vasin’s bed the way I was, dressed and with my boots on, for just a minute, with no intention of sleeping – and I promptly fell asleep; I don’t even remember how it happened. I slept almost four hours; no one woke me up.