Humiliated and Insulted

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “A scribbler, a poet! Doesn’t make sense… Whoever heard of poets establishing themselves, getting on in life? They’re such a bunch of scatterbrains, such a feckless lot!”

  I noticed that these doubts and awkward considerations came to him mostly towards the end of the day (how vividly I recall every detail of those golden days!). At dusk Ikhmenev would always become strangely nervous, susceptible and wary. Natasha and I were aware of this, and we teased him about it. I remember how I would keep up his spirits with anecdotes about Sumarokov’s generalship, about the court poet Derzhavin having a casket full of gold coins sent to him, about the Empress herself visiting the great scientist and writer Lomonosov.* I plied him with stories about Pushkin and Gogol.

  “I know, my boy, I know all that,” Ikhmenev would retort, perhaps hearing these stories for the first time in his life. “Hm! Listen Vanya, one thing I’m glad of is that your what-ye-m’call-it isn’t poetry. Poetry, my boy, is rubbish – don’t argue! I know what I’m talking about. I wish you all the very best, but poetry is sheer nonsense, an utter waste of time, I tell you! Poetry is for schoolboys, and in the end it lands you in the loony bin… So Pushkin was great, no disputing that! But it’s just ditties, nothing more – very ephemeral stuff, all that… Truth to tell, I haven’t had a chance to read him much… But prose, now, that’s another matter altogether! Your prose writer can tell you a thing or two – well, about love for your motherland say, and virtue in general… yes! Pity I can’t put it any better, my boy, but you know what I mean. I’m saying it for your own good… All right, let’s have it then!” he concluded with a show of interest after I had brought the book along at last and we were all seated at the round table after tea. “Let’s hear what it is you’ve concocted. People are saying no end of things about you! Let’s see, let’s see!”

  I opened my novel and prepared to read. It had been published that very evening, and when I finally obtained a copy, I had rushed straight to the Ikhmenevs to read it to them.

  I had been upset at not being able to do this earlier from the manuscript, but it had been at the printers’. Natasha had actually cried with disappointment; she remonstrated with me and reproached me that strangers would read my novel before she did… But there we were at last sitting round the table. Ikhmenev affected a very serious and critical expression. He wanted to be a strict, impartial judge – “to decide for himself”. Dear old Anna Andreyevna also assumed a most solemn air – I’m not sure that she didn’t put on a new bonnet for the occasion. She had already been aware for some time that I worshipped her precious Natasha, that I choked and things went blank in front of my eyes whenever I spoke to her, and that Natasha herself was beginning to regard me a little more kindly than previously. Yes, at long last this was it, this was the moment of glory, the realization of golden hopes, complete happiness, everything had come at once, at a stroke! Also the good lady – bless her! – couldn’t help noticing that her husband had begun to be rather fulsome in his praise of me and was casting meaningful glances at me and his daughter… and suddenly she took fright. After all, I was no princeling, no duke, not even a collegiate councillor, versed in law, young, handsome and sporting an order or two! Anna Andreyevna never dreamt by halves.

  “They praise the young man,” she mused, “but why? No one knows. An author, a poet… But what is an author exactly?”

  6

  I read the whole of my novel to them at a single sitting. We began immediately after tea, and stayed up till two in the morning. Ikhmenev’s first reaction was a scowl. He’d been expecting something high-flown and elevated, something quite beyond his reach; but instead, it was utterly commonplace and familiar – just the kind of thing that goes on around us in everyday life. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the hero had been a striking or interesting character, or some figure from the pages of history – a Roslavlev, say, or a Yury Miloslavsky* – but here we were served up with this weak, downtrodden, not to say half-witted figure of a clerk with half the buttons missing off his uniform – and all of it written in the workaday language that everyone uses… Unbelievable! Anna Andreyevna looked quizzically at Nikolai Sergeich and even screwed up her face as if offended, as if to say, “Really, to think that anybody would want to print and listen to such rubbish, and what’s more, pay good money for it!” Natasha listened eagerly, didn’t take her eyes off me, watched my lips for the way I pronounced each word and moved her own lovely lips. And imagine! Before I had got even halfway, my listeners were all weeping. Anna Andreyevna was shedding heartfelt tears for my hero, and to judge by her exclamations, naively wished she could somehow help him in his plight. Ikhmenev had given up all expectations of profundity. “All right, it’s pretty clear that all your grand plans are pie in the sky… It’s just a story like any other, but it does tug at your heartstrings,” he observed, “it gives a clear and memorable picture of what’s happening around you. It goes to show that even the most downtrodden, the most insignificant of us is a human being, and he is our brother!” Natasha listened and wept, at the same time surreptitiously squeezing my hand under the table. The reading came to an end. Natasha got up; her cheeks were glowing, there were tears in her eyes; suddenly she caught hold of my hand, kissed it and rushed out of the room. A look passed between her mother and father.

  “Hm! She’s so excitable, isn’t she, the dear child?” Ikhmenev observed, astonished at his daughter’s reaction. “It’s all right though, it’s good, her heart’s in the right place! She’s a good girl…” he mumbled, casting a fleeting glance at his wife, as though trying to excuse Natasha and, while he was about it, me as well for some reason.

  But Anna Andreyevna, in spite of the fact that she clearly had been disturbed and moved by the reading, now returned his glance with a look of her own, which seemed to say, “It’s all very well, but let’s not get carried away.”

  Natasha was soon back, cheerful and happy, and, as she passed behind me, pinched me playfully. Ikhmenev was once more about to act the serious critic, but, overcome with joy, launched forth instead with:

  “Well, Vanya, my boy, this is good, very good! You’ve done us proud! I didn’t expect anything like it. Nothing grand, nothing elevated, that much is clear… Take The Liberation of Moscow,* I’ve a copy here – that’s where it was written too, Moscow – well, you can see in the first line, my boy, the author soars like an eagle… But you know, your story, Vanya, is more down-to-earth, easier to understand. And that’s why I like it, because it’s easier to understand! It touches you more. It’s as though you were the very person it all happened to. What’s the good of all the highfaluting stuff if it’s way over your head? The only thing I’d change would be the style. I’m full of praise for what you’ve done, of course, but you can’t get away from it, it lacks elevation… Well, too late now, it’s in print. Unless there’s a second edition? There will be a second edition, my boy, won’t there? I suppose that’ll mean more money, eh!”

  “Did you really get all that much money for it, Ivan Petrovich?” Anna Andreyevna asked. “I can’t help being amazed when I think about it. Goodness, so that’s what people are getting paid good money for now, is it!?”

  “You know, Vanya,” Ikhmenev continued, getting carried away more and more, “this might not be government service, but at least it’s a job. You never know, some bigwigs might read it. You were saying Gogol’s on an annual retainer and has been sent abroad. Well, couldn’t you be too? Eh? Or is it too early for that yet? You need to write more, I dare say. Well, get on with it, my boy, get on with it! It won’t do to rest on your laurels. No use dawdling!”

  And he spoke with such conviction, such good humour, that I didn’t have the heart to spoil his flights of fancy.

  “Or they might give you a snuffbox… Well, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. They’ll want to encourage you… And who knows, you might even be presented at Court,” he added in a half-whisper, throwing me a significant sidelong gl
ance, “what do you think? Or is it early days for the Court?”

  “Court indeed!” Anna Andreyevna said, as though offended by the idea.

  “You’ll be making me a general before long,” I replied, laughing heartily.

  Ikhmenev laughed too. He was exceedingly happy.

  “Your Excellency, dinner is served!” Natasha suddenly called out excitedly. While we were talking, she had been putting together some supper for us. Then she burst out laughing, ran up to her father and hugged him warmly.

  “Aren’t you a good, kind Daddy!”

  The old man was touched.

  “Yes, yes, all right, that’ll do! I was only joking. General or no general, let’s go and have supper… My sweetest little pet!” he added, patting Natasha’s flushed cheek. He loved doing this at every possible opportunity. “You see, Vanya, I meant it as a compliment. You may not make it to the rank of general – there’s many a slip… nevertheless, now you’re a storyteller, you can hold your head high!”

  “‘Author’, Daddy, ‘author’’s the word.”

  “Not ‘storyteller’? I didn’t know that. Oh well, have it your way. As I was saying, they’re not going to promote you to chamberlain just for writing a novel, that’s for sure. All the same, it gives you an opening, you might become an attaché perhaps. You might get posted abroad – to Italy, say – to improve your health or education, or something like that. They might even help you out with money. Needless to say, you’ve got to prove yourself worthy of it all. It’s got to be well deserved. Money and honours should be the reward of toil and sweat, not just come by without any effort, simply through patronage…”

  “Don’t let it all go to your head, Ivan Petrovich,” Anna Andreyevna added with a laugh.

  “You might as well give him the Chevalier Star* while you’re about it, Daddy – all you can think of is ‘attaché’!” and Natasha pinched my arm again.

  “There she goes, poking fun at me again!” Ikhmenev exclaimed, looking admiringly at Natasha’s rosy cheeks and bright, sparkling eyes. “I must admit, my children, I really went too far, building castles in the air. I’ll never change… the only thing is, Vanya – when I look at you, you’re so uncommonly ordinary-looking…”

  “Good heavens! What do you expect him to look like then, Daddy?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. But it’s your face, Vanya… to me there’s nothing poetic about it… You know, they say poets are a pale-faced lot on the whole – and, well, their hair… there’s something about their eyes too… Take someone like Goethe for instance… There’s a character like that in Abbaddonna*… now what? Have I said the wrong thing again? Look at her laughing at me, the little tease! I’m not a learned man, my darlings – I just say what I feel. What’s in a face after all? One is as good as another. I’ve nothing against yours… It’s perfectly all right… that’s not what I meant at all… The main thing is, Vanya, you must never be dishonest, that’s the most important thing – you must never be dishonest, never overreach yourself! You’ve got everything going for you, my boy. Follow your trade conscientiously, that’s what I meant, yes, that’s what I meant to say!”

  Happy days! I spent all my free evenings with them. I would bring Ikhmenev the latest news about the literary world and writers in whom he had inexplicably begun to take an interest all of a sudden; he had even started to read B.’s critical articles. I talked to him at length about B., who was mostly over his head, though he praised him to the skies and spoke bitterly of his enemies, his fellow contributors to The Northern Drone. Anna Andreyevna kept a sharp eye on Natasha and me – but, as it turned out, not sharp enough! We already had an understanding – I had heard Natasha, her eyes lowered and lips slightly parted, say to me almost in a whisper, Yes. The old couple got to know about it; they talked about it and they thought about it; Anna Andreyevna just kept shaking her head. She was uneasy and frightened. She had no faith in me.

  “You’ve been lucky, Ivan Petrovich,” she would say, “but supposing your luck were suddenly to run out or something – what then? If only you had a regular job!”

  And Ikhmenev, after some reflection, said, “Vanya, I’ll say this to you. I’ve been observing you. It hasn’t escaped me. I was even glad that you and Natasha… well, you know what I mean! You see, Vanya, you’re both still very young, and my Anna Andreyevna’s perfectly right. Let’s just wait a little! You’ve got talent, quite exceptional talent, to be sure… You’re not exactly a genius, as they all hailed you at first, but you’ve got talent all the same. I read this piece about you in today’s Drone. They really don’t think much of you there, do they? But then what is one to expect? That’s the sort of paper it is! You know, with respect, talent still doesn’t equal money in the bank, and both of you are poor. Let’s wait eighteen months, or at least a year. If you do all right, once you get a foot on the ladder – Natasha’s yours. If not – be reasonable!… You’re a sensible chap. Think about it!…”

  And that’s how the matter was left. A year later this is what happened.

  Yes, it was almost exactly a year later! One bright September day, late in the afternoon, sick in body and soul, I called on the old couple and slumped into a chair, almost unconscious, giving them both a dreadful fright. But the reason my head was spinning and my heart was rent as I approached their front door a dozen times – and a dozen times drew back before I eventually entered – was not because my career was unsuccessful, or because I still had neither fame nor fortune; nor was it because I still hadn’t been made an attaché and there was no prospect of my being sent to Italy for my health. It was because it is possible to age ten years in one year, and this was what had happened to my Natasha too. An infinite gulf had opened between us… And I remember sitting, facing Ikhmenev, unconsciously picking at the worn rim of my hat; I sat and waited – goodness only knows why – for Natasha to appear. My ill-fitting suit was shabby, my face drawn, wasted and sallow – and yet I looked nothing like a poet and there was no fire in my eyes – the thing that had troubled the good Nikolai Sergeich so much at one time. Anna Andreyevna kept eyeing me with unfeigned, altogether excessive pity, no doubt saying to herself, “To think that someone like this nearly married our Natasha! O Lord, bless and protect us!”

  “Ivan Petrovich, won’t you have some tea?” she said in a doleful voice, which I recall as if it were yesterday (the samovar was simmering on the table), “and how are you keeping, my dear? You do look poorly!”

  And I can still clearly see her talking to me with her eyes full of yet another worry – the same that was clouding Ikhmenev’s face as he sat brooding while his tea was going cold. I knew that they were greatly preoccupied with their court case against Prince Valkovsky, which had taken a turn for the worse, and that a new calamity had befallen them, upsetting Nikolai Sergeich to the point of making him ill. The young prince – the real cause of the instigation of legal proceedings – had found an excuse to drop in on the Ikhmenevs some five months before. Ikhmenev, who loved Alyosha as if he were his own son and thought of him almost every day, received him joyfully. Anna Andreyevna thought of Vasìlevskoye, and burst into tears. Alyosha started calling on them more and more frequently, without his father’s knowledge. Nikolai Sergeich, utterly open, upright and above board as he was, threw all caution to the winds. Out of honest pride he refused even to speculate as to what the Prince might say if he found out that his son was again being welcomed in their home, and dismissed from his mind all the preposterous suspicions that the Prince might harbour. But Ikhmenev was not sure if he would be strong enough to bear any fresh indignities. The young prince began to call on them nearly every day. The old couple enjoyed his company. He would sit with them evening after evening, and sometimes into the small hours. Naturally his father got to know about it. Things took another scandalous turn. The Prince wrote Nikolai Sergeich an extremely offensive letter along the same lines as before, and absolutely forbade his son to call on the
Ikhmenevs. This occurred a fortnight before I went to see them. Nikolai Sergeich was terribly upset. To think that his innocent and noble-hearted Natasha might once again be embroiled in this sordid affair, this ignominy! Her name had already been on the lips of the person who had wronged him… and to leave all this unchallenged! For the next few days he was in despair and took to his bed. I knew all about this. The story had reached me in every detail, even though I was sick and depressed myself and had not been to see the Ikhmenevs, having spent the past three weeks or so confined to my bed. But I also knew – no! – at that time I merely surmised – I knew, but refused to believe – that apart from this business there was also something else that was destroying their peace of mind even more, and I observed them with an aching heart. Yes, I suffered; I was afraid of being proven right, I was afraid to credit my own intuition, and with all my strength tried to dismiss the fateful moment that was approaching. But that is precisely what compelled me to go to see them. It was as if I had been specially drawn to them that evening!