Humiliated and Insulted

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  I hardly remember how I reached home, even though I was getting soaked by the rain all the way. It was about three o’clock in the morning. I had scarcely knocked on the front door when I heard a groan, and the door was hurriedly unlocked as though Nelly had never gone to bed but had been waiting up for me on the very doorstep. The candle was burning. I looked into her face and gasped. It was completely transformed – her eyes shone as in fever, and there was something wild in her gaze as though she did not recognize me. She was running a high temperature.

  “Nelly, what’s the matter with you, are you ill?” I asked, bending over her and putting my arm around her.

  She pressed up close to me, trembling, as if afraid of something and began to speak quickly, haltingly, as if dying to tell me something urgent. But her words were incoherent and strange. I could make no sense of what she was saying. She was raving.

  I led her quickly over to the bed. But she kept pressing against me convulsively as though terrified, as though seeking protection from someone, and even after she was already in bed, she still snatched at my hand and clutched it tightly, fearing that I might leave her again. I was so shaken, upset and on edge that, looking at her, I even started crying. I myself was ill. On seeing my tears, she looked long and hard at me with intense, concentrated attention, as though trying to fathom and work something out. It was clear this cost her a lot of effort. At last there was something like a glimmer of consciousness in her face; after a severe attack of epilepsy she was usually unable to muster her thoughts for some time and articulate her words clearly. And so it was now. After making a supreme effort to say something and realizing that I was unable to comprehend her, she put out her hand and started wiping my tears, then she clasped her arms round my neck, pulled me towards her and kissed me.

  Now it was clear – in my absence she had suffered a fit and it had come at the precise instant when she was standing at the door. Having regained consciousness, it probably took her quite some time finally to recover her faculties. On such occasions reality and delirium tend to merge, and she probably imagined something outlandish and frightening. At the same time she was vaguely aware that I was due back and would be knocking at the door, and so lying on the floor immediately by the door, she was listening out for me, and had struggled to her feet at my first knock.

  “But why should she have been right by the door?” I thought to myself, and suddenly noticed with surprise that she was wearing her fur coat (I’d just bought one for her from an old pedlar woman I knew who had called on me at my lodgings and who’d often let me have goods on credit); consequently she had been planning to go out somewhere, and was probably on the point of opening the door when she suffered the fit. But where had she intended to go? Could she have been already delirious?

  In the meantime her fever did not subside but got even worse, rendering her comatose. She had already had two attacks in my lodgings, but each time had managed to recover fully, whereas this time the fever appeared to have taken a turn for the worse. After sitting with her for about half an hour, I pushed some chairs up against the settee and lay down next to her, fully dressed, to be able to wake up immediately if she called out to me. I left the candle burning. Many were the glances I gave her before I fell asleep. She was pale; her lips were parched and blood-stained, presumably as a result of the fall, while her face wore a permanent expression of fear and a kind of tortured anxiety, which lingered even while she slept. I resolved, if her condition deteriorated, to go for the doctor as early as possible the next day. I was afraid in case her illness developed into full-blown brain fever.

  “It was the Prince who frightened her!” I thought with a shudder, recalling his story of the woman who had thrown her money in his face.

  2

  Two weeks went by; Nelly was beginning to get better. The fever abated, but she still remained seriously ill. She got out of bed towards the end of April on a clear, bright day. It was Holy Week.

  Poor child! I cannot continue my story in the same sequence as before. A lot of time has elapsed as I now record all those past events, but the memory of her pale emaciated face still wells up inside me with such relentless, painful force! Those long penetrating looks of her dark eyes when just the two of us were together, and the way she would gaze at me from her bed, staring fixedly as though challenging me to guess what was on her mind, but seeing that I could not and that I remained as puzzled as before, smiling softly as though to herself and suddenly putting out her warm hand with her thin bony fingers extended gently towards me!… Everything is over now, everything is out in the open, yet to this day I have not fathomed all the secrets of that afflicted, exhausted and injured little heart.

  I feel I may be digressing from my story, but at this moment I wish to think of nothing but Nelly. Strange to say, as I lie in my hospital bed alone, abandoned by everybody whom I loved so much and so deeply, some suddenly remembered detail from the past – at the time hardly noticed and quickly forgotten – now assumes a totally distinct significance in my mind, resonant and revelatory, shedding light on much that I had hitherto been unable to comprehend.

  The first four days of her illness both the doctor and I feared greatly for her, but on the fifth he took me aside and said there was nothing to fear and that she would most certainly recover. It was the same old bachelor doctor, the kind eccentric I’d called out when Nelly first fell ill and who had impressed her so much with the huge St Stanislas round his neck.

  “So you’re saying there’s nothing to fear!” I said joyfully.

  “Yes, she’ll get better now, but then before very long she’ll die.”

  “What do you mean, die! Why, for goodness sake!” I exclaimed, shocked by such a pronouncement.

  “Yes, she will definitely die soon. The patient suffers from a congenital heart defect, and the slightest unfavourable change in circumstances will incapacitate her again. She may well recover, but then go downhill yet again and eventually die.”

  “And is there really no way of saving her? No, that’s impossible!”

  “I’m afraid it is inevitable! Nevertheless, by safeguarding her from distressing situations, letting her relax and enjoy herself more, the patient’s life may yet be prolonged, and cases have been known… unexpected… unusual and strange… in a word, in a favourable environment the patient may survive for a long time; as for being restored to full health – never.”

  “But my God, what’s to be done now?”

  “Follow my advice, she should observe an ordered way of life and take the prescribed powders regularly. I have noticed the young lady is capricious, of an excitable disposition and a prankster. She is very reluctant to take her powders regularly and has categorically refused to do so even now.”

  “Yes, doctor. She really is strange, but I put it all down to her morbid irritability. Yesterday she was very compliant. Today, however, when I was giving her medicine, she jolted my arm as if by accident and it was all spilt. When I wanted to dissolve another powder, she snatched the whole packet out of my hand and dashed it to the floor, and then burst into tears… Only I don’t somehow think it was because she had to take the powder,” I added after reflecting a little.

  “Hm! Irritability. Former misfortunes,” (I had given the doctor a full and frank account of Nelly’s past, which had astonished him greatly) “it is all of a piece, and the result is her illness. For the time being the only remedy is to take the powders, and she must take one now. I’ll go to her and try once more to impress upon her the importance of following medical advice and – that is speaking in general terms – to take the powders.”

  We both left the kitchen, where our discussion was held, and the doctor again approached the patient’s bed. But it appeared Nelly had overheard everything; at least she had lifted her head from the pillows and, having bent her ear in our direction, was all the time listening with rapt attention. I noticed this through the gap in the half-open door. Wh
en, however, we went back to her, the little mischief-maker ducked under her blanket again and kept eyeing us with a guileful smile. The poor child had lost a lot of weight in these four days of her illness; her eyes were sunken and she was still flushed with fever – the more striking was the beauty of her roguish expression and her pertly sparkling glances that caused the good doctor, the kindest of all the Germans in St Petersburg, much wonderment.

  In all seriousness, but trying to keep his voice as soft as possible, he explained to her in the gentlest and most good-humoured tone possible the all-important need for the powders, with their restorative powers, and consequently every patient’s obligation to take them. Nelly was about to raise her head but, suddenly, with what seemed a totally accidental movement of her hand, jolted the spoon and all the medicine again ended up on the floor. I was sure she did it deliberately.

  “This is a very unfortunate carelessness,” the old man observed calmly, “and I suspect you did it on purpose, which is very naughty. But… we can set that right and dissolve another powder.”

  Nelly laughed straight in his face.

  The doctor shook his head stiffly.

  “It is very bad,” he said, preparing another solution, “very, very naughty of you.”

  “Don’t be angry with me,” replied Nelly, trying desperately not to laugh, “I will take it… but do you love me?”

  “If you behave, I will love you very much.”

  “Very much?”

  “Very much.”

  “But you don’t love me now?”

  “Now I love you too.”

  “But will you kiss me if I want to kiss you?”

  “Yes, if you prove you deserve it.”

  Here Nelly was again unable to restrain herself and burst out laughing.

  “The patient has a cheerful disposition, but right now she is all nerves and capriciousness,” the doctor whispered to me with a most serious air.

  “All right then, I’ll drink the powder,” Nelly suddenly called out in her feeble voice, “but when I grow up tall, will you marry me?”

  Apparently the idea of this new prank appealed to her very much; her eyes were simply glowing, while her lips twitched with laughter in anticipation of the somewhat astonished doctor’s response.

  “All right,” he replied, smiling involuntarily at this new caprice, “all right, if you’ll be a good and well-behaved girl and will—”

  “Take powders?” Nelly interrupted.

  “Oh dear! Well yes, take the powders. A nice girl,” he whispered to me again, “there is in her a great deal, a very great deal that’s… good and clever, but all the same… marriage… what a strange notion?”

  And he again offered her the medicine. But this time she did not even attempt to disguise her intention, but simply gave the spoon a knock from below and all the medicine splashed directly over the poor old man’s shirt front and face. Nelly burst into a loud peal of laughter, but not of the former good-natured and cheerful kind. Something cruel and malicious flashed across her features. In the course of all this she appeared to be avoiding my eyes and looked only at the doctor – mockingly but with some apprehension too – waiting to see what the “funny” old man would do now.

  “Oh! You’ve done it again… How unfortunate! But… we can dissolve another powder,” the old man said, wiping his face and shirt with his handkerchief.

  This came as a shock to Nelly. She was expecting us to be angry; expecting us to start scolding her, telling her off, and maybe unconsciously that’s just what she wanted most of all at that moment – in order to have an excuse to burst out crying, shrieking as in hysteria, to scatter the powders again as before, and even to break something in a temper and thereby assuage her capricious, afflicted little heart. It is not just sick people who are prone to such caprices, nor is Nelly the only one. How often had I paced up and down my room with the unconscious desire that someone should hurry up and offend me or say something that could be interpreted as an offence and thus precipitate a crisis, an emotional catharsis. Women, however, who reach such catharses, begin to shed the most heartfelt tears and the more sensitive amongst them end up in hysteria. This phenomenon is altogether very simple and extremely widespread, occurring by and large when there is another, a predominantly secret inner grief gnawing at one’s heart, which, however much one would like to share with others, one feels one cannot confide in anyone.

  But overwhelmed by the angelic kindness of the old man whom she had offended, and the patience with which he yet again set about dissolving a third powder without having uttered a single word of reproach, Nelly suddenly relaxed. The expression of mockery left her lips, colour suffused her face, her eyes moistened; she threw me a momentary glance and immediately turned away. The doctor approached her with the medicine. She drank it meekly and obediently and, taking hold of the doctor’s fleshy red hand, she slowly looked into his eyes.

  “You’re… angry… that I’m so horrid,” she said, but did not finish, dived under her blanket, pulled it over her head and burst into a loud, hysterical fit of crying.

  “My child, don’t cry… This is nothing… This is nerves. Have a drink of water!”

  But Nelly was not listening.

  “Take heart… don’t get upset…” he continued, barely able to stop himself from weeping, sensitive as he was, “I forgive you and shall marry you if, like a well-behaved, honest young lady, you will—”

  “Take the powders!” came the thin, clarion voice from beneath the blanket, interspersed with sobbing and laughter that I knew only too well.

  “My good, sensitive child,” the doctor said solemnly, almost on the brink of tears. “Poor girl!”

  And from then on a strange and surprising empathy developed between him and Nelly. With me, on the contrary, Nelly grew all the more sullen, nervous and irritable. I was at a loss what to ascribe this to, and was particularly surprised since this change came upon her quite suddenly. In the first days of her illness she was most sensitive and gentle with me; it seemed she could not have enough of my company, would not let me go, would snatch my hand with her own burning one and pull me down beside her, and if she noticed I was gloomy and worried, tried to cheer me up, joked, teased me and smiled at me, apparently making light of her own suffering. She objected to my working late into the night or when I sat up to nurse her, and was upset on seeing that I did not comply. Sometimes I would notice a preoccupied look in her face; when she would start probing and questioning me why I was sad and what was on my mind; strangely enough though, as soon as it came to Natasha she’d immediately grow silent and begin to talk about something else. It was as if she tried to avoid talking about Natasha, and this came as a surprise to me. When I arrived home, she’d be overjoyed. However, when I reached for my hat, she would appear dejected and follow me with a strange, somewhat reproachful, gaze.

  On the fourth day of her illness I stayed the whole evening at Natasha’s till long after midnight. There were things we needed to talk over. However, when I was leaving home, I told Nelly I’d be back very soon, and had every intention of doing so. Having inadvertently been detained at Natasha’s, I was yet quite reassured about Nelly – she was not on her own. With her was Alexandra Semyonovna, who had found out from Masloboyev, after he had called on me briefly, that Nelly was ill and that I was in dire straits and totally on my own. Oh my, how the good Alexandra Semyonovna took it to heart!

  “So, this means he won’t even come to have dinner with us now!… Goodness me! And all alone, poor chap. Let’s go out of our way to be kind to him. An opportunity like that is not to be missed.”

  She immediately turned up at our place in a cab and carrying a large bundle. Having declared from the first that she would not leave me and had come to help me in my hour of need, she undid her bundle. Out came syrups, jams, specially prepared for the patient, poussins and a chicken – in anticipation of the patient re
covering – baking apples, oranges, dry Kiev preserves (if the doctor did not disapprove), and finally linen, bed sheets, napkins, chemises, bandages, poultices – almost enough to equip a whole hospital.

  “We’ve plenty of everything,” she told me, articulating each word in a rushed and anxious way as though in a hurry to get somewhere, “but you lead a bachelor’s life. You’re short of such things. So do allow me… and it’s Filip Filipych’s orders. Well then, let’s start and get a move on… What’s to be done next? How is she? Is she conscious? Oh, she shouldn’t be lying like that – let me rearrange the pillow, the head needs to be lower, but you know what… wouldn’t a leather cushion be better? Leather’s cooler. Oh, how stupid of me! Never occurred to me to bring one. I’ll go and fetch it… Shall I make the fire? I’ll send you my cleaner. There’s an old woman I know. You see, you’ve no servant in the house… So, what needs to be done next? What’s this? Herbal tea… did the doctor prescribe it? I’m sure it’s for the chest pains, isn’t it? I’ll go and make the fire now.”

  But I calmed her down, and she was most surprised and even saddened that there wasn’t really all that much to do. That, however, did not discourage her unduly. She immediately made friends with Nelly and helped me a great deal throughout her illness; she visited us nearly every day and invariably with such an air as though something had gone missing or someone had left and needed to be summoned back urgently. She would always add that those were Filip Filipych’s orders. Nelly took a fancy to her. They became very fond of each other, like two sisters, and I dare say Alexandra Semyonovna was in many respects just as much of a child as Nelly. She told her various stories, made her laugh, and Nelly would often miss her after she had left. On her very first appearance at our place, however, she was met with surprise by my patient who immediately guessed the reason behind the uninvited guest’s arrival and, as was her wont, began even to furrow her brow, stopped talking and became unsociable.