The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Modern Library Classics)

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  At home I mostly spent my time reading. I tried to stifle all that was seething within me by all sorts of outside distractions, and of all outside distractions reading was the most easily available to me. My reading of course helped a lot: it excited, delighted, and tormented me. But at times it also bored me terribly. I got heartily sick of sitting in my room; I wanted to go somewhere, to move about; and so I plunged into a sort of sombre, secret, disgusting—no, not dissipation, but vile, petty vice. My mean lusts were always acute and burning as a result of my continual morbid irritability. My outbursts of passion were hysterical, and always accompanied by tears and convulsions. Apart from my reading, I had nothing to occupy me. I mean, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect or to which I could feel attracted. In addition, I was terribly sick at heart; I felt a terrible craving for conflicts and contrasts, and so I plunged into a life of mean debauchery. Mind you, I have spoken at such great length now not at all because of any desire to justify myself. And yet—no! It’s a lie! Of course I wanted to justify myself. I’m making this little note for my own use, gentlemen. I don’t want to lie. I promised not to.

  I pursued my vile amusements in solitude, at night, in secret, fearfully, filthily, with a feeling of shame that did not desert me in the most sickening moments and that brought me in such moments to the point of calling down curses on my own head. Even in these days I carried the dark cellar about with me in my soul. I was terribly afraid of being seen, of meeting someone I knew, of being recognised. I frequented all sorts of rather obscure dens of vice.

  One night as I was passing a small pub, I saw through a lighted window some men having a fight with billiard cues and one of them being thrown out of the window. At any other time I should have felt very much disgusted; but at the time I could not help feeling envious of the fellow who had been thrown out of the window. Indeed, so envious did I feel that I even went into the pub, walked straight into the billiard room, thinking that perhaps I too could pick a quarrel with the men there and be thrown out of the window.

  I was not drunk, but what was I to do? To such a state of hysteria had my depression brought me! But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not even capable of jumping out of the window, and I went away without having a fight.

  An army officer in the pub put me in my place from the very first.

  I was standing beside the billiard-table and, in my ignorance, was blocking the way. As he had to pass me, he took me by the shoulders and, without a word of warning or explanation, silently carried me bodily from where I was standing to another place and passed by as though he had not even noticed me. I could have forgiven him if he had given me a beating, but I could not forgive him for having moved me from one place to another as if I were a piece of furniture. I would have given anything at that moment for a real, a more regular, a more decent, and a more, so to speak, literary quarrel! But I had been treated like a fly. The army officer was over six foot, and I am a short, thin little fellow. The quarrel, however, was in my hands: if I had uttered one word of protest, I should most certainly have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my mind and preferred—to efface myself angrily.

  I left the pub feeling wild and embarrassed and went straight home. On the following day I carried on with my mean dissipation even more timidly, more abjectly and miserably than before, as though with tears in my eyes, but I did carry on with it. Do not imagine, however, that I was afraid of the army officer because I am a coward; I never was a coward at heart, although I have invariably been a coward in action, but—don’t be in such a hurry to laugh; I have an explanation for everything, don’t you worry.

  Oh, if that army officer had only been one of those who would accept a challenge to a duel! But no. He was most decidedly one of those gentlemen (alas, long extinct!) who preferred action with billiard cues or, like Gogol’s lieutenant Pirogov, by lodging a complaint with the authorities. They never accepted a challenge, and in any case would have considered a duel with me, a low grade civil servant, as quite improper; as for duelling in general, they regarded it as something unthinkable, something that only a freethinker or a Frenchman would indulge in. But that did not prevent them from treading on any man’s corns, and painfully, too, particularly as they were over six foot.

  No, I was not afraid because I was a coward, but because of my unbounded vanity. I was not afraid of his six foot, nor of getting soundly thrashed and being thrown out of the window; I should have had sufficient physical courage for that; what I lacked was moral courage. What I was afraid of was that every one in the billiard room from the cheeky marker to the last rotten, pimply little government clerk in a greasy collar who was fawning upon everybody in the room, would misunderstand me and jeer at me when I protested and began addressing them in literary language. For even today we cannot speak of a point of honour—not of honour, mind you, but of a point of honour (point d’honneur) except in literary language. You cannot even mention a “point of honour” in ordinary language. I was absolutely convinced (the sense of reality in spite of all romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with laughter and that the officer would not just simply, that is to say, not inoffensively, thrash me, but would certainly push me round the billiard table with his knee and perhaps only then would he have taken pity on me and thrown me out of the window. With me a wretched incident like this would never, of course, end there. I often met that army officer in the street afterwards and made a careful note of him. What I am not quite sure about is whether he recognised me. I don’t think he did, and I have come to this conclusion by certain signs. But I—I stared at him with hatred and malice, and that went on—oh, for several years. At first I began finding out quietly all I could about this officer. It was a difficult job, for I did not know any one. But one day someone called him by his surname in the street just as I was trailing after him at a distance, as though I were tied to him by a string, and so I learnt his name. Another day I followed him to his home and for ten copecks I found out from the caretaker where he lived, on which floor, whether alone or with somebody, etc., in fact, everything one could learn from a caretaker. One morning, though I had never indulged in literary work, it suddenly occurred to me to write a story round this officer, a story in a satiric vein, in order to show him up for what he was. I wrote this story with real pleasure. I exposed, I did not hesitate even to libel him; at first I gave him a name which could be immediately recognised as his, but later, on second thoughts, I changed it, and sent the story to “Homeland Notes.” But at that time exposures were not in fashion yet, and my story was not published. I felt very sore about it.

  Sometimes my resentment became quite unbearable. At last I made up my mind to challenge my enemy to a duel. I wrote him a most beautiful, most charming letter, demanding an apology from him and, if he refused to apologise, hinting rather plainly at a duel. The letter was written in such a way that if the officer had had the least notion of “the sublime and the beautiful,” he would certainly have come running to me, fallen on my neck, and offered me his friendship. And how wonderful that would have been! Oh, how wonderfully we should have got on together! He would have protected me by his rank of an army officer, and I would have enlarged his mind by my superior education and—well—by my ideas, and lots of things could have happened! Just consider, this was two years after he had insulted me, and my challenge was absurdly out of date, a pure anachronism, in fact, in spite of the cleverness of my letter explaining away and concealing the lapse of time. But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty with tears in my eyes!), I did not send my letter. A shiver runs down my spine when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it. And suddenly—suddenly I revenged myself in the simplest and most extraordinarily clever way! A most brilliant idea suddenly occurred to me.

  Sometimes on a holiday I used to take a walk on Nevsky Avenue, on the sunny side of it, and about four o’clock in the afternoon. As a matter of fact, I did not really take a walk there, but went through a seri
es of torments, humiliations, and bilious attacks; but I suppose that was really what I wanted. I darted along like a groundling in the most unbecoming manner imaginable among the people on the pavement, continuously making way for generals, officers of the guards and hussars, and ladies. At those moments I used to have sharp shooting pains in my heart and I used to feel all hot down the back at the mere thought of the miserable appearance of my clothes and the wretchedness of my darting little figure. It was a most dreadful torture, an incessant, unbearable humiliation at the thought, which grew into an uninterrupted and most palpable sensation, that in the eyes of all those high society people I was just a fly, an odious, obscene fly, more intelligent, more highly developed, more noble than anyone else (I had no doubts about that), but a fly that was always making way for everyone, a fly insulted and humiliated by every one. Why I suffered this torment, why I went for my walks on Nevsky Avenue, I do not know. But I was simply drawn there at every possible opportunity.

  Already at that time I began experiencing the sudden onrush of those keen delights of which I spoke in the first part. But after the incident with the army officer, I felt drawn there more than ever: it was on Nevsky Avenue that I met him most frequently, and it was there that I took such delight in looking at him. He, too, used to take a walk there mostly on holidays. And though he, too, made way for generals and other persons of high rank, though he, too, darted like a groundling among them, he simply bore down on people like me, or even those who were a cut above me; he walked straight at them as though there were just an empty space in front of him, and never in any circumstances did he make way for them. I gloated spitefully as I looked at him and—made way for him resentfully every time he happened to bear down on me. I was tortured by the thought that even in the street I could not be on the same footing as he. “Why do you always have to step aside first?” I asked myself over and over again in a sort of hysterical rage, sometimes waking up at three o’clock in the morning. “Why always you and not he? There is no law about it, is there? There’s nothing written down about it, is there? Why can’t you arrange it so that each of you should make way for the other, as usually happens when two well-bred men meet in the street? He yields you half of his pavement and you half of yours, and you pass one another with mutual respect.” But it never happened like that. It was always I who stepped aside, while he did not even notice that I made way for him.

  And it was then the brilliant idea occurred to me. “And what,” thought I, “what if I should meet him and—and not move aside? Just not do it on purpose, even if I have to give him a push. Well, what would happen then?” This brazen thought took such a hold of me that it gave me no rest. I thought of it continually and went for a walk on Nevsky Avenue more frequently so as to make quite sure of the way in which I was going to do it when I did do it. I felt transported. This plan seemed to me more and more feasible and promising. “Of course I’m not going to give him a real push,” I thought, feeling much kindlier disposed towards him in my joy. “I’ll simply not make way for him. Knock against him, taking good care not to hurt him very much, just shoulder against shoulder, just as much as the laws of propriety allow. I shall only knock against him as much as he knocks against me.”

  At last my mind was firmly made up. But my preparations took a long time. The first thing I had to take into account was that when I carried out my plan I had to take good care to be as well dressed as possible. I had therefore to see about my clothes. “Just in case, for instance, there should be a public scandal (and there was sure to be quite an audience there: a countess taking a walk, Prince D. taking a walk, the whole literary world taking a walk), one had to be decently dressed. Good clothes impress people and will immediately put us on an equal footing in the eyes of society.” Accordingly, I obtained an advance of salary and bought myself a pair of black gloves and a smart hat at Churkin’s. Black gloves seemed to me more impressive and more elegant than canary-coloured ones which I had thought of buying first. “Too bright a colour. Looks as though a man wants to show off too much!” So I did not take the canary-coloured ones. I had long ago got ready an excellent shirt with white bone studs; but my overcoat delayed the carrying out of my plan for a long time. My overcoat was not at all bad. It kept me warm. But it was wadded and had a raccoon collar, which made one look altogether too much a flunkey. The collar had to be changed at all costs for a beaver one, like one of those army officers wore. To acquire such a collar, I began visiting the Arcade, and after a few attempts decided to buy a cheap German beaver. These German beavers may soon look shabby and worn, but at first, when new, they look very decent indeed. And I wanted it for one occasion only. I asked the price: it was much too expensive. On thinking it over, I decided to sell my raccoon collar and to borrow the rest of the money (and a considerable sum it was, too) from the head of my department, Anton Antonovich Setochkin, a quiet man, but serious and dependable, who never lent any money to any one, but to whom I had been particularly recommended years ago on entering the service by an important personage who got me the job. I went through hell before taking this step. To ask Anton Antonovich for a loan seemed to me a monstrous and shameful thing. I did not sleep for two or three nights and, as a matter of fact, I did not sleep well at the time generally, feeling very feverish. My heart seemed to be either beating very faintly or suddenly began thumping, thumping, thumping!… Anton Antonovich looked rather surprised at first, then he frowned, then he pondered, and in the end he did lend me the money, having made me sign a promissory note authorizing him to deduct the money from my salary in a fortnight. In this way everything was settled at last; the beautiful beaver reigned in the place of the odious raccoon, and gradually I set about making the final arrangements. This sort of thing could not be done without careful preparation, without thought. It had to be done skilfully and without hurry. But I must admit that after many attempts to carry my plan into execution, I began to give way to despair: however much I tried, we just did not knock against each other, and there seemed to be nothing I could do about it! Hadn’t I got everything ready? Hadn’t I made up my mind to go through with it? And did it not now seem that we ought to knock against each other any minute? And yet, when the moment came I made way for him again and he passed without taking any notice of me. I even offered up a prayer when I approached him, beseeching God to fill me with the necessary determination to see the business through. Once I had quite made up my mind, but it all ended by my tripping up and falling down in front of him, for at the last moment, at a distance of only a few feet, my courage failed me. He calmly strode over me, and I was hurled to one side like a ball. That night I was again in a fever and delirious. And suddenly everything came to a most satisfactory conclusion. The night before I had made up my mind most definitely not to go through with my luckless enterprise and to forget all about it, and with that intention I went for a walk on Nevsky Avenue for the last time, just to see how I would forget all about it. Suddenly, only three paces from my enemy, I quite unexpectedly made up my mind, shut my eyes, and—we knocked violently against each other, shoulder to shoulder. I did not budge an inch and passed him absolutely on an equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not to have noticed anything. But he was only pretending: I am quite sure of that. Yes, to this day I am quite sure of that! Of course I got the worst of it, for he was stronger. But that was not the point. The point was that I had done what I had set out to do, that I had kept up my dignity, that I had not yielded an inch, and that I had put myself publicly on the same social footing as he. I came back home feeling that I had completely revenged myself for everything. I was beside myself with delight. I was in the seventh heaven and sang Italian arias. I shall not, of course, describe to you what happened to me three days later. If you have read my first chapter, you will be able to guess for yourselves. The officer was afterwards transferred somewhere. I have not seen him for fourteen years now. I wonder how the dear fellow is getting on now. Who is he bullying now?

  II

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nbsp; But when my mood for odious little dissipations came to an end I used to feel dreadfully flat and miserable. I had an awful conscience about it, but I did my best not to think of it: I felt too miserable for that. Little by little, however, I got used to that, too. I got used to everything, or rather I did not really get used to it, but just made up my mind to grin and bear it. But I had a solution which made up for everything, and that was to seek salvation in all that was “sublime and beautiful,” in my dreams, of course. I would give myself up entirely to dreaming. I would dream for three months on end, skulking in my corner. And, believe me, at those moments I bore no resemblance to the gentleman who in his pigeon-livered confusion had sewed a piece of German beaver to the collar of his overcoat. I suddenly became a hero. I shouldn’t have admitted my six-foot lieutenant to my rooms even if he had come to pay a call on me. I could not even picture him before me at the time. What exactly my dreams were about, or how I could be content with them, it is difficult to say now, but I was content with them at the time. As a matter of fact, I feel even now a certain glow of satisfaction at the memory of it. It was after my phase of dissipation had passed that I took special pleasure in my dreams which seemed sweeter and more vivid then. They came to me with repentance and tears, with curses and transports of delight. I had moments of such positive intoxication, of such intense happiness, that, I assure you, I did not feel even the faintest stir of derision within me. What I had was faith, hope, and love. The trouble was that in those days I believed blindly that by some miracle, by some outside event, all this would suddenly draw apart and expand, that I would suddenly catch a glimpse of a vista of some suitable activity, beneficent and beautiful, and, above all, an activity that was absolutely ready-made (what sort of activity I never knew, but the great thing was that it was to be all ready-made), and then I would suddenly emerge into the light of day, almost mounted on a white horse and with a laurel wreath on my head. I could not even imagine any place of secondary importance for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the most insignificant one in real life. Either a hero or dirt—there was no middle way. That turned out to be my undoing, for while wallowing in dirt I consoled myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and the hero overlaid the dirt: an ordinary mortal, as it were, was ashamed to wallow in dirt, but a hero was too exalted a person to be entirely covered in dirt, and hence I could wallow in dirt with an easy conscience. It is a remarkable fact that these attacks of the “sublime and beautiful” came to me even during my spells of odious dissipation, and more particularly at the time when I was touching bottom. They came quite unexpectedly, in separate outbursts, as though reminding me of themselves, but their appearance never brought my debauch to an end; on the contrary, they seemed to stimulate it by contrast, and they only lasted for as long as it was necessary for them to carry out the function of a good sauce. In this case the sauce consisted of contradictions and suffering, of torturing inner analysis, and all these pangs and torments added piquancy and even meaning to my odious little dissipation—in short, fully carried out the function of a good sauce. All this had a certain profundity, too. For I could never have been content to indulge in the simple, vulgar, direct, sordid debauchery of some office clerk and reconcile myself to all that filth! What else could I have found so attractive in it to draw me into the street at night? No, gentlemen, I had a noble loophole for every thing.…