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

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Again I waited for some response.

  “I don’t suppose she understands what I am talking about, after all,” I thought. “Besides, it’s ridiculous—all this moralising!”

  “If I were a father and had a daughter of my own, I think I’d love my daughter more than my sons—I would indeed!” I began indirectly as though I never intended to draw her out at all. I must confess, I blushed.

  “But why’s that?” she asked.

  Oh, so she was listening!

  “Just—well, I don’t really know, Lisa. You see, I once knew a father who was very strict, a very stern man he was, but he used to go down on his knees to his daughter, kiss her hands and feet, never grew tired of looking at her. Yes, indeed. She would spend the evening dancing at some party, and he’d stand for five hours in the same place without taking his eyes off her. He was quite mad about her. I can understand that. At night she’d get tired and fall asleep, and he’d go and kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was a miser to everyone else, but on her he’d lavish everything he had. He’d buy her expensive presents and be overjoyed if she were pleased with them. Fathers always love their daughters more than mothers do. Many a girl finds life at home very pleasant indeed. I don’t think I’d ever let my daughter marry!”

  “But why ever not?” she asked with a faint smile.

  “I’d be jealous. Indeed I would. I mean I’d hate the thought of her kissing someone else. Loving a stranger more than her father. Even the thought of it is painful to me. Of course, it’s all nonsense. Of course, every father would come to his senses in the end. But I’m afraid I’d worry myself to death before I’d let her marry. I’d certainly find fault with all the men who proposed to her. But in the end I daresay I should let her marry the man she herself loved. For the man whom his daughter loves always seems to be the worst to the father. That’s how it is. There’s a lot of trouble in families because of that.”

  “Some parents are glad to sell their daughters, let alone marry them honourably,” she said suddenly.

  Oh, so that’s what it was!

  “That, Lisa, only happens in those infamous families where there is neither God nor love,” I interjected warmly. “For where there’s no love, there’s no decency, either. It’s true there are such families, but I’m not speaking of them. You can’t have known any kindness in your family, if you talk like that. Indeed, you must be very unlucky. Yes, I expect this sort of thing mostly happens because of poverty.”

  “But is it any better in rich families? Honest people live happily even if they are poor.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. And come to think of it, Lisa, a man only remembers his misfortunes. He never remembers his good fortune. If he took account of his good fortune as well, he’d have realised that there’s a lot of that too for his share. But what if all goes well with the family? If with the blessing of God your husband is a good man, loves you, cherishes you, never leaves you for a moment? Oh, such a family is happy, indeed! Even if things don’t turn out so well sometimes, it is still all right. For where is there no sorrow? If you ever get married, you’ll find it out for yourself. Then again if you take the first years of your marriage to a man you love—oh, what happiness, what happiness there is in it sometimes! Why, it’s a common enough experience. At first even your quarrels with your husband end happily. There are many women who the more they love their husbands, the more ready they are to quarrel with them. I tell you I knew such a woman myself. ‘You see,’ she used to say, ‘I love you very much, and it’s just because I love you so much that I’m tormenting you, and you ought to realise that!’ Do you know that one can torment a person just because one loves him? Women do it mostly. They say to themselves, ‘But I shall love him so dearly, I shall cherish him so much afterwards that it doesn’t matter if I torment him a little now.’ And everyone in the house is happy looking at you, everything’s so nice, so jolly, so peaceful, and so honest.… Other women, of course, are jealous. If her husband happens to go off somewhere (I knew a woman who was like that), she won’t be happy till she runs out of the house at night and finds out on the quiet where he is, whether he is in that house or with that woman. That’s bad. That’s very bad. And she knows herself it is wrong. Her heart fails her and she suffers agonies, but, you see, she loves him: it’s all through love. And how nice it is to make it up after a quarrel, to admit that she was wrong, or to forgive him! And how happy they are suddenly. So happy that it seems as though they had met for the first time, as though they had only just got married, as though they had fallen in love for the first time. And no one, no one ought to know what passes between man and wife, if they love one another. And however much they quarrel, they ought not to call in their own mother to adjudicate between them, and to tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a mystery that God alone only comprehends and should be hidden from all eyes whatever happens. If that is done, it is more holy, and better. They are more likely to respect one another, and a lot depends on their respect for one another. And if once there has been love, if at first they married for love, there is no reason why their love should pass away. Surely, they can keep it! It hardly ever happens that it cannot be kept. Well, and if the husband is a good and honest man, why should love pass away? It is true they will not love one another as they did when they were married, but afterwards their love will be better still, for then they will be united in soul as well as in body, they will manage their affairs in common, there will be no secrets between them—the important thing is to love and have courage. In such circumstances even hard work is a joy; even if you have to go hungry sometimes for the sake of your children, it is a joy. For they will love you for it afterwards; for you are merely laying up treasures for yourself: as the children grow up, you feel that you are an example for them, that you are their support, that even when you die your thoughts and feelings will live with them, for they have received them from you, for they are like you in everything. It is therefore a duty, a great duty. Indeed, the father and the mother cannot help drawing closer together. People say children are a great trouble. But who says it? It is the greatest happiness people can have on earth! Are you fond of little children, Lisa? I am very fond of them. Just imagine a rosy little baby boy sucking at your breast—what husband’s heart is not touched at the sight of his wife nursing his child? Oh, such a plump and rosy baby! He sprawls, he snuggles up to you, his little hands are so pink and chubby, his nails are so clean and tiny—so tiny that it makes you laugh to look at them, and his eyes gaze at you as if he understands everything. And while he sucks he pulls at your breast with his sweet little hand—plays. If his father comes near, he tears himself away from the breast, flings himself back, looks at his father and laughs as if goodness only knows how funny it is—and then he begins sucking greedily again. Or again, when his teeth are beginning to come through he will just bite his mother’s breast, looking slyly at her with his eyes—‘See? I’m biting you!’ Isn’t everything here happiness when the three of them—husband, wife, and child—are together? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of these moments. Yes, Lisa, one has to learn to live first before blaming others.”

  “It is with pictures, with pictures like these, that you will beguile her,” I thought to myself, though, goodness knows, I spoke with real feeling, and suddenly blushed. “And what if she should suddenly burst out laughing? What a priceless ass I’d look then!” This thought made me furious. Towards the end of my speech I really grew excited, and now my vanity was somewhat hurt. I almost felt like nudging her.

  “What are you—” she began suddenly and stopped.

  But I understood everything: there was quite a different note in her trembling voice, something that was no longer harsh and crude and unyielding as a short while ago, but something soft and shy, so that I suddenly felt somehow ashamed of her myself. I felt guilty.

  “What?” I asked with curiosity.

  “Why,
you—”

  “What?”

  “Why, you—you’re speaking as though you were reading from a book,” she said, and something that sounded like irony could suddenly be heard in her voice.

  I resented that remark very deeply. It was not what I was expecting.

  I did not realise that by her irony she was deliberately concealing her own feelings, that this was the usual last stratagem of people with pure and chaste hearts against those who impudently and unceremoniously attempt to pry into the inmost recesses of their minds, and that, out of pride, such people do not give in till the very last moment, that they are afraid to show their feelings before you. I should have guessed that from the timidity with which after several tries she approached her ironic remark, and from the shy way in which she made it at last. But I did not guess, and a feeling of vicious spite took possession of me.

  “You wait!” I thought.

  VII

  “Good Lord, Lisa, what sort of a book am I supposed to be reading from when I, who cannot possibly have any interest in what happens to you, feel so sick myself. But as a matter of fact I’m not indifferent, either. All that has now awakened in my heart—Surely, surely, you yourself must be sick to death of being here. Or does habit really mean so much? Hang it all, habit can apparently make anything of a man! Do you really seriously believe that you will never grow old, that you will always be good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? To say nothing of the vileness of your present way of life. However, let me tell you this about this business here, about your present way of life. Though you are now young, attractive, pretty, sensitive, warm-hearted, I—well, you know, the moment I woke up a few minutes ago, I couldn’t help feeling disgusted at being with you here! It is only when you’re drunk that you come to a place like this. But if you were anywhere else, if you lived as all good, decent people live, I should not only have taken a fancy to you, but fallen head over ears in love with you. I’d have been glad if you’d only looked at me, let alone spoken to me. I’d have hung round your door. I’d have gone down on my knees before you. I’d have been happy if you’d have consented to marry me, and deemed it an honour, too. I shouldn’t have dared to harbour a single indecent thought about you. But here I know that I have only to whistle and, whether you like it or not, you’ll have to come with me, and that it is not I who have to consult your wishes, but you mine. Even if the meanest peasant hires himself out as a labourer, he does not make a slave of himself entirely, and, besides, he knows that after a certain time he will be his own master again. But when can you say as much for yourself? Just think what you are giving up here. What is it you’re enslaving? Why, it is your soul, your soul over which you have no power, together with your body! You’re giving your love to every drunkard to mock at! Love? Why, that’s everything, that’s a precious jewel, a girl’s dearest treasure—that’s what love is! To win this love, a man would be ready to give his soul, to face death itself! And how much is your love worth now? You can be all bought, all of you! And why should anyone try to win your love when he can get everything without love? Why, there is no greater insult for a girl than that. Don’t you see it? I am told that to please you, poor fools, they let you have lovers here. But good Lord, what is it but just insulting you? What is it but sheer deceit? Why, they are just laughing at you, and you believe them! Or do you really believe that lover of yours loves you? I don’t believe it. How can he love you when he knows that you can be called away from him any moment? He’d be nothing but a pimp after that! And could such a man have an atom of respect for you? What have you in common with him? He’s just laughing at you, and robbing you into the bargain—that’s what his love amounts to. You’re lucky if he doesn’t beat you. Perhaps he does, too. Ask him, if you have such a lover, whether he will marry you. Why, he’ll laugh in your face, if, that is, he doesn’t spit in it or give you a beating, and he himself is probably not worth twopence. And why have you ruined your life here? For what? For the coffee they give you to drink? For the good meals? Have you ever thought why they feed you so well here? Another woman, an honest woman, could not swallow such food, for she would know why she was being fed so well. You are in debt here—well, take my word for it, you’ll never be able to repay your debt, you’ll remain in debt to the very end, till the visitors here begin to scorn you. And all that will be much sooner than you think. You need not count on your good looks. They don’t last very long here, you know. And then you’ll be kicked out. And that’s not all by any means: long before you’re kicked out they’ll start finding fault with you, reproaching you, reviling you, as though you had not sacrificed your health for them, ruined your youth and your soul for them, without getting anything in return, but as though you had ruined them, robbed them, beggared them. And don’t expect any of the other girls to take your part: they, those friends of yours, will turn against you, too, for the sake of currying favour with your employer, for you are all slaves here, you’ve all lost all conscience and pity long ago. They have sunk too low, and there’s nothing in the world filthier, more odious, and more insulting than their abuse. And you’ll leave everything here, everything you possess, without any hope of ever getting it back—your health, your beauty, and your hopes, and at twenty-two you’ll look like a woman of thirty-five, and you’ll be lucky if you’re not ill—pray God for that. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were not thinking now that you’re having a lovely time—no work, just a life of pleasure! But let me tell you that there is no work in the world harder or more oppressive—and there never has been. It is a wonder you haven’t long ago cried your heart out. And when they turn you out you won’t dare to say a word, not even as much as a syllable, and you’ll go away as though it is you who were to blame. You’ll pass on to another place, then to a third, then again to some other place, till at last you’ll find yourself in the Hay Market. And there they’ll start beating you as a matter of course. It’s a lovely custom they have there. A visitor there does not know how to be kind without first giving you a good thrashing. You don’t believe it’s so horrible there? Well, go and have a look for yourself some time and you’ll perhaps see with your own eyes. Once, on New Year’s Eve, I saw a girl there. She had been turned out by her friends as a joke, to cool off a little in the frost, because she had been howling too much, and they locked the door behind her. At nine o’clock in the morning she was already dead drunk, dishevelled, half naked, beaten black and blue. Her face was made up, but she had two black eyes; she was bleeding from the nose and mouth; she sat down on the stone steps, holding some salt fish in her hands; she was shrieking at the top of her voice bewailing her ‘bad luck,’ and striking the salt fish against the steps, while a crowd of cabmen and drunken soldiers were standing round and making fun of her. You don’t believe that you, too, will be like her one day? Well, I shouldn’t like to believe it, either, but how do you know? Perhaps ten or eight years ago the same girl, the girl with the salt fish, arrived here as fresh as a child, innocent and pure, knowing no evil and blushing at every word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, quick to take offence, quite unlike the others, looking like a queen, and quite certain that she would make the man who fell in love with her and whom she loved the happiest man in the world. But you see how it all ended, don’t you? And what if at the very moment when she was striking the grimy steps with that fish, dirty and dishevelled, what if at that moment she recalled all the innocent years she had once spent at her father’s house, when she used to go to school and the son of their neighbours waited for her on the way and assured her that he would love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his whole future to her, and when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they grew up? No, Lisa, you’d be lucky, you’d be very lucky, if you were to die soon, very soon, of consumption, in some corner, in some cellar like that woman I told you of. In a hospital, you say? You’ll be fortunate if they take you to a hospital, for, you see, you may still be wanted by your employer. Consumption is a quee
r sort of illness. It is not like a fever. A consumptive goes on hoping to the last minute. To the very last he goes on saying that there is nothing the matter with him, that he is not ill—deceiving himself. And your employers are only too pleased. Don’t worry, it is so. I assure you. You’ve sold your soul and you owe money into the bargain, so you daren’t say a word. But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you, for what more can they get out of you? If anything, they’ll reproach you for taking up room without paying for it, for not dying quickly enough. You beg and beg for a drink of water, and when at last they bring it to you they’ll abuse you at the same time. ‘When are you going to die, you dirty baggage, you? You don’t let us sleep, moaning all the time, and the visitors don’t like it.’ That’s true. I’ve heard such things said myself. And when you are really dying, they’ll drag you to the most foul-smelling corner of the cellar, in the damp and the darkness, and what will your thoughts be as you are lying by yourself? When you die, strangers will lay you out, hurriedly, impatiently, grumbling. No one will bless you. No one will sigh for you. Get you quickly out of the way—that’s all they’ll be concerned about. They’ll buy a cheap coffin, take you to the cemetery as they took that poor girl yesterday, and then go to a pub to talk about you. Your grave will be full of slush and dirt and wet snow—they won’t put themselves out for you—not they! ‘Let her down, boy! Lord, just her “bad luck,” I suppose. Gone with her legs up here too, the slut! Shorten the ropes, you young rascal!’ ‘It’s all right!’ ‘All right, is it? Can’t you see she’s lying on her side? She’s been a human being herself once, ain’t she? Oh, all right, fill it up!’ And they won’t be wasting much time in abusing each other over you, either. They will fill in your grave with wet blue clay and go off to a pub.… That will be the end of your memory on earth. Other women have children to visit their graves, fathers, husbands, but there will be neither tears, nor sighs, nor any remembrance for you. No one, no one in the world will ever come to you. Your name will vanish from the face of the earth as though you had never been born! Dirt and mud, dirt and mud, though you knock at your coffin lid at night when the dead arise as hard as you please, crying, ‘Let me live in the world, good people! I lived, but I knew no real life. I spent my life as a doormat for people to wipe their dirty boots on. My life has been drunk away at a pub in the Hay Market. Let me live in the world again, good people!’ ”