Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘House? Red curtains? What do you mean? What nonsense is this, my silly one?’

  More frightened than ever, I started explaining to him that when mother died we would no longer need to live in the attic room and he could take me somewhere where we would be rich and happy, and I assured him that he had promised this to me. In trying to convince him I managed to convince myself that this was what he had actually said, or at any rate what I believed him to have said.

  ‘Mother dead? When mother is dead?’ he repeated, looking at me in amazement and knitting his thick grey eyebrows as his expression changed. ‘What are you saying, you poor foolish…?’ Then he began to scold me and spent a long time telling me that I was a silly child and that I understood nothing. I cannot remember all that he said but I know he was very distressed.

  I did not understand a word of his reproaches, nor did I appreciate how it pained him to know that I must have overheard and thought about things he had said to my mother in moments of rage and deep despair. Whatever feelings of madness and rage might have been running through him at the time, this must, naturally, have been a shock to him. As for me, although I did not know what was making him so angry, I was nevertheless very upset and hurt and I started to cry. It seemed as if all that was awaiting us was so important that a silly child like me dare not speak or think about it. Moreover, although I did not realize this immediately, I did, in a vague way, feel that I had wronged my mother. I was overwhelmed with fear; terror and doubt were creeping into my heart. Seeing that I was crying and suffering, he began comforting me, wiping away the tears with his sleeve and beseeching me not to cry. We sat together in silence for a long while: he frowned and seemed to be pondering something; he began to speak to me again but, however hard I tried, everything he said remained very unclear. From certain sentences and phrases I was forced to conclude that he must have been trying to explain to me that he was a great artist, that no one understood him and that he was really a remarkably talented man. I recall too that, after asking whether I understood and receiving a satisfactory answer, he made me repeat ‘talented’, after which he laughed a little, for perhaps in the end he himself was amused that he should have talked to me of a matter so crucial to him. Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Karl Fyodorovitch. I instantly forgot what had just happened and burst into gay laughter as father pointed to him saying: ‘Now Karl Fyodorovitch here hasn’t got a copeck’s worth of talent.’

  This Karl Fyodorovitch was a very interesting person. I saw so few people during this period of my life that I could not possibly have forgotten him. I can see him today: he was a German by the name of Meyer. He had been born in Germany but had left in order to come to Russia, where he desperately hoped to join a Petersburg ballet company. But he was a very poor dancer and failed to find work, even in the corps de ballet, and ended up as an extra in a theatre company. He played various non-speaking parts, such as in one of the ‘Fortinbras’ suites – he played one of the knights of Verona who lift their banners, all twenty of them in unison, crying, ‘We will die for our king!’ Yet there was certainly no actor in the world more passionately devoted to his parts than Karl Fyodorovitch. The worst misfortune and sorrow in his life was that he could not get into the ballet. He put the art of ballet above all others in the world, and in his own way he was as dedicated to it as my father was to his violin. He had made friends with my father when they were both working at the theatre, and since then the unsuccessful dancer had never forgotten him. They often saw one another and used to commiserate about their unlucky plight and their failure to be recognized. The German was the most sensitive and gentle man in the world and the friendship he offered my father was passionate and selfless. I imagine that my father was not particularly attached to him and only put up with him for lack of better company. Besides, my father’s attitude was so exclusive that he could not see that the art of ballet was an art at all, which reduced the German to tears. Knowing his weak spot, he always touched it and laughed at the unfortunate Karl Fyodorovitch when the latter grew excited and tried to defend himself. I later heard a lot more about him from B., who always called him ‘the Nuremberg upstart’. B. told me that time and again, while the two of them were drinking together, they would start bewailing their misfortunes in being unrecognized. I remember such occasions; I used to start whimpering, I do not know why. It always happened when mother was not at home: the German was dreadfully afraid of her – he used always to stand and wait outside in the passage until somebody came out and, if he learnt that mother was at home, would quickly run downstairs again. He always brought some German poetry along with him and grew terribly excited upon reading it aloud to us. And then, for our benefit, he would translate it and read it again in Russian. This amused father greatly and made me laugh until I cried. Once they got hold of something in Russian which excited them to such an extent that from then onwards they almost always read it together when they met. It was a drama in verse by a famous Russian writer. The opening lines became so familiar to me that when I came across them some years later I recognized them without difficulty. The drama concerned the misfortunes of a certain great painter called Gennaro or Giaccobi, who cried out on one page, ‘No one recognizes me!’ or on another, ‘I am famous!’ or ‘I have no talent!’ and a few lines later ‘I am talented!’ It all ended most pathetically. The play was, naturally, a very poor one but it affected the two readers in the most naïve and tragic way because they found in the leading characters a strong resemblance to themselves.

  There were occasions when Karl Fyodorovitch became so impassioned that he would leap up from his chair, rush over to the opposite corner of the room and, throwing himself at my father and myself, calling me mademoiselle, implore and beg us, with tears in his eyes, to decide his fate then and there. Thereupon he would start to dance, calling out as he performed certain steps and asking us to tell him instantly whether or not he was an artist. Father was always highly amused and used secretly to wink at me out of the corner of his eye, as if to say that he would make good fun of the German. I was tremendously amused, but father would hold up his hand warning me to regain control and stifle my laughter. Even now I smile as I remember it. I can still see that poor Karl Fyodorovitch: a very small, thin, grey-haired man with a red hooked nose stained with snuff, and hideous bow legs of which he nevertheless seemed proud, since he used to wear tightly fitting trousers over them. Whenever he came to the end of his dance he would stand poised, holding out his hands to us and smiling in the way that dancers smile on the stage at the end of a performance. For a while father would keep quiet, as if unable to make up his mind enough to pronounce judgement, thus purposely leaving the unrecognized dancer in his pose, swaying from side to side in an attempt to maintain his balance. Finally father would glance at me with a very serious expression, as if inviting me to be an impartial witness to his judgement. At the same time the timid beseeching look of the dancer was fixed on me.

  ‘No, Karl Fyodorovitch, you have not done it!’ father would say, pretending that he found it unpleasant to utter the bitter truth. Then a genuine groan would break forth from Karl Fyodorovitch, but in a second he recovered himself and with even more rapid gestures he would once again beg our attention and, assuring us that his previous method had been mistaken, would plead for another chance. Then off he went again to the other side of the room, leaping into the air with such fervour that he sometimes hit his head against the ceiling and bruised himself quite painfully. Bearing the pain like a Spartan, he continued to dance, ending up in the same pose, arms outstretched and a smile across his face. Then he begged us to decide his fate. But my father was relentless and answered as despondently as before: ‘No, Karl Fyodorovitch. It must be fate: you have not done it!’

  At this point I could no longer restrain myself and broke into peals of laughter. My father joined in. Finally, noticing that we were laughing at him, Karl Fyodorovitch flushed scarlet with indignation and his eyes filled with tears. In a voice expressi
ng ridiculous emotion, making me feel guilty afterwards, he said to father, ‘You’re a rotten friend.’ After which he snatched his hat and fled, vowing never to return. But this kind of quarrel never lasted long and within a few days he reappeared at our place and resumed the reading of the famous drama. Tears flowed again and in his naivety Karl Fyodorovitch beseeched us to judge between himself, the public, and his fate, imploring us to take him seriously, as true friends, and not to make fun of him.

  One day my mother sent me on an errand to the shop. As I came back, carefully clutching the change in my hands, I met father coming downstairs on his way out. I could not hide my feelings when I saw him and laughed; as he bent down to kiss me he noticed the money in my hands… I have forgotten to mention that I was so familiar with his expressions that I could recognize his smallest wish at a glance. When he was sad I was torn with sorrow. The thing that most frequently vexed him was not having any money and therefore being unable to get a drink, a thing that had become a habit with him. Bumping into him on the stairs on this occasion I noticed something unusual going on. His tormented eyes were wandering: at first he failed to notice me, but when he saw the shining coins in my hands he suddenly blushed and, turning pale, stretched out his hand for the money and then instantly withdrew it. It was clear that he was experiencing an inner conflict. In the end he appeared to regain control of himself and told me to go upstairs. He continued to go downstairs for a short way, then stopped abruptly and called to me.

  He was extremely confused.

  ‘Listen, Netochka,’ he said. ‘Give me that money. I’ll give it back to you. Eh? You’ll give it to papa, won’t you? You’re a good little girl, Netochka, aren’t you?’

  I had almost known that this would happen, but my first reaction was fear of mother’s anger. My timidity and above all the instinctive shame I felt for my father, and for myself, prevented me from handing him the money. He was quick to notice this and hastily added, ‘No, it’s all right, it’s all right…’

  ‘No, no, papa, take it. I’ll say that I lost it, that the children next door stole it from me.’

  ‘Oh very well then, very well. You see, I always knew you were a clever girl,’ he said, his lips quivering. He smiled at me, no longer trying to conceal his delight at feeling the money between his hands. ‘You are a good little girl. You’re my angel. Give me your hand and let me kiss it!’

  He took hold of my hand and tried to kiss it, but I quickly withdrew it. Although I was full of compassion I was overwhelmed with shame. I ran upstairs in a sort of panic, abandoning my father without saying goodbye to him. When I entered the room my cheeks were burning and my heart was throbbing with an unpleasant sensation that I had never experienced before. Nevertheless I bravely told mother that I had dropped the money in the snow and had been unable to find it. I expected at least a beating, but nothing happened. Mother was genuinely beside herself with grief; we were desperately poor. She started to shout at me and then, changing her mind, stopped scolding me and started telling me what a careless and clumsy girl I was and that obviously I did not love her much if I could be so negligent with her money. This observation hurt me more than any beating would have done. But my mother knew me well. She had noticed my sensitivity, which frequently reached a state of morbid irrationality, and she knew well that reproaching me for lack of love would make a deeper impression on me and might make me more careful in the future.

  At dusk, at the time when father was expected home, I went downstairs as usual to wait for him. This time I was in a terrible state of mind. My feelings were in a whirl because of something that was causing me agonizing pangs of conscience. I was overjoyed when father arrived; I had an idea that it would help me feel better. He was already slightly elated, but on seeing me he immediately looked troubled and bewildered. He took me off into a corner and, looking nervously towards our door, took the cake he had bought out of his pocket and whispered to me. He told me that I must never take money again or hide it from mother because it was a bad and shameful thing to do. He explained that on this occasion he had needed the money very much but that he would return it and I could say that I had found it again. He repeated that it was shameful to steal from mother and that I must not think of doing it again. He promised that if I obeyed him he would buy me more cake. Finally he added that I ought to feel sympathy for my mother, who was so sick and poor yet still took care of us. I listened to him in terror, my whole body trembling and my eyes brimming with tears. I was so astonished that I could not utter a word or move an inch. After telling me not to cry and not to mention a word to mother, he went into the room. I could see that he himself was embarrassed. I felt panic-stricken and for the rest of the evening I did not dare to look at him or go near him. He too avoided my eyes. Mother was in a dream, pacing the room and mumbling to herself as usual. I think she had had some kind of an attack and was feeling worse. My inner sufferings made me feverish and I could not sleep that night. I was tormented by morbid nightmares. When I could bear it no longer I started weeping bitterly. My mother was awakened by my sobs and called over to me, asking what the matter was. Instead of answering I cried even louder. Then she lit a candle, came over to me and, imagining that I was having a bad dream, she began soothing me.

  ‘Oh, you foolish child!’ she said. ‘Still crying over dreams at your age. Come on, enough now!’

  She kissed me and told me to come and sleep in her bed. But I did not want to; I was too afraid to hug her. My heart was unbelievably troubled and I longed to tell her about it. I was on the verge of telling her but I remembered my father’s warning.

  ‘Oh, Netochka, you poor little thing,’ said my mother, tucking me into bed and wrapping her cloak around me because she saw that I was shivering and feverishly delirious. ‘You’ll make yourself ill, like me,’ and she gazed mournfully at me. I could not bear to look at her and turned away, shutting my eyes. I do not remember how I fell asleep. I lay for a long time dozing, listening to my mother as she lulled me asleep. I had never before suffered such excruciating torment and heartbreak.

  I felt better the following morning. I talked to father without mentioning what had happened the previous day, which I hoped would please him. He had been frowning incessantly but soon cheered up at this. A sort of joy, a childish satisfaction at my carefree attitude came over him. My mother went out before long and then he could restrain himself no longer. He kissed me until I reached a kind of hysterical ecstasy, laughing and crying at the same time. Then he said that I was such a good and clever little girl that he wanted to show me something very special and beautiful. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he took out the key that hung around his neck on a piece of black string and looked mysteriously into my eyes as if searching for the pleasure he expected me to be feeling. Then he opened the trunk with the key and took out something I had never seen before. He picked up the case with the utmost care and I saw his face transformed. There was no more laughter in his eyes, his face was solemn and triumphant. Using the key, he opened the mysterious box and took out something quite unfamiliar to me, a strangely shaped object. Holding it carefully and reverently in his hands, he told me that this was his violin, his instrument. He said a lot more in a solemn voice, but I did not understand his words and only picked up the phrases I already knew: that he was an artist and a genius, that one day he would be a performer and we would be rich and happy. Tears poured down my cheeks. I was very moved. At last he kissed his violin and then handed it to me to kiss. Seeing that I wanted to look at it more carefully, he led me over to mother’s bed and handed me the violin. But I could see that he was terrified that I might break it. I took the violin in my hands and touched the strings which gave forth a faint sound.