Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘It’s music,’ I said, looking at father.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s music,’ he repeated, rubbing his hands together joyfully. ‘You are a clever child, a good child!’

  But despite his praise and delight I knew that he was nervous about his violin. I too was a little frightened and hastily gave it back to him. He carefully replaced it in its case, locked it and put the case in the chest. Father stroked me on the head again and promised that every time I behaved as a good, clever and obedient girl he would show me his violin. Thus the violin came to offer mutual consolation. Not until that evening, when he was going out, did father whisper to me that I must not forget what he had said the previous day.

  This was the way in which I grew up in our attic room; little by little my love, or perhaps I should say my passion (for I do not know a word strong enough to express fully my overwhelming, anguished feelings for my father), reached a kind of morbid anxiety. I had only one true pleasure, which was dreaming and thinking about him. I had only one true desire, which was to do anything that might please him. How many times did I stand on the stairs waiting for him to come in, often shivering and blue with cold, simply in the hope of catching sight of him one second sooner? I used to become almost delirious with joy whenever he offered me the slightest caress. At the same time I was often dreadfully distressed that I was so obstinately cold towards my poor mother, and at moments I was torn to shreds with pity and misery as I looked at her. I could not be indifferent to their everlasting hostility and I had to choose between them. I had to side with one or the other and I took the side of the half-crazy man because he seemed to me so pitiful, so humiliated, and because he aroused my fantasy. But who knows? Perhaps I attached myself to him because he was so strange, even in appearance, or because he was less gloomy and morbid than my mother; or because he was almost mad and acted the buffoon like a child; or, most probably, because I was less afraid of him and indeed had less respect for him than for my mother. In a way he was nearer my own level. I gradually felt I was rising above him, that I could dominate him a little and that he needed me. I was inwardly proud of this, I gloried in it and, realizing how necessary I was to him, I even played with him at times. I admit that this strange devotion developed into quite a romance… But it was destined to be shortlived: not long afterwards I lost both my father and my mother. Their life ended in the most terrible catastrophe which still haunts my memory. This is what happened.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Everyone in Petersburg was excited by a piece of extraordinary news. A rumour was going around concerning the imminent arrival of the famous S., and the entire musical world was astir. Singers, actors, poets, artists, music-lovers and even those who were not at all musical, and boasted of not knowing one note from the next, were rushing with avid enthusiasm to buy tickets. The hall could not seat one-tenth of the aficionados who could afford twenty-five roubles for a ticket. The European fame awarded to S., his old age crowned with laurels, the lasting freshness of his talent, the rumours that in the last few years he had rarely taken up his bow in public, and the certainty that this would be his last European tour before retirement – all contributed to the effect. In short, the sensation caused by the news was profound.

  I have already mentioned that the arrival of any new violinist, of any celebrity with the least claim to fame, had a most unpleasant effect on my father. He was always one of the first to rush off and hear the new arrival in order to find out quickly the extent of his merit. He often became ill as a result of the applause that resounded around the newcomer and was only calmed when he managed to discover defects in the violinist’s playing. He would then do all he could to circulate his opinion. The poor madman really believed that there was only one musical genius in the whole world and that genius was, of course, himself. The news of the anticipated arrival of a musician as distinguished as S. had a devastating effect on him. I ought to mention that during the past ten years Petersburg had not heard a single performer of S.’s calibre, and consequently my father had no notion of first-rate European artists.

  I was told that at the first mention of S.’s visit my father was again to be seen backstage at the theatre. Apparently he was terribly agitated and made uneasy inquiries concerning S. and his forthcoming concert. He had not been seen in the theatre for some time, and his appearance created quite a sensation. Evidently wishing to provoke him, someone challenged him: ‘Now, my dear Egor Petrovitch, you can listen to something very different from ballet music, something that will make your life not worth living!’ They said he turned pale at this insult, and replied with a frenzied smile: ‘We shall see. All that glitters is not gold. S. has only been in Paris, where the French have made a fuss of him, and we all know the French!’

  Everyone around him began to laugh. The poor man was offended but, restraining himself, added that he had no more to say on the matter, and that they should wait for the day after tomorrow, when all would be known.

  B. told me that just before dusk that evening he met Prince X., a well-known dilettante and a man with a deep understanding and love of the arts. As they were walking along together discussing the newly arrived artist, they caught sight of my father standing on a street corner, gazing intently at a placard in a shop window. The placard announced in large letters the concert to be given by S.

  ‘Do you see that man?’ asked B., pointing to my father.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked the Prince.

  ‘You’ve already heard of him. It’s Efimov, of whom I have spoken to you more than once and to whom you extended your patronage at one time.’

  ‘Oh, that curious fellow!’ said the Prince. ‘You’ve spoken a great deal about him. I hear that he’s fascinating. I should like to hear him.’

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ answered B. ‘It’s very distressing. I don’t know about you, but I find it heartbreaking. His life is a ghastly, hideous tragedy. I feel deeply for him and, no matter how unsociable he’s become, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. You say, Prince, that he’s an interesting fellow. That may well be true, but he creates a most painful impression. In the first place, he’s mad, and in the second, he’s guilty of three crimes, for he’s ruined his wife’s and his daughter’s lives as well as his own. I know him. It would kill him instantly if he realized what he’s done, and the worst part is that for eight years now he’s almost realized it, for eight years he’s been struggling with his conscience in order to grasp it fully.’

  ‘Did you say he’s poor?’

  ‘Yes. But nowadays poverty is almost his happiness: it provides him with an excuse. He can now convince everyone that it’s only poverty that has hindered him, and that if he had been rich, free of troubles and had had plenty of free time, we would all have recognized him for the artist he is. He married with the peculiar idea that his wife’s thousand roubles would be likely to set him on his feet. He behaved like a visionary and a poet. That is the way he has acted all his life. Do you know what he’s been saying for the last eight years? He’s been insisting that his wife is the cause of his poverty, and yet he just sits there doing nothing, and won’t work. If you were to deprive him of his wife he would be the most miserable creature in existence. It must be several years now since he has touched his violin – and do you know why? Because every time he does he’s forced to realize that he’s nothing, a nobody, not one bit of an artist. But at least when he’s put his violin aside, as now, he can sustain the remote hope that it isn’t true. He’s a dreamer, he imagines that all of a sudden, at the wave of a wand, he’ll become the most famous person in the world. His motto is “Aut Caesar, aut nihil”, as if one could become Caesar just like that. He thirsts for fame. But if such feeling becomes the main source of an artist’s activity then he ceases to be an artist, for he has lost the artist’s chief instinct, which must be to love art simply because it is art, and not for its rewards. Whereas it’s quite the opposite with S. When he takes up his bow, nothing in the world exists for him except music. After his violin com
es money, and fame comes third. But he doesn’t worry himself much over that… Do you know what it is that’s bothering that pitiful man at the moment?’ continued B., referring to Efimov. ‘He’s obsessed by the most unimaginably stupid and pathetic question, namely, whether he’s superior to S. or vice versa, nothing less. He’s still convinced that he’s the world’s leading musician. Prove to him that he’s not a musical genius and I assure you he’d die on the spot, thunderstruck. It must be terrible to part with a fixed idea to which one’s whole life has been dedicated, and which rests on genuine foundations, for he had a true vocation at first.’

  ‘It will be interesting to see what becomes of him when he hears S.,’ observed Prince X.

  ‘Yes,’ said B. thoughtfully. ‘But no, he’ll recover at once. His madness is stronger than the truth and he’ll quickly invent some counter-argument.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ rejoined the Prince.

  At this point they found themselves drawing level with my father. He was trying to pass them unnoticed, but B. stopped him and began speaking to him. He asked whether he would be at S.’s concert. My father answered in an indifferent tone, saying he did not know, that he had certain matters at hand that were more important than any concert or passing virtuoso. He said he might, however, consider it, but would have to wait and see whether he had a couple of free hours, and if he did he might as well go. Then he glanced swiftly at B. and Prince X., smiled mistrustfully and, snatching at his hat, nodded and walked off, saying he was in a hurry.

  I had spotted my father’s anxiety the previous day. I was not sure exactly what it was that was troubling him, but I noticed that he was in a state of desperate agitation. Even my mother had noticed it, although she was very ill at the time and barely able to leave her bed. Father had been continually going out and coming back in. In the morning three or four visitors, old theatre companions, had been to see him. This surprised me as, apart from Karl Petrovitch, no one had been to see us since he had left the theatre. Then in came Karl Petrovitch, panting and carrying a poster. I listened and watched attentively; I was troubled, feeling as if I alone were responsible for all the anxiety and commotion written across my father’s face. I was keen to understand what they were saying, and I heard the name S. for the first time. Then I realized that it cost at least fifteen roubles to see S. I also remember hearing my father say, with a wave of the hand, that he knew all these foreign wonders, these unheard-of talents, including S., and that they were all Jews, trying to get hold of Russian money because the Russians, in all their simplicity, would believe any nonsense, especially anything the French made a fuss about. I was already familiar with the word ‘untalented’. And then the guests left, leaving father in very low spirits. I saw that for some reason he was angry with S., and in order to cheer him up and regain his favour I went over to the table, picked up the poster and, spelling it out aloud, pronounced the name S. Then, laughing and looking round at father, who was sitting in his chair, deep in thought, I said: ‘I expect that he is like Karl Fyodorovitch and will never make it either.’

  Father started, as if with fright, and snatched the poster from my hands. Stamping his feet and shouting at me, he grabbed his hat and headed for the door. Then he suddenly turned round and beckoned me into the passage, where he started to kiss me, telling me that I was a clever child, that he did not believe I really wanted to upset him and that he was expecting a huge favour from me, but he could not say exactly what it was. I found it painful to listen to him; I knew that his words and endearments were insincere and it had a shattering effect on me. I started to worry about him.

  At dinner the following day – the day before the concert – father appeared to be completely crushed. He was quite changed and kept looking at me and my mother. In the end, much to my surprise, he started talking to my mother (to my surprise because he rarely spoke to her). After dinner he began making a fuss of me, calling me out into the passage every few minutes on one pretext or another. He kept beckoning me, looking around as if afraid of being caught, patting me on the head, telling me what a good and obedient child I was and how he was sure I loved him enough to do what he was about to ask of me. It all became very oppressive and it was not until he called me out for about the tenth time that I finally realized what was going on. Looking around nervously, he asked me whether I knew where mother had put the twenty-five roubles that she had brought home the day before. I froze with horror as I heard this question, but just at that moment there was a noise on the stairs and father, alarmed, pushed me aside and ran out. Towards evening he returned, distraught and gloomy. He sat in his chair in silence, casting nervous looks at me from time to time. I was overwhelmed with dread and intentionally avoided his eyes. Eventually my mother, who had been in bed all day, called to me, gave me some coins and asked me to go out and buy her some tea and some sugar. We very seldom drank tea in our family, and it was only when she felt particularly ill and feverish that mother allowed herself to indulge in what was a luxury to people of our means. I took the money, went out and started running, afraid of being chased. It was exactly as I feared: my father caught up with me in the street and led me back to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Netochka,’ he began in a trembling voice, ‘my little darling! Listen, give me that money and tomorrow…’

  ‘Papa, Papa!’ I cried, falling on to my knees and imploring him. ‘Papa, I can’t! It’s impossible. Mama needs the tea. I can’t steal from her, really I can’t. I’ll do it for you another time.’

  ‘So, you don’t want to? You don’t want to?’ he whispered in a frenzy. ‘It means you don’t love me, eh? All right! I’ll leave you now. You can stay with Mama. I’m going away and I’ll leave you behind. Do you hear me, you wicked girl, do you hear me?’

  ‘Oh Papa!’ I screamed, utterly horrified. ‘Take the money, there! Now what shall I do?’ I said, wringing my hands and tugging his coat-tails. ‘Mama will cry, and she’ll scold me again.’

  He had clearly not expected this kind of resistance, but in the end he took the money and, weary of my sobs and whines, he left me on the stairs as he rushed outside. I went back upstairs, but lost my nerve on reaching the door to our room: I could not, I dared not enter. Everything inside me felt rebellious and wounded. I covered my face with my hands and rushed over to the window, as I had done the first time I heard my father speak of his wish to see my mother dead. I was in a sort of stupor, rooted to the spot and shaking all over as I waited, listening to every sound on the stairs. At last I heard someone coming rapidly upstairs. It was him; I recognized his tread.

  ‘Are you there?’ he asked in a whisper. I rushed over to him.

  ‘There!’ he said, thrusting the money into my hands. ‘There! Take it back. I’m not your father, do you hear me? I don’t wish to be your father. You love your mother more than me! So, go to mother! But I don’t want to have anything to do with you!’

  As he said this he pushed me aside and ran downstairs again. I ran after him in floods of tears.

  ‘Papa, dearest Papa, I will obey you,’ I cried. ‘I do love you more than mother. Take the money back, take it!’ But he did not hear me; he had vanished. All that evening I felt crushed, and shook feverishly. I remember mother saying something to me, calling me, but I was hardly conscious and was unable to see or hear anything. In the end I went into a fit; I began screaming and crying. Mother was frightened and did not know what to do. She picked me up and took me over to her bed. Somehow, I do not remember how, I fell asleep with my arms around her neck, trembling and shaking all over. The whole night passed in this way. I woke up very late the next morning and found that mother was no longer in the room. She often went out to do things at that time of the day. A stranger had come to see father, and they were talking noisily together. I forced myself to wait until the visitor had left and then, once we were alone, I rushed over to father, sobbing and begging him to forgive me for what had happened the previous day.

  ‘And will you be a clever little girl l
ike before?’ he asked me sternly.

  ‘I will, Papa, yes I will,’ I answered. ‘I’ll tell you where mother keeps her money. She keeps it in that little box, it was there in that box yesterday.’

  ‘Keeps it? Where? Where does she keep it?’ he cried, jumping up from his chair. ‘Where does she keep it?’

  ‘It’s locked up, father,’ I said. ‘Wait a bit, wait until the evening when Mama goes to get change; I know she’s run out.’

  ‘I must have fifteen roubles, Netochka, do you hear? Just fifteen roubles! Get it for me today and I’ll return it tomorrow. And I’ll go straight away and buy you some sweets and some nuts… And I’ll buy you a doll too… and again tomorrow. Yes, I will bring you sweets every day if you’re a good girl.’