Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘You needn’t, Papa, you needn’t. I don’t want sweets. I won’t eat them, I’ll give them back to you!’ I cried, choking with tears and feeling as if my heart would burst. I felt at that moment that he was not really feeling sorry for me and that he neither loved me nor realized how much I loved him if he thought that I would do whatever he wanted just for sweets. I, the child, understood him thoroughly and I felt as if that understanding had wounded me for ever. I did not believe that I could love him as before and I feared that I had lost my former Papa. He was in a kind of ecstasy as a result of my promise. He knew that I was prepared to do anything for him, and God knows how much that ‘anything’ meant to me. I knew how important the money was to mother, and I knew that she might become ill through the distress of losing it. But he saw nothing. He treated me like a three-year-old child, whereas in fact I understood everything. His delight knew no bounds. He kissed me, begged me not to cry and promised that we would leave mother and go away together that very day, intending, I suppose, to flatter my eternal daydream. He took a poster out of his pocket and began assuring me that the man he was going to see today was his enemy, his mortal enemy, but that his enemies never succeeded. As he talked to me about his enemies he seemed just like a child himself. He noticed that I was not smiling in my usual way and that I was listening to him in silence. He took his hat and hurried out of the room. Before leaving he kissed me, nodding his head in a half-smile as if uncertain that he could trust me not to change my mind.

  I have already said that he was like a madman, and this had been apparent since the day before. He needed the money to buy a ticket for the concert, which he believed would resolve everything. He seemed to have a premonition that this concert would decide his fate, but he was so distracted that the previous day he had wanted to take a few copecks from me, as if that would buy his ticket. He became like a stranger during dinner. He simply could not sit still and he did not touch any of his food. He kept getting up from his chair and then sitting down again as though he were hesitating over something. At one moment he would snatch up his hat as if going off somewhere, then at another he would become strangely absent, whispering to himself, then suddenly glancing at me, winking as if to say that he wanted the money as soon as possible, and was annoyed because I had not obtained it already. Even my mother noticed his strange behaviour, and she looked at him in bewilderment. I felt as if I were under sentence of death. When the meal was over I huddled in a corner, shivering constantly and counting each second as I waited for mother to send me out to buy something. I have never spent more agonizing hours in my life, and I shall never forget them. God knows the feelings I experienced! There are moments when you go through more in your inner consciousness than in a whole lifetime. I felt that I was doing something very wicked. He himself had prompted my better instincts, when, like a coward, he had pushed me into wrongdoing for the first time. Frightened by it himself, he had explained to me that I had done something wrong. Surely he must have understood how hard it is to deceive someone of my temperament; someone who already, at an exceptionally early age, had experienced and comprehended so much good and evil. I did, of course, understand that it was through sheer desperation that he was prompted to lead me again and again into sin, sacrificing my defenceless childhood and running the risk of disturbing still further my unstable mind. And now, huddled in my corner, I wondered why he promised me rewards for something I had made up my mind to do of my own free will. New sensations, yearnings, and doubts all crowded my mind, tormenting my thoughts. Then all at once I began thinking about mother; I imagined her grief at the loss of her last copecks. Finally she put aside her work, exhausted, and called for me. I was trembling all over as I went to see her. She had taken some money out of the drawer and gave it to me, saying: ‘Run along now, Netochka. Only, please God, don’t let them give you short change as they did the other day. And don’t lose it.’

  I glanced at my father with an imploring expression, but he only nodded and smiled at me encouragingly, as he wrung his hands impatiently. The clock struck six; the concert was due to start at seven. He, too, was going through a lot during those hours of suspense.

  I stopped on the stairs and waited for father. He was so excited and agitated that, without any attempt at concealment, he dashed out after me. I handed him the money. It was dark on the staircase; I could not see his face properly, but I could feel the way he quivered all over as he took it from me. I stood there stunned, unable to move. I only came to my senses when he sent me back upstairs to fetch his hat.

  ‘Papa!… Surely… aren’t you coming with me?’ I said in a broken voice, thinking that my only hope was that he would intercede for me.

  ‘No, you’d better go alone, all right? No, wait! Wait!’ he cried, suddenly remembering something. ‘Wait a minute. I’ll get you something nice in just a minute, but first go in and bring me my hat.’ I felt as if an icy hand was gripping my heart. Screaming, I pushed him from me and ran upstairs. My face filled with horror as I entered the room, and if I had told my mother that I had been robbed of the money she surely would have believed me. But I could say nothing at that moment. In a convulsive fit of grief I threw myself on to my mother’s bed and hid my face in my hands. A minute later, the door creaked open and my father timidly entered. He had come for his hat.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ cried my mother, guessing that something was up. ‘Where’s the money? Tell me, tell me!’ She snatched me up from the bed and made me stand in the middle of the room.

  I stood in silence with my eyes on the floor. I was barely able to understand what was happening to me, or what they were doing.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ she cried once again, turning abruptly from me to my father, who had grabbed his hat. ‘Where’s the money?’ she repeated. ‘Ah, so she’s given it to you, the godless creature! You murderer! Curse of my life! Do you want to ruin her too? A child! Here! Here! No, no, you won’t get away with it!’

  In a flash she flew to the door, locked it from the inside and took the key.

  ‘Speak! Confess!’ she said to me, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. ‘Tell me everything! Speak, speak, or I don’t know what I’ll do to you.’ She grabbed my hands and squeezed them as she interrogated me. I vowed at that moment to keep silent and not say a word about father. I raised my eyes timidly at him for the last time… One look, one word from him expressing what I was hoping and praying for and I should have been happy, in spite of my suffering and torment… But, my God! With a cruel, threatening gesture he ordered me to be silent, as if I could have been intimidated any further at that moment! There was a lump in my throat, I could not breathe and fell senseless on the floor… I had an attack of nerves, as on the previous day.

  I came to my senses at the sound of someone knocking at the door. When mother opened it I saw a man dressed in livery, who looked at us all in bewilderment as he entered, asking for the musician Efimov. My stepfather introduced himself. The footman gave him a note and announced that he had come from B., who at that moment was with Prince X. In the envelope was a complimentary ticket to S.’s concert.

  The appearance of the footman in his sumptuous livery, presenting himself as one of the Prince’s staff sent expressly to see the poor musician Efimov, instantly made a tremendous impression on my mother. I have already mentioned, when describing her character, that she, poor woman, still loved my father. And now, in spite of eight years of never-ending misery and suffering, her heart remained the same: she could still love him! Who knows… perhaps at this moment she envisaged a complete change in his fortunes. Even the faintest glimmer of hope influenced her… perhaps she too was a little bit affected by her crazy husband’s unwavering self-assurance! Indeed, it would have been remarkable if this self-assurance had not had some effect on her, for she was a weak woman. The consideration shown by Prince X. spurred her into concocting a thousand and one plans for her husband. In an instant she was prepared to reconcile herself to him, to forgive him for what he h
ad done to her life and even to overlook his last crime, the sacrifice of her only child. In a burst of renewed enthusiasm and hope, she could reduce the crime to a mere shortcoming, to an act of cowardice induced by poverty, the degradation of his life and his desperate situation. She was so impulsive that at that moment she was again capable of forgiveness and infinite compassion for her ruined husband.

  My father was bustling about; he too was impressed by the attention of Prince X. and of B. He turned straight away to mother, whispered something to her and she left the room. She came back two minutes later with some small change, then father immediately gave a silver rouble to the messenger, who left with a polite bow. Mother again left the room and returned with an iron. She fetched her husband’s best frock-coat and began pressing it. She herself tied the white cambric cravat around his neck. It had been preserved, on the off-chance of being used, in the wardrobe and forgotten long ago, together with his black, and by now very shabby, dress-coat, which had been made for him when he entered the service of the theatre orchestra. Having completed his toilet, father took his hat, and was on the point of going when he asked for a glass of water; he was pale, and he sat down on a chair feeling faint. It was I who gave him the water; perhaps the feeling of hostility had crept into mother’s heart again and cooled her original enthusiasm.

  Father left, and we were alone. I crouched in the corner and watched my mother, silently, for a long time. I had never before seen her so excited. Her lips were trembling and her ashen face suddenly glowed; from time to time her whole body shook. At last her grief came pouring out in stifled sobs, complaints and lamentations.

  ‘It’s me, it’s me who’s to blame for everything, miserable woman that I am!’ she said to herself. ‘What will become of her? What will become of her when I die?’ She stood motionless in the middle of the room as though stricken with horror by the thought. ‘Netochka, my child! My poor darling… my poor unhappy child!’ she said, taking me by the hand and kissing me convulsively. ‘Who will take care of you when I’m gone, when even now I can’t educate you, look after you and care for you as I should? Ah, don’t you understand me? Do you understand? Will you remember what I’ve just said to you, Netochka? Will you remember this in future?’

  ‘I will, mother, I will,’ I said, clasping my hands and beseeching her. She held me for a long time in a warm embrace, as if terrified of the thought of parting from me. My heart was bursting.

  ‘Mama, Mama,’ I said, sobbing, ‘why don’t you… why don’t you love Papa?’ My sobs prevented me from finishing what I was saying. A groan burst forth from her bosom, and in another rush of acute misery she began pacing the room.

  ‘My poor, poor child! And I never noticed how she was growing up. She knows everything, she knows everything! My God! What sort of ideas we’ve given her, what an example!’ And again she wrung her hands in despair. She came over to me and, with a frantic display of love, tears streaming down her face, she kissed me and begged my forgiveness. I have never seen so much suffering… Finally, exhausted, she dropped off into a doze. An hour passed and then she got up, still weary, and told me to go to sleep. I went off into my corner and wrapped myself in a blanket, but I could not sleep. I was worried both about her and about father, whose return I was impatiently awaiting, terrified at the thought of it. After half an hour mother came over, holding a candle, to see whether I was asleep. After looking at me she went, very quietly, to the cupboard, opened it and poured herself a glass of wine. She drank it and went to sleep, leaving the candle burning on the table and the door unlocked, as she always did when father was expected back late.

  I lay there in a state of semi-consciousness, but sleep would not come to my eyes. As soon as I had closed them I would wake up again, trembling from some horrible dream. My misery grew worse and worse. I wanted to scream, but the scream remained unuttered. At last, late in the night, I heard the door open. I do not remember how much time went by, but when I opened my eyes I saw father. He seemed dreadfully pale. He was sitting in a chair beside the door, lost in thought. A deathly silence filled the room. The flickering candle cast a gloomy light on our hovel.

  I watched father for a long time but still he did not stir; he remained in the same motionless position with his head bowed and his hands pressed rigidly against his knees. Several times I tried to call him but could not. I was still in a numbed stupor. Then suddenly he roused himself, raised his head and got up from the chair. For some minutes he stood in the centre of the room as if trying to make some decision. Then he quickly moved over to mother’s bed, listened to make sure she was sleeping and went over to the chest where he kept the violin. He unlocked the chest, took out the black case and put it on the table, looking round again. His eyes had a furtive, wandering look such as I had never seen before.

  He was picking up the violin when he broke off in order to lock the door. Then, noticing the open cupboard, he went stealthily over to it, caught sight of the glass and the wine, poured some and drank it. Then for the third time he took up the violin, but for the third time put it down and went to mother’s bed. Frozen in fear, I watched to see what would happen.

  He stood listening for a very long time, then, putting the quilt over her face, he began feeling her with his hand. I started. He bent down again, almost putting his head against hers. When he got up for the last time there seemed to be a smile flickering over his horribly pale face. Silently and carefully he pulled up the blanket and covered the sleeping woman; he covered her head, her feet… I began shaking with a terror I did not understand. I felt frightened for mother; I was frightened by her deep sleep and I looked uneasily at the still, sharp outline of her limbs underneath the quilt… A terrible thought flashed like lightning across my mind.

  Having completed the preparations, father went back to the cupboard and started drinking the remaining wine. His body trembled as he walked to the table. His face was pale beyond all recognition. He picked up the violin again. I knew what it was now, but I was expecting something awful, hideous, monstrous… I shuddered at the first sound of the notes. Father had begun to play. The sounds came out jerkily; he kept stopping abruptly as if remembering something; eventually, with a distraught, agonized expression, he put down his bow and gave a strange look in the direction of the bed, before going over to it again… I did not miss a single movement he made and watched him, petrified.

  Suddenly he began hurriedly groping for something, and again the same ghastly thought went through me like lightning. I wondered why mother was sleeping so soundly. How was it that she did not wake up when he touched her face with his hand? At last, I saw him gathering all the clothes he could find. He took mother’s pelisse, his old frock-coat, his dressing-gown, even the clothes I had taken off for bed. He threw them all in a pile covering her. She lay completely motionless, not a limb stirring.

  She was sleeping very soundly!

  Father seemed to breathe more freely once he had finished his task. This time nothing hindered him, but all the same he was troubled by something. Moving the candle, he stood with his face towards the door, avoiding the bed. Eventually he took the violin and, with a gesture of despair, drew the bow across it… The music began.

  But it was not music… I remember everything distinctly; to the end I can remember everything that caught my attention. No, this was not like the music I later came to hear. They were not the notes of the violin, but the sound of a terrible voice that was resounding through our room for the first time. Either my impressions were incorrect or delirious, or else my senses were so thrown by all that I had witnessed that they were prepared for frightful, agonizing impressions – but I am firmly convinced that I heard groans, the cries of a human voice. Complete despair flowed forth in these chords and when, at the end, there resounded the last awful note, in which was expressed all that is terrible in a cry, the agony of torture and the misery of hopelessness, I could bear it no longer. I began trembling, tears poured from my eyes, and I rushed over to father with a terrified
shriek and grabbed him by the hand. He cried out and put down his violin.

  He stood for a moment, stunned, then his eyes lit up and darted around the room. He seemed to be looking for something; suddenly he snatched up his violin, waved it over my head, and… another minute and he might have killed me on the spot.

  ‘Papa!’ I shouted to him. ‘Papa!’

  He shook like a leaf when he heard my voice, and took a couple of steps backwards.

  ‘Oh, so there’s still you! It’s not over yet! So you’re still left with me!’ he shouted, lifting me above his shoulders, into the air.

  ‘Papa!’ I cried again. ‘For God’s sake, don’t frighten me so! I’m scared! Ah!’ My cries impressed him; he put me down on the ground gently and looked at me without speaking for a while, as if recognizing and remembering something. Then he changed abruptly, as some ghastly thought ran through him. Tears welled up in his dulled eyes, and he leaned down, looking intently into my face.

  ‘Papa,’ I said, riddled with fear, ‘don’t look at me in that way! Papa! Let’s go away from here! Quick, let’s go! Let’s run away!’

  ‘Yes, we’ll run away, it’s high time. Come along, Netochka, hurry, hurry!’ And he rushed about as if only just realizing what he had to do. He looked around and, catching sight of mother’s handkerchief on the floor, picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then he saw her bonnet and picked that up too, as if he were preparing for a long journey, gathering together all the things he might want. I swiftly put on my clothes, and then started snatching up all the things I thought were necessary for the journey.

  ‘Is everything ready, everything?’ my father asked. ‘Is everything ready? Hurry now, hurry!’

  I quickly tied up my bundle, threw a kerchief over my head, and we were about to depart, when it suddenly occurred to me that I must take the picture hanging on the wall. Father immediately agreed to this.