by George Moore
At the end of a long silence, Alec said: was this the great shanachie your honour shook hands with? Yes, Alec, that was the one. And I told him how I had seen this great man in the gardens of the Elysée Montmartre. Public gardens, I said, in which a band plays, and the people dance in the open air under the trees, if it be fine, and in a ballroom if the weather be wet. So it must have been wet on the occasion that I saw this great man, for he was walking down the ballroom, a great man and a big one as well — as big as Maliche Daly, standing six feet four at least, and with a head on him as white as Croagh Patrick’s peak after a fall of snow, upright as a tree, and a walk on him like a stag: a noble, knowledgeable man, one that had lived a long time in the world, but standing apart like a mountain among hills. Like the peak, your honour, said Alec. Just so, I see you understand him: and his stories, too, are as beautiful in outline as the hills, sometimes a little dimmer, like — Like the Connemara hills in the gap beyond, Alec interrupted, and I answered, precisely, I see you understand. Did he speak to your honour? Alec asked. He was kind enough to speak to me, though I was but a boy in those days; and I told Alec that the great shanachie’s words had remained with me all my life, so wise did they seem; but as they were spoken in the French language, and about books that Alec had not read, it would be useless for me to try to translate the shanachie’s wisdom. Alec accepted my judgment as to what could be told and what should be left out of a narrative, and asked me which was the greater of the two, Tourguéneff or Dostoieffsky. My vote was given long ago to Tourguéneff, Alec; I plumped for him. And myself wouldn’t be saying that there was anything amiss with that plump, Alec returned. But would it be asking too much if I were to ask you to tell me what t’other was like? I never saw Dostoieffsky in the flesh, but in the portraits that they publish in his books he appears like an unhappy, almost afflicted man from the working classes. There is a good deal or Tartar blood in Russia, and Dostoieffsky’s flat, shallow face, with insignificant features and eyes turned up at the corners, recall the Tartar of Chinese type, and were it not for the agitated eyes no one would suspect he was looking at the portrait of a great man. But the agitated eyes tell that something awful had happened to him, and something very awful did happen to him in the beginning of his life; not many years after writing Poor Folk, the book we were talking about yesterday, he was on his way to the scaffold, on the scaffold maybe, when the reprieve came, altering the sentence of death to one of banishment to Siberia. His face in the portrait tells of an unfortunate man, one who was unlucky from the beginning; an epileptic he was, and his life was lived in great poverty; in such poverty, Alec, that there was no time for him to read over his manuscripts before they went to the printer. Tourguéneff admired his genius, but —
Were they friends? Alec rapped out. They must have known each other, but they couldn’t be friends, for they were too different, coming from different classes, and out of a different tradition. Nor were they even of the same race, I muttered. Two great men writing prose narrative in the same language, that was all. There are stories going about, Alec, of a strange visit that Dostoieffsky paid to Tourguéneff. Dostoieffsky had come to Paris once to arrange for the publication of his works in a French translation, and it is said, mind you, I don’t vouch for the truth of the story, but it has got about that one evening, overtaken by his conscience, he rushed off to Tourguéneff to confess a crime he had committed years ago in Moscow. There being no priest handy, I suppose? Alec interjected. I’m afraid neither of them set much store on priests, I replied; but even those who do not believe in priests like to unburden themselves sometimes; a man who has committed a crime cannot keep his secret always; a secret will out, as you’ve often heard, Alec. I’ve heard, Alec said, that murder will out. A much worse crime than many murders was the crime that compelled him to seek out Tourguéneff in Paris. You must know, Alec, that houses in Paris are very big; and on every storey there are as many rooms as in a whole house here. I suppose that this plan was adopted with a view to fewer servants, for there is no going up and down stairs in a flat; the rooms open one into the other, and Tourguéneff had come through the folding doors from the dining-room into a white-painted, low-ceilinged saloon, which would have seemed somewhat finicky to Dostoieffsky if he had had eyes to see the grey silk curtains and beautifully bound books. There were comely little book-cases hanging from the walls and standing in corners, filled with choice volumes which could not have failed to attract anybody except a somnambulist, somebody walking in a dream, and that was how Dostoieffsky came into the room: like one in a trance. He knew Tourguéneff was there, and that’s about all — Tourguéneff only concerning him. He was not aware of the hour, which, as I have said, was an hour after dinner, somewhere about nine o’clock. He was not aware that Tourguéneff was busy; nor of the embarrassment his name created when the servant announced it: only aware of the torture he experienced in the few minutes he had been kept waiting in the ante-room. For every moment in that room was terrible till the moment came for him to unburden his conscience of the crime committed in Moscow years and years ago. Remorse, he said, has got hold of me now as it never did before, and he stood looking at Tourguéneff, hardly seeing him at all; Vera’s face, the girl that had sent him, was much clearer to him. Didn’t Tourguéneff offer him a chair or say something to him? Alec asked. Yes; Tourguéneff came forward with a chair, but Dostoieffsky waived him aside and walked up and down the room, finding a way through the furniture instinctively without falling over any chair or table, which was wonderful, for he seemed like a man without eyes, and after a while he found his way back to where Tourguéneff was sitting. It was last night, he said: she was by me, and it was she who sent me hither. The dead have a strange power over us, and she is dead many years: ten years ago at least.
It was at Moscow. One night, Ivan Sergeivitch —
Who is that one, Ivan Ser... vitch? Alec rapped out. Tourguéneff, I answered. Russians who are strangers address each other as son of — Like the Irish Mac, Alec said, and I answered that it was so. And Tourguéneff would address Dostoieffsky as Theodore Mikhailovitch. ’Tis a terrible way of saying Mac, said Alec, and to escape further questions I repeat Dostoieffsky’s last words. It was one night in Moscow, at the hub of the streets, I met her, after a long day’s work, and so brain-weary was I that I could hardly see or hear when a girl’s voice awoke me. I’m afraid I frightened you, the girl said. You startled me a little, I answered: but my appearance must have frightened you, my mind was far away. You’re not even awake yet, she said. Oh, but I am, I answered, and we walked on together, myself listening to her story of herself, glad to listen to it, to anything that took me out of myself. She told me she wanted to learn English, and the only way, she said, is to get a situation in England. I’m after one, but I’m not certain that I shall be able to get it, for you see, I’ve no reference. And how is that? You seem a good little girl. I used to be, but I don’t know that I am any longer. How did it come about? I was looking, she said, after some children in a tradesman’s family, and one day in the park a dog attacked the children, and all three might have been bitten if a student had not come forward and driven off the dog. We met again the next day and the next and the next, and all might have gone on very well if one of the children hadn’t walked into the pond after his boat, and when I was asked to explain how I was not by to prevent him doing such a foolish thing, one of the children answered: Vera was talking with the student who drove the dog off. The student returned again and again, and the upshot of it all was that I lost my situation, being deemed, so it was said, unfit to look after children. As I was in love with Ivan and he with me, I went to live with him, and when he left Moscow I took on with his friend, a Roumanian. And what then? I said. When he left there was another and then another. And then? And then, she said, I found myself obliged to go out into the thoroughfare to find somebody to whom I might take a fancy and who might take a fancy to me. As it happened to-night, if we have taken a fancy to each other. But I’ve only been out h
ere once before; my word on it; and I assured her that I believed what she had told me, though it seemed to me to matter very little whether she had given herself to three men or to four, for money or caprice.
She had a pretty face and an engaging manner, and every word she spoke revealed a beautiful mind that circumstances could not defile. Now what have you been doing? she said, to change the subject, which was becoming a bit irksome to both of us, and I told her that I was a man who wrote stories for a living, and had come out to escape from the people of my imagination. But why do you wish to forget them? I would forget them, I said, to-night, so that I may remember them better to-morrow, and I’m grateful to you for speaking to me, for if it hadn’t been for this little talk with you, perhaps I shouldn’t have closed my eyes to-night. And to-morrow will be a day of twelve or fourteen hours. Must you work as hard as that? I must, indeed, for I have no money except the few roubles that publishers pay me for my stories. And I don’t know if life will ever become any easier. You see I’ve only just returned from Siberia: I worked in chains for five years, because I wished to free the people from the police. So you’re a convict, I heard her say, and I expected her to drop behind. I don’t mind that, she said, for it was for having a better heart than another the police were down on you. Perhaps you’re right, I answered, but I thought it well to tell you who I am, for it may do you harm to be seen walking with an ex-convict. I’m not afraid of that, and I saw that my confession, instead of estranging us, as I had intended, seemed to unite us, which is only natural; the outcast only can speak intimately to the outcast. We walked on, discovering ourselves one to the other, and when I stopped to bid her good-bye it seemed to both of us that for a night at least we were destined for each other.
It was then that I began to look her over, and her clothes, her accent, told me she was a workgirl, the typical workgirl of Moscow, and, I said, she has told me the truth; she has been a nursery-maid and needs money, and I’ve none to give her. You need money, I said, and in coming with me you are leaving money behind you. Never mind; I would sooner go hungry to-morrow than lose you to-night. But I have some money, very little it is true, so little, that if I were to call that cab I should be ashamed to offer you what remained. We can walk, she answered, and it was not till we were fairly out of the city that her legs began to ache. Let us rest awhile, she said. I shall be able to go on presently. But your lodgings are not very far off, she replied, her eyes fixed on the last cab on the last rank. But I’m dead-tired, and it wouldn’t cost much to ride the rest of the way; it isn’t more than half-a-mile. It’s lucky it isn’t more, I answered, for the last cab looks as if it had already accomplished its last journey. The horse too, Vera said, is near his end; his head is sunk between his forelegs; and it was with a view to shortening his journey by a few yards that we crossed the road. An absurd thought, I remarked, and Vera agreed that the extra yards could not make much difference, but like me she felt she must save the horse from the labour of dragging the cab across the street. And when we were in the middle of the road the horse fell suddenly. He’ll get up when I’ve loosened the traces and drawn away the cab, the driver muttered, as he bent over the harness. He plied his whip, but the horse was dead, and we turned away, frightened, myself wondering if we should accept the horse’s death as a warning, as an omen. I think even little Vera was frightened, moved by the untoward occurrence, but at fifteen one isn’t given to the reading of omens. You see she was only a child, and I listened to her prattle, my thoughts wandering between the magnitude of the universe and the accident that had forced this long walk upon us, robbing me, perhaps, of the love night that I looked forward to so greedily. She will be too tired, I said, and that was all I thought about: whether she would be too tired for love.
Vera, I’m trying to confess all. Have patience. Have I not come to him to whom thou didst send me? Am I not telling all? Thou knowest that I am concealing nothing, not even the shameful lust that entered my heart, when I heard thee say, with a smothered burst of laughter, that the last candle-end had been burnt out and we should have to undress in the dark. I had looked forward to seeing thee unpin thy pins, and untie thy bows, revealing each delicate form of thy body to me, and so great was my disappointment that there was no candle that I confided my disappointment to thee, and having thought only for my pleasure, the curtain was drawn; it was thy hands that drew it, letting the moonlight into the room.
I can see her still. Certain parts of her are before my eyes, and her talk is ringing in my ears, and will ring in them for ever. We may escape from the living but the dead never relax their clutch, and it is more often a dead hand than a living one that urges a man to his doom. After all, did she not love me? But did I love her? How could one such as I love her? To love one must have leisure, and there was none in my life. For bare life I had to sit at a writing-table for ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day, and the police are always at the heels of an ex-convict. My life was beset with difficulties, and as she strove to detain me, her hand on the lapel of my coat, I began to regret that we had met each other, for I foresaw the necessity of breaking with her. When shall we meet again? she asked, in her simplicity. When shall we meet again? I repeated, almost ironically. Have I not told you, I said, folding her in my arms, that I am a penniless convict from Siberia. Why should you wish to see me again? That I do not know, she replied, but do let me come to see you; I promise I won’t disturb you while you’re writing. I’ll sit in a corner very quiet, reading the pages as you throw them aside. I could see the tears trembling on her eyelids, ready to flow over them. But my life was so dark, without a gleam in it at that time (it has always been dark, a hopeless life) that I did not dare to invite her into the danger which I knew was preparing. I cannot, I said: I’m a convict; the police are always watching me. You’re a child, and — If you’re afraid to let me come to see you, tell me where you walk in the evenings, and, not foreseeing that we should ever run up against each other in the Nikolskaya, I told her that I walked there nearly every evening, and bade her good-bye, going back to my garret, thinking, not of her, but of the work that would have to be accomplished before the sun set again.
My work left me too tired to go out, and the next day was the same, and the day after; but after several days of work there came a swimming in my head, and I went out to get the air, and to try to forget the people my pen had been calling into life all day. It is necessary to forget them sometimes so that we may not forget them when the time comes for work again. The very first thing that night was Vera looking into the faces of the passengers, and turning away from them, as soon as she had scanned them, seeking somebody whom she could not find, looking into their faces and turning away again. She is seeking me, I said, and passed up a side street, thinking to escape, for the sense that she was a danger to me was stronger than ever. We’re a mutual danger, I said to myself, and perhaps it was the sense that she was a danger to me that drew me to her next day, for I walked out into the Nikolskaya, asking myself if she was still looking for me. She was there, and I saw her, as before, looking into the faces of the passengers, turning away from them, refusing many men who came and solicited her. She is refusing them, I said, because I am upon her mind. My misfortunes have attracted her. And then I began to argue with myself, asking myself: what imagined doom can there be for us? A girl like any other girl, and, I repeated, a man like any other man, but when I uttered these words I knew I was speaking a lie. For I’m not like any other; and, my thoughts travelling over my past life, I sought to discover if I were as different as I imagined myself to be, but after scanning the terrible history that every year unfolded, I closed the book, frightened, and fell to thinking of Vera. A thirst was upon me to see her; it was not the thirst for her body, not altogether, but the thirst for companionship: my life was lonely, lonelier than it had ever been in Siberia. I reasoned with myself. I said: I must bear with myself, I am done for, but let me not drag her down with me. And I swear that I kept myself for days and weeks from turning into t
he Nikolskaya lest we should meet. But at last the day came when I began to feel that my dreams were becoming me, and the hallucinations of my people mine. I began to fear my people as one fear spectres. I must escape from them, I cried, else I shall not be able to recall them again.... If I do not drive them away to-night they may refuse to obey me to-morrow.
And as I jostled through the crowds, neither hearing nor seeing, a voice awake me suddenly. It was Vera. So I have found you at last, she said. Why haven’t you walked here before? I looked into her eyes without speaking. Aren’t you glad to see me? she said. Yes, I’m glad to see you, I answered, but my mind is away, and I neither see the people about me nor have I any mind left to understand what is being said to me. You’ll be better presently, she answered. Let us walk on together. Your mind will return to you presently. But if you work so hard you will kill yourself, and then what shall I do? The word touched my heart and I awoke from my dreams of a bastard son, an epileptic like myself; one that had committed a murder and had forgotten it — Smerdyakov.
I am myself again, I said, and remembering at the same moment that I had money in my pockets, having sold some manuscript, I said: let us go into an eating-house and have some supper. I should be very glad, she answered, for I’m hungry. You haven’t eaten to-day? and she answered: I have not. It was unwise for me to take her into an eating-house, for when she had eaten and drunk there was only one thing to do, to take her back into my garret, and after I did that, would I be strong enough to turn her out of it in the morning? I knew that I should not turn her out, for reason is not listened to in such moments. Were it listened to, the world would have ceased long ago; it cannot check even the philosopher; we belong to ourselves, to our instincts and passions, and, forgetful of aught else, I listened to Vera, who said she would be the happiest girl in the word if I would share my garret with her; and we were happy for longer than I thought it possible that I could be happy — for nearly three months. But all the time Vera’s golden ringlets and happy smiles were setting the tongues of enviers and rivals wagging, and the police are adepts at indirect means of compulsion. It may have been the police and it may not have been the police, but objections to my work began to arise. I lost some of my customers, and feared that I should lose more. It was not an imaginary persecution, I swear it. Every day it became more intense and determined, till the old fear awoke in me, and my thoughts began to talk to me again, saying that I had dragged this poor child into a whirlpool of misfortune, for you are that and nothing more, my thoughts muttered. And I yielded to the belief that my life in the world would drag on as it had begun, in disaster. Vera, I said, I am as a leper; you would do well to leave me. Do you care for me no longer? she asked. And there was no strength in me to answer her: Vera, we have had our time of life together; be wise and leave me, for I can only bring misfortune to you. Had I spoken these words she would not have understood them. She might have said: you’re talking to me now as the people talk in your books. So I said nothing. She asked me of what I was thinking. Of you, darling, I said, but I was really thinking, though I did not dare to tell her, that it were better that she should return to the streets than remain with me, for on the streets she might meet any evening an honest fellow who would be tempted at first by her child beauty and learn to appreciate her gentle nature and marry her. Many men marry off the streets. Every good girl who goes on the street marries; we must believe that goodness rises above prejudices and conventions. But to remain with me would be certain ruin for her; we had entered the danger zone. We had been together three months, and after three months the flesh wearies a little. It may be that I am wronging myself and that it was the persecution of the police that forced me to persecute Vera. Persecution begets persecution, and every day the desire to get rid of her become more intense. I counted her steps as she descended the stairs, saying: she is farther from me than she was a moment ago, and when she returned I counted her steps as she ascended the stairs, saying: she is nearer to me than she was a moment ago. Something had to happen. Oh, it wasn’t murder. I should never have had the strength to murder, I couldn’t walk upon a fly on the ground, but it would have been better if I had murdered her, for she would have suffered less at the time, and I should not have had to come here with a tale of cruelty: determined, premeditated cruelty, intended to drive her way. She never got a kind look or word from me, till I told her one day that she must leave me to earn my living; and you would do well, I added, to be about earning yours. She made no answer but left my rooms without a word, and I continued to write, for ten thousand words had to be written that day; they had been promised, and when the last sentence was upon paper, I stood asking myself if I should have sufficient mind to address the envelope correctly that was to contain the pages. It seemed as if the racket in my brain would never cease, and I said to myself: I cannot direct the envelope. But if the pages do not go now, they will be laid aside, I continued, and it was while waiting for a moment of mental calm to address the envelope that I heard her feet on the staircase. She will be here in a moment, I said, and I cannot look her in the face after my cruel words. I’ll go out. I may be able to steal away. But when I return I shall find her waiting for me. There was no time to think more. I listened, sitting quite still, so that she might not hear me. The rooms in which we lived were divided by a partition, so that I could not move without her hearing me, so I sat very still, saying to myself: she thinks I am out. At last I heard something drop, and what dropped sounded like a coil of rope — a rope drops differently from any other object, and when I heard her pick up the rope, I said: she has bought a rope to hang herself. But, I said to myself, if she means to hang herself, she will open the door to see if I’m out, and the thought relieved my mind. At the sight of her face all misunderstandings will be wiped away; we shall fall into each other’s arms more truly in love than we had ever been....
