The Adolescent

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Suddenly one day Nikolai Semyonovich came home and informed me (briefly, as usual, and without smearing it around) that I should go to Miasnitskaya Street the next day, at eleven o’clock in the morning, to the home and apartment of Prince V——sky, and that there the kammerjunker Versilov, Andrei Petrovich’s son, who had come from Petersburg and was staying with his lycée comrade, Prince V——sky, would hand me the sum sent for my moving expenses. It seemed quite a simple matter: Andrei Petrovich might very well charge his son with this errand instead of sending it by post; but this news crushed me and alarmed me somehow unnaturally. There was no doubt that Versilov wanted to bring me together with his son, my brother; thus the intentions and feelings of the man I dreamed of were clearly outlined; but an enormous question presented itself to me: how would and how should I behave myself in this quite unexpected meeting, and would my own dignity not suffer in some way?

  The next day, at exactly eleven o’clock, I came to Prince V——sky’s apartment—bachelor’s quarters, but, as I could guess, magnificently furnished, with liveried lackeys. I stopped in the front hall. From the inner rooms came the sounds of loud talk and laughter: besides the visiting kammerjunker, the prince had other guests. I told the lackey to announce me, evidently in rather proud terms: at least, on going to announce me, he looked at me strangely, as it seemed to me, and even not as respectfully as he should have. To my surprise, he took a very long time announcing me, some five minutes, and meanwhile the same laughter and the same sounds of talk came from inside.

  I, naturally, stood while I waited, knowing very well that for me, as “just as much a gentleman,” it was unfitting and impossible to sit in the front hall where there were lackeys. I myself, of my own will, without a special invitation, would not have set foot in the reception room for anything, out of pride—out of refined pride, maybe, but so it had to be. To my surprise, the remaining lackeys (two) dared to sit down in my presence. I turned away so as not to notice it, but nevertheless I began trembling all over, and suddenly, turning and stepping towards one of the lackeys, I ordered him to go “at once” and announce me again. In spite of my stern gaze and my extreme agitation, the lackey looked at me lazily, without getting up, and the other one answered for him:

  “You’ve been announced, don’t worry!”

  I decided to wait only one minute more, or possibly even less than a minute, and then—leave without fail. The main thing was that I was dressed quite decently; my suit and overcoat were new, after all, and my linen was perfectly fresh, Marya Ivanovna had purposely seen to that for the occasion. But about these lackeys I learned for certain much later, and already in Petersburg, that they had learned the day before, through the servant who came with Versilov, that “so-and-so would be coming, the natural brother and a student.” That I now know for certain.

  A minute passed. It’s a strange feeling, when you’re making up your mind and can’t make it up: “To leave or not, to leave or not?” I repeated every second, almost in a cold fit. Suddenly the servant who had gone to announce me reappeared. In his hand, between finger and thumb, dangled four red banknotes, forty roubles.

  “Here, sir, kindly take these forty roubles!”

  I boiled over. This was such an insult! All the past night I had dreamed of the meeting of the two brothers arranged by Versilov; all night I had feverishly imagined how I should behave so as not to abase myself—not to abase the whole cycle of ideas I had lived out in my solitude and which I could be proud of even in any circle. I had imagined how I would be noble, proud, and sad, maybe even in the company of Prince V——sky, and thus would be introduced straight into that world—oh, I’m not sparing myself, and so be it, so be it: it must be written down exactly in these details! And suddenly—forty roubles through a lackey, in the front hall, and what’s more, after ten minutes of waiting, and what’s more, straight from his hand, from his lackeyish fingers, not on a salver, not in an envelope!

  I shouted so loudly at the lackey that he gave a start and recoiled; I immediately told him to take the money back, and so that “his master should bring it himself ”—in short, my demand was, of course, incoherent and, of course, incomprehensible for a lackey. However, I shouted so loudly that he went. Moreover, it seems my shouting was heard in the reception room, and the talk and laughter suddenly died down.

  Almost at once I heard footsteps, imposing, unhurried, soft, and the tall figure of a handsome and haughty young man (he seemed to me still paler and leaner then than at today’s meeting) appeared on the threshold of the front hall—even five feet before the threshold. He was wearing a magnificent red silk dressing gown and slippers, and had a pince-nez on his nose. Without saying a word, he turned his pince-nez on me and began to study me. I, like a beast, took a step towards him and stood there in defiance, staring at him point-blank. But he studied me for just a moment, ten seconds at most; suddenly a most imperceptible smile appeared on his lips, and yet a most caustic one, caustic precisely in being almost imperceptible. He silently turned and went back inside, as unhurriedly, as quietly and smoothly, as he had come. Oh, these offenders from childhood, who still in the bosom of their families are taught by their mothers to offend! Naturally, I was at a loss . . . Oh, why was I at a loss then!

  Almost at the same moment, the same lackey reappeared with the same banknotes in his hand:

  “Kindly take this, it has been sent to you from Petersburg, and the master cannot receive you himself; ‘perhaps some other time, when he’s more free’”—I felt he added these last words on his own. But my lostness still persisted; I took the money and went to the door; took it precisely because I was at a loss, because I should have refused it; but the lackey, of course, wishing to wound me, allowed himself a most lackeyish escapade: he suddenly thrust the door open emphatically before me and, holding it open, said imposingly and deliberately, as I went past him:

  “If you please, sir!”

  “Scoundrel!” I roared at him, and suddenly raised my arm, but didn’t bring it down. “And your master’s a scoundrel, too! Report that to him at once!” I added, and quickly went out to the stairs.

  “You daren’t do that! If I report it to the master right now, you could be sent with a note to the police this very minute. And you daren’t raise your arm . . .”

  I was going down the stairs. It was a grand stairway, all open, and I was fully visible from above as I went down the red carpet. All three lackeys came out and stood looking over the banister. I, of course, resolved to keep silent; it was impossible to squabble with lackeys. I went all the way down without quickening my pace, and maybe even slowing it.

  Oh, there may be philosophers (and shame on them!) who will say that this is all trifles, the vexation of a milksop—there may be, but for me it was a wound, a wound that hasn’t healed even to this minute, as I write, when everything is over and even avenged. Oh, I swear, I’m not rancorous or vengeful! Unquestionably, I always want revenge, even to the point of pain, when I’m offended, but I swear—only with magnanimity. Let me repay him with magnanimity, but so that he feels it, so that he understands it—and I’m avenged! Incidentally, I’ll add that I’m not vengeful, but I am rancorous, though also magnanimous. Does that happen to others? But then, oh, then I had come with magnanimous feelings, maybe ridiculous, but let it be. Better let them be ridiculous and magnanimous than not ridiculous but mean, humdrum, and average! I never revealed anything about that meeting with my “brother” to anyone, not even to Marya Ivanovna, or to Liza in Petersburg; that meeting was the same as receiving a shameful slap in the face. And now suddenly I meet this gentleman when I least expect to meet him; he smiles at me, tips his hat, and says with perfect amiability: “Bonsoir.” Of course, that was worth pondering . . . But the wound was reopened!

  V

  HAVING SAT FOR some four hours in the tavern, I suddenly rushed out as if in a fit—naturally, again to Versilov’s and, naturally, again I didn’t find him at home; he hadn’t come back at all. The nanny was bored and
asked me to send Nastasya Egorovna—oh, as if I could be bothered with that! I ran by mama’s, too, but I didn’t go in, but asked Lukerya to come out to the hallway; from her I learned that he hadn’t come and that Liza wasn’t there either. I saw that Lukerya would also have liked to ask something and maybe also to have sent me on some errand—as if I could be bothered with that! There remained a last hope, that he had been at my place; but I no longer believed in it.

  I have already let it be known that I was almost losing my reason. And then in my room I suddenly found Alphonsinka and my landlord. True, they were on their way out, and Pyotr Ippolitovich had a candle in his hand.

  “What is this?” I yelled almost senselessly at my landlord. “How dared you bring this rascally woman to my room?”

  “Tiens!” Alphonsinka cried out, “et les amis?”97

  “Out!” I bellowed.

  “Mais c’est un ours!”98 she fluttered out to the corridor, pretending to be frightened, and instantly disappeared into the landlady’s room. Pyotr Ippolitovich, still holding the candle, approached me with a stern look.

  “Allow me to observe to you, Arkady Makarovich, that you have grown too hot-tempered; much as we respect you, Mamzelle Alphonsine is not a rascally woman, but even quite the contrary, she is here as a guest, and not yours, but my wife’s, with whom she has been mutually acquainted for some time now.”

  “But how dared you bring her to my room?” I repeated, clutching my head, which almost suddenly began to ache terribly.

  “By chance, sir. I went in to close the vent window, which I myself had opened for the fresh air; and since Alphonsina Karlovna and I were continuing our previous conversation, in the midst of this conversation she, too, went into your room, solely to accompany me.”

  “Not true, Alphonsinka’s a spy, Lambert’s a spy! Maybe you’re a spy yourself! And Alphonsinka came to steal something from me.”

  “That’s as you like. Today you’re pleased to say one thing, tomorrow another. And my apartment I’ve rented out for a while, and will move with my wife into the storeroom; so Alphonsina Karlovna is now almost as much of a tenant here as you are, sir.”

  “You’ve rented out the apartment to Lambert?” I cried in fear.

  “No, sir, not to Lambert,” he smiled his previous long smile, in which, however, firmness could now be seen instead of the morning’s perplexity. “I suppose you’re so good as to know to whom, and are only putting on a vain air of not knowing, solely for the beauty of it, sir, and that’s why you’re angry. Good night, sir!”

  “Yes, yes, leave me, leave me in peace!” I waved my hands, all but weeping, so that he suddenly looked at me in surprise; however, he left. I fastened the latch on the door and collapsed on my bed, face to the pillow. And so there passed for me the first terrible day of those three fateful last days with which my notes conclude.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  BUT AGAIN, ANTICIPATING the course of events, I find it necessary to explain at least something to the reader beforehand, for here so many chance things mingled with the logical sequence of this story that it is impossible to make it out without explaining them beforehand. Here the matter consisted in that same “deadly noose” that Tatyana Pavlovna had let on about. The noose consisted in Anna Andreevna risking, finally, the boldest step that could be imagined in her situation. True character! Though the old prince, under the pretext of health, had been opportunely confiscated to Tsarskoe Selo then, so that the news of his marriage to Anna Andreevna might not spread in society and for a time would be snuffed out, so to speak, in the bud, nevertheless, the feeble old man, with whom anything could be done, would not for any reason in the world abandon his idea and betray Anna Andreevna, who had proposed to him. On this account he was chivalrous; so that sooner or later he might suddenly rise up and set about fulfilling his intention with irrepressible force, which is quite, quite likely to happen precisely with weak characters, for they have this limit, to which they ought not to be driven. Besides, he was perfectly aware of all the ticklishness of the position of Anna Andreevna, for whom he had boundless respect, aware of the possibility of society rumors, mockery, and bad fame on her account. The only thing that had restrained and stopped him so far was that in his presence Katerina Nikolaevna had never once, either by a word or a hint, allowed herself to mention Anna Andreevna in a bad sense, or betray anything at all against his intention to marry her. On the contrary, she displayed extreme cordiality and attentiveness towards her father’s fiancée. Thus Anna Andreevna was put in an extremely awkward position, sensing with her subtle feminine flair that the slightest calumny against Katerina Nikolaevna, before whom the prince also stood in awe, and now more than ever, precisely because she so goodnaturedly and respectfully allowed him to marry—the slightest calumny against her would offend all his tender feelings and arouse mistrust of her in him and even, perhaps, indignation. Thus it was in this field that the battle had gone on so far: the two rivals were as if rivaling each other in delicacy and patience, and in the end the prince no longer knew which of them to be more surprised at, and, as is usual with all weak but tenderhearted people, ended by beginning to suffer and blame himself alone for everything. His anguish, they said, reached the point of illness; his nerves were indeed upset, and instead of recovering in Tsarskoe, he was, as they assured me, ready to take to his bed.

  Here I’ll note in parenthesis something I learned much later: that Bjoring had supposedly proposed directly to Katerina Nikolaevna that they take the old man abroad, persuading him to go by some sort of deceit, meanwhile make it known privately in society that he had completely lost his reason, and obtain a doctor’s certificate for it abroad. But Katerina Nikolaevna wouldn’t do that for anything—so at least they maintained afterwards. She supposedly rejected the plan with indignation. All this is only the most distant rumor, but I believe it.

  And so, when the matter had reached, so to speak, the point of ultimate hopelessness, Anna Andreevna suddenly learns through Lambert that there exists this letter in which the daughter had consulted a lawyer about the means of declaring her father insane. Her vengeful and proud mind was aroused in the highest degree. Remembering her former conversations with me, and grasping a multitude of the tiniest circumstances, she could not doubt the correctness of the information. Then, in that firm, inexorable feminine heart, the plan for a bold stroke ripened irrepressibly. The plan consisted in suddenly telling the prince everything outright, without preliminaries and calumnies, frightening him, shocking him, pointing out that the madhouse inevitably awaited him, and when he resisted, became indignant, refused to believe it—showing him his daughter’s letter, as if to say, “since there once was an intention of declaring him insane, so now it was all the more likely, in order to prevent the marriage.” After which they would take the frightened and crushed old man and move him to Petersburg— straight to my apartment.

  This was a terrible risk, but she trusted firmly in her power. Here, departing from my story for a moment, I’ll say, running very far ahead, that she was not deceived in the effect of her stroke; moreover, the effect went beyond all her expectations. The news of this letter affected the old prince maybe several times more strongly than she or any of us had supposed. I never knew until then that the prince had known something about this letter before; but, as is usual with all weak and timid people, he hadn’t believed the rumor and had warded it off with all his might, so as to remain at peace; what’s more, he blamed himself for his ignoble gullibility. I’ll also add that the fact of the letter’s existence affected Katerina Nikolaevna, too, incomparably more strongly than I myself then expected . . . In short, this document turned out to be much more important than I myself, who was carrying it in my pocket, had supposed. But here I’ve run too far ahead.

  But why, I’ll be asked, to my apartment? Why move the prince to our pathetic little rooms and maybe frighten him with our pathetic furnishings? If it was impossible to go to his house (because there the whole thing coul
d be hindered at once), then why not to a special “rich” apartment, as Lambert had suggested? But here lay the whole risk of Anna Andreevna’s extraordinary step.

  The main thing was to present the prince with the document immediately on his arrival; but I wouldn’t hand over the document for anything. Since there was no more time to lose, Anna Andreevna, trusting in her power, ventured to start the business without the document, but by having the prince delivered directly to me instead. Why? Precisely in order to catch me in the same step as well, so to speak, and, as the saying goes, kill two birds with one stone. She counted on affecting me as well with the jolt, the shock, the unexpectedness. She reasoned that when I saw the old man at my place, saw his fear, his helplessness, heard their joint entreaties, I’d give in and produce the document! I admit her reckoning was cunning and clever, and psychological—what’s more, she nearly succeeded . . . As for the old man, Anna Andreevna led him on then, made him believe her, if only on her word, by telling him outright that she would take him to me. I learned all that afterwards. Even the news alone that the document was with me destroyed in his timid heart the last doubts as to the verity of the fact—so greatly did he love and respect me!

  I’ll also note that Anna Andreevna herself didn’t doubt for a moment that the document was still with me and that I hadn’t let it slip out of my hands. Above all, she misunderstood my character and cynically counted on my innocence, simpleheartedness, even sentimentality; and, on the other hand, she supposed that, even if I had ventured to give the letter, for instance, to Katerina Nikolaevna, then it could not have been otherwise than under some special circumstances, and it was those circumstances she was hastening to prevent by unexpectedness, a swoop, a stroke.