The Eternal Husband and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “See that—’Mitenka’!…” he said reproachfully, imitating the lady’s piping little voice. “They’re no longer ashamed even in public!”

  And, staggering over to the lady, who had thrown herself down on the first chair she could find and managed to sit the uhlan down beside her, he looked them both over with contempt and drew out in a singsong voice:

  “Slut, slut that you are, your skirt tail’s all tattered!”

  The lady shrieked and looked around pitifully, waiting for deliverance. She was ashamed, she was afraid, and to crown it all, the officer tore from his chair and, with a yell, rushed for the merchant, but slipped and flopped back into the chair. The guffawing increased around them, while no one even thought of helping; but Velchaninov did help; he suddenly seized the little merchant by the scruff of the neck and, turning him around, shoved him some five steps away from the frightened woman. With that the scandal ended; the little merchant was greatly taken aback both by the shove and by Velchaninov’s imposing figure; he was led away at once by his comrades. The dignified physiognomy of the elegantly dressed gentleman produced an imposing impression on the jeerers as well: the laughter ceased. The lady, blushing and almost in tears, began pouring out assurances of her gratitude. The uhlan muttered: “Thanksh, thanksh!”—and made as if to offer Velchaninov his hand, but instead suddenly decided to lie down across the chairs and stretch his legs out on them.

  “Mitenka!” the lady moaned reproachfully, clasping her hands.

  Velchaninov was pleased both with the adventure and with its setting. The lady interested him; she was, as could be seen, a rich provincial, dressed magnificently but tastelessly, and with somewhat ridiculous manners—she precisely united in herself everything that guaranteed success to a big-city fop with certain goals regarding women. A conversation started; the lady hotly told and complained about her husband, who “suddenly disappeared somewhere from the car, and that was why it all happened, because it was eternally so, when needed, he’d disappear somewhere…”

  “For a necessity…” the uhlan muttered.

  “Ah, Mitenka!” she again clasped her hands.

  “The husband’s going to catch it!” thought Velchaninov.

  “What’s his name? I’ll go and find him,” he offered.

  “Pal Palych,” the uhlan responded.

  “Your husband’s name is Pavel Pavlovich?” Velchaninov asked with curiosity, and suddenly the familiar bald head thrust itself between him and the lady. Instantly he pictured the Zakhlebinins’ garden, innocent games, and the importunate bald head constantly thrusting itself between him and Nadezhda Fedoseevna.

  “Here you are at last!” the wife cried out hysterically.

  It was Pavel Pavlovich himself; in surprise and fear he gazed at Velchaninov, struck dumb before him as before a phantom. His stupefaction was so great that for some time he apparently understood nothing of what his insulted spouse was telling him in an irritable and quick patter. Finally he gave a start and grasped all his horror at once: his own guilt, and about Mitenka, and about this “m’sieur”—for some reason the lady referred this way to Velchaninov—“being our guardian angel and a savior, and you—you are eternally elsewhere when you should be here…”

  Velchaninov suddenly burst out laughing.

  “But he and I are friends, friends from childhood!” he exclaimed to the astonished lady, familiarly and patronizingly putting his right arm around the shoulders of Pavel Pavlovich, who was smiling a pale smile. “Didn’t he ever tell you about Velchaninov?”

  “No, never,” the wife was slightly dumbstruck.

  “But do introduce me to your wife, you perfidious friend!”

  “This, Lipochka, is indeed Mr. Velchaninov, this is…” Pavel Pavlovich tried to begin and shamefully broke off. The wife turned red and flashed her eyes at him in spite, obviously for the “Lipochka.”

  “And imagine not telling me you were getting married, and not inviting me to the wedding, but you, Olympiada…”

  “Semyonovna,” Pavel Pavlovich prompted.

  “Semyonovna,” suddenly echoed the falling-asleep uhlan.

  “You must forgive him, Olympiada Semyonovna, for me, for the sake of friends meeting… He’s a good husband!”

  And Velchaninov amicably slapped Pavel Pavlovich on the shoulder.

  “But, darling, I only stayed behind… for a moment…” Pavel Pavlovich began to justify himself.

  “And abandoned your wife to disgrace!” Lipochka picked up at once. “You’re never where you ought to be, and where you oughn’t to be, there you are…”

  “Where you oughtn’t to be—there where you oughtn’t to be… where you oughtn’t to be…” the uhlan kept agreeing.

  Lipochka was nearly breathless with agitation; she knew it was not nice in front of Velchaninov, and she blushed, but she could not help herself.

  “Where you oughtn’t to be, you’re all too cautious, all too cautious!” escaped from her.

  “Under the bed… looks for lovers… under the bed—where he oughtn’t to be… oughtn’t to be…” Mitenka, too, suddenly became terribly agitated.

  But there was nothing to be done with Mitenka. Everything ended pleasantly, however; full acquaintance ensued; Pavel Pavlovich was sent for coffee and bouillon. Olympiada Semyonovna explained to Velchaninov that they were now going from O., where her husband worked, to spend two months on their estate, that it was not far away, only twenty-five miles from this station, that they had a wonderful house and garden there, that they would have guests, that they also had neighbors, and that if Alexei Ivanovich was so good as to wish to visit them “in their seclusion,” she would receive him as a guardian angel, because she could not recall without horror what would have happened if… and so on and so forth—in short, “as a guardian angel…”

  “And a savior, and a savior,” the uhlan ardently insisted.

  Velchaninov politely thanked her and replied that he was always ready, that he was a perfectly idle and unoccupied man, and that Olympiada Semyonovna’s invitation was only too flattering for him. After which he at once began a merry little conversation, into which he successfully inserted two or three compliments. Lipochka blushed with pleasure and, as soon as Pavel Pavlovich returned, announced to him rapturously that Alexei Ivanovich had been so good as to accept her invitation to be their guest in the country for a whole month and promised to come in a week. Pavel Pavlovich gave a lost smile and said nothing. Olympiada Semyonovna shrugged at him and raised her eyes to heaven. Finally they parted: once more gratitude, again “guardian angel,” again “Mitenka,” and Pavel Pavlovich finally took his spouse and the uhlan to put them on the train. Velchaninov lit a cigar and began to stroll along the gallery in front of the station; he knew that Pavel Pavlovich would presently come running back again to talk with him before the bell rang. And so it happened. Pavel Pavlovich immediately appeared before him with an anxious question in his eyes and on his whole physiognomy. Velchaninov laughed: he took him “amicably” by the elbow and, drawing him to the nearest bench, sat down and sat him down beside him. He kept silent himself; he wanted Pavel Pavlovich to be the first to speak.

  “So you’re coming to visit us, sir?” the man babbled, approaching the matter with complete frankness.

  “I just knew it! Hasn’t changed a bit!” Velchaninov burst out laughing. “But could you really,” he again slapped him on the shoulder, “could you really think seriously even for a moment that I would in fact come to visit, and for a whole month at that—ha, ha!”

  Pavel Pavlovich became all aroused.

  “So you—won’t come, sir!” he cried out, not concealing his joy in the least.

  “I won’t, I won’t!” Velchaninov laughed smugly. However, he himself did not understand why he found it so especially funny, but the further it went, the funnier it became to him.

  “Can it be… can it really be as you say, sir?” And, having said that, Pavel Pavlovich even jumped up from his seat in trembling expectation
.

  “But I already said I won’t come—what a queer fellow you are!”

  “How then… if so, sir, how shall I tell Olympiada Semyonovna, when you don’t come in a week, after she’s been waiting, sir?”

  “That’s a hard one! Tell her I broke a leg or something like that.”

  “She won’t believe it, sir,” Pavel Pavlovich drew out in a plaintive little voice.

  “And you’ll catch hell?” Velchaninov went on laughing. “But I notice, my poor friend, that you do tremble before your beautiful spouse—eh?”

  Pavel Pavlovich tried to smile, but it did not come off. That Velchaninov had renounced his visit—that, of course, was good; but that he spoke familiarly about his wife—now, that was bad. Pavel Pavlovich cringed. Velchaninov noticed it. Meanwhile the second bell had already rung; from the faraway car came a piping little voice, anxiously summoning Pavel Pavlovich. He fidgeted on the spot, but did not run at the summons, apparently expecting something more from Velchaninov—of course, a further assurance that he would not visit them.

  “What is your wife’s former name?” Velchaninov said, as if not noticing Pavel Pavlovich’s anxiety at all.

  “I took her from our local vicar, sir,” the man replied, glancing at the train in bewilderment and cocking an ear.

  “Ah, I understand, for her beauty.”

  Pavel Pavlovich cringed again.

  “And who is this Mitenka to you?”

  “He’s just so, sir; our distant relative—that is, mine, sir, my late cousin’s son, Golubchikov, demoted for disorderly conduct, and now restored again; so we’ve equipped him… An unfortunate young man, sir…”

  “Well, well,” thought Velchaninov, “everything’s in order—the full setup!”

  “Pavel Pavlovich!” again a distant summons was heard from the car, now with quite an irritated note in the voice.

  “Pal Palych!” came another, hoarse voice.

  Pavel Pavlovich again started fidgeting and fussing about, but Velchaninov seized him firmly by the elbow and stopped him.

  “And do you want me to go right now and tell your wife how you wanted to put a knife in me—eh?”

  “How can you, how can you, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich was terribly frightened, “God keep you from it, sir!”

  “Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” the voices were heard again.

  “Well, go, then!” Velchaninov released him at last, continuing to laugh good-naturedly.

  “So you won’t come, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich, all but in despair, whispered a last time, and even clasped his hands before him, palms together, as in old times.

  “No, I swear to you, I won’t come! Run, or there’ll be trouble!”

  And he sweepingly offered him his hand—offered it and gave a start: Pavel Pavlovich did not take his hand, he even drew his own back.

  The third bell rang.

  In an instant something strange happened with the two men; they both as if transformed. Something wavered as it were and suddenly snapped in Velchaninov, who had been laughing so much only a moment before. He firmly and furiously seized Pavel Pavlovich by the shoulder.

  “If I, if I offer you this hand here,” he showed him the palm of his left hand, on which there clearly remained a big scar from the cut, “then you might well take it!” he whispered with trembling and paled lips.

  Pavel Pavlovich also paled and his lips also trembled. Some sort of spasms suddenly passed over his face.

  “And Liza, sir?” he murmured in a quick whisper—and suddenly his lips, cheeks, and chin quivered, and tears poured from his eyes. Velchaninov stood before him like a post.

  “Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” screams came from the car, as if someone were being slaughtered there—and suddenly the whistle blew.

  Pavel Pavlovich came to his senses, clasped his hands, and dashed off at top speed; the train had already started, but he somehow managed to hold on and climb into his car in flight. Velchaninov remained at the station and continued his journey only toward evening, having waited for the next train in the same direction. He did not go to the right, to his provincial lady acquaintance—he was much too out of sorts. And how sorry he was later!

  BOBOK

  NOTES OF A CERTAIN PERSON

  THIS TIME I am including the “Notes of a Certain Person.”1 It is not I; it is an entirely different person. I think there is no need for any further preface.

  Semyon Ardalyonovich hands me this the other day: “But, pray tell me, Ivan Ivanych, will you ever be sober?”

  A strange demand. I’m not offended, I’m a timid man; but, anyhow, now they’ve made a madman out of me. An artist had occasion to paint my portrait. “After all,” he says, “you’re a writer.” I yielded; he exhibited it. I read: “Go look at this morbid, nearly crazy person.”

  Maybe it’s so, but still, why come right out with it in print? In print we need everything noble; we need ideals, but this…

  At least say it indirectly, that’s what you have style for. No, he no longer wants it indirect. Nowadays humor and good style are disappearing, and abuse is taken for wit. I’m not offended: God knows I’m not such a writer as to lose my mind over it. I wrote a story—it wasn’t published. I wrote a feuilleton—it was rejected. I took a lot of these feuilletons to various editorial offices, they were rejected everywhere: you lack salt, they said.

  “What kind of salt do you want,” I ask mockingly, “Attic salt?”2

  He doesn’t even understand. I mainly translate from the French for booksellers. I also write advertisements for merchants: “A rarity!” I say. “Red tea from our own plantations…” I made a pile on a panegyric for His Excellency the late Pyotr Matveevich. I put together The Art of Pleasing the Ladies on commission from a bookseller. I’ve turned out about six such books in my life. I want to make a collection of Voltaire’s bons mots,3 but I’m afraid it might seem insipid to the likes of us. What’s Voltaire now! These days it’s the cudgel, not Voltaire! They’ve knocked the last teeth out of each other! So that’s the whole of my literary activity. Except that I also send letters to editors gratis, over my full signature. I keep giving admonishments and advice, I criticize and show the way. Last week I sent my fortieth letter to an editor in two years; four roubles on postage alone. I have a nasty character, that’s what.

  I think the artist painted me not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of the two symmetrical warts on my forehead: a phenomenon, they say. They have no ideas, so now they trade on phenomena. And how well my warts came out in this portrait—to the life! This they call realism.

  Regarding craziness, last year they set down a lot of people as madmen. And in what style! “With such a singular talent…” they say, “and look what came of it in the end… however, it should have been foreseen long ago…” Still, this is rather clever; so that from the point of pure art it can even be praised. Well, but they’ve suddenly come back smarter still. Now, to drive someone mad is possible with us, but they’ve never yet made anyone smarter.

  The smartest one, in my opinion, is the one who calls himself a fool at least once a month—an unheard-of ability nowadays! Formerly, in any case, a fool knew at least once a year that he was a fool, but now unh-unh! And they’ve confused things so much that you can’t tell a fool from a smart man. They’ve done it on purpose.

  I’m reminded of a Spanish joke, how the French built themselves the first madhouse two and a half centuries ago: “They locked up all their fools in a special house, to show what smart people they were themselves.” That’s just it: by locking someone else up in a madhouse, you don’t prove how smart you are. “K. has lost his wits, that means we’re the smart ones now.” No, it doesn’t quite mean that.

  Anyhow, the devil… and what am I doing pothering over my own wits: grumble, grumble. Even the maid is sick of me. A friend stopped by yesterday: “Your style is changing,” he says, “it’s getting choppy. You chop and chop—then an inserted phrase, then a phrase inserted in the inserted phrase, the
n you stick in something in parentheses, and then you go back to chopping, chopping…”

  My friend is right. Something strange is happening to me. My character is changing, and my head is aching. I’ve begun seeing and hearing some strange things. Not really voices, but as if there were someone just nearby: “Bobok, bobok, bobok!”

  What is this bobok? I need some diversion.

  I went out for diversion and wound up in a funeral. A distant relative. A collegiate councillor, however. A widow, five daughters, all young girls. The shoes alone, just think what that will add up to! The deceased used to provide, but now—a wretched little pension. They’ll have their tails between their legs. They always gave me a cool reception. I wouldn’t have gone now, either, if it hadn’t been for this urgent occasion. I went to the cemetery along with the others; they snubbed me and put on airs. My uniform is indeed a bit shabby.4 It’s a good twenty-five years, I think, since I’ve been to the cemetery; a nice little place!