A Story
This nasty business took place just at the time when the renaissance of our beloved fatherland1 was beginning with such irrepressible force and with such touchingly naive fervour, when all its valiant sons were seeking new destinies and hopes. Then, one winter, on a clear and frosty night, even though it was already past eleven, three extremely respectable gentlemen were sitting in a comfortable and even elegantly appointed room, in a handsome two-storey house on the Petersburg Side,2 and they were engaged in a solid and superior conversation on quite an interesting subject. All three of these gentlemen held the rank of general.3 They were sitting around a little table, each in a fine, soft armchair, quietly and comfortably sipping champagne as they talked. The bottle stood on the table in a silver bucket filled with ice. The fact of the matter was that the host, Privy Councillor Stepan Nikiforovich Nikiforov, an old bachelor of about sixty-five, was celebrating moving into his recently purchased house and, incidentally, his birthday, which fell at the same time and which he had never celebrated before. However, the celebration was nothing special; as we have seen, there were only two guests, both of them former colleagues and former subordinates of Mr Nikiforov, to wit: Actual State Councillor4 Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko and the other, also an actual state councillor, Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky. They had arrived at about nine o’clock, had tea, then switched to wine, and they knew that at exactly half past eleven they would need to start for home. The host had loved regularity all his life. A couple of words about him: he had begun his career as a petty civil servant without means, quietly performed his drudgery for some forty-five years, knew very well what rank he would have when he finished his service, could not bear it when people tried to reach for the stars, even though he already had two,5 and particularly disliked voicing his own personal opinion on any subject whatsoever. He was honest as well, that is, he had never had to do anything particularly dishonest; he was a bachelor because he was an egoist; he was far from stupid but couldn’t bear displaying his intelligence; he particularly disliked slovenliness and enthusiasm – believing it to be moral slovenliness – and towards the end of his life he had completely sunk into some sort of sweet, lazy comfort and systematic solitude. Although he did sometimes visit people of the better sort, ever since he was a young man he couldn’t bear having guests at his place, and lately if he didn’t lay out a game of grand-patience,6 he would content himself with the society of his mantel clock and for whole evenings on end would placidly listen to it tick under its glass shade on the fireplace, while dozing in his armchair. He was clean-shaven and quite respectable in appearance, looked younger than his years, was well preserved, promised to live for a long time yet and adhered to the strictest gentlemanliness. He had a rather comfortable position: he sat on some commission and signed some things. In a word, he was considered a most outstanding man. He had only one passion or, rather, one burning desire: to have his own house, and precisely one built like a manor house and not an apartment block. This desire at last was fulfilled: he had found and bought a house on the Petersburg Side; true, it was rather far away,7 but the house had a garden and, moreover, was elegant. The new owner judged that it was just as well that it was a bit further out: he didn’t like receiving guests, and for visiting somebody or going to the office he had a handsome, chocolate-coloured two-seat carriage, Mikhey the coachman and a pair of small, but strong and handsome horses. All this had been acquired by forty years of fastidious economy, so that his heart rejoiced at it all. That is why after acquiring the house and moving into it, Stepan Nikiforovich felt such contentment in his tranquil heart that he even invited guests on his birthday, which before he had scrupulously kept secret from his closest acquaintances. He even had special designs on one of those he had invited. He himself occupied the top floor of the house, while the lower floor, which was built and laid out identically, required a tenant. Stepan Nikiforovich was counting on Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko and that evening had even brought up the subject twice. But Semyon Ivanovich had kept silent on that matter. He was also a man who had made his way with difficulty and over a long period, with black hair and side whiskers and with the complexion of one who has constant bilious attacks. He was married, was a morose stay-at-home, kept his household in a state of fear, performed his duties with self-confidence; he, too, knew very well how far he would go, and what’s even better – that he would go no further; he held a good position and held it firmly. Even though he regarded the incipient new order not without bile, he wasn’t particularly alarmed: he was very sure of himself and listened to Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky’s lofty words on the new ideas not without derisive malice. However, all of them were a bit tipsy, so much so that even Stepan Nikiforovich himself condescended to engage in a small debate with Mr Pralinsky about the new order. But a few words about His Excellency Mr Pralinsky, all the more so as it is he who is the main character of the forthcoming story.
Actual State Councillor Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky had been called His Excellency for all of four months, in a word, he was a young general. He was still young in years as well, about forty-three and certainly no more than that, and he looked and liked looking even younger than he was. He was a handsome man, tall, flaunted his clothes and the refined respectability of his choice in clothes, wore a significant order on his neck with great skill, and from childhood had known how to acquire some high-society ways and, being a bachelor, dreamed of a wealthy and even high-society wife. He dreamed about a great deal besides, though he was far from stupid. At times he talked big and even liked to assume parliamentary poses. He came from a good family, was the son of a general and never had to dirty his hands with physical work; in his tender childhood he wore velvet and cambric, was educated in an aristocratic institution; and although he didn’t carry much knowledge away with him, he had enjoyed success in his career and was made a general. His superiors considered him to be a capable man and even pinned their hopes on him. Stepan Nikiforovich, under whose command he had begun and then continued his service almost until he was made a general, never considered him a very businesslike man and pinned no hopes on him whatsoever. But he liked the fact that he was from a good family, had a fortune – that is, a large apartment house with a manager – was related to some of the best people and, on top of that, possessed a certain bearing. Stepan Nikiforovich silently criticized him for excess imagination and flippancy. Ivan Ilyich himself sometimes felt that he was too proud and even testy. Strangely enough, at times he had morbid attacks of conscientiousness and even some slight regret for something. With bitterness and a secret nagging in his heart, he sometimes admitted to himself that he had not flown as high as he had thought he would. At moments like these he would even sink into some sort of despondency, particularly when his haemorrhoids played up, and call his life une existence manquée, stop believing even in his parliamentary abilities – silently it goes without saying – and call himself a parleur, a phraseur,8 and although all this, of course, was much to his credit, it in no way prevented him from raising his head again half an hour later and even more obstinately and more arrogantly taking heart, and assuring himself that he would still manage to prove himself and that he would not only be a high official but even a statesman whom Russia would long remember. At times he even imagined monuments. From this one can see that Ivan Ilyich aimed high, although he hid his vague dreams and hopes deep within himself, even with a certain amount of fear. In a word, he was a good man and even had the soul of a poet. In recent years, painful moments of disappointment had begun to visit him more frequently. He had become somehow particularly irritable, suspicious and quick to view any objection as an insult. But the revitalization of Russia had suddenly given him high hopes. Making general had been the finishing touch. He took heart; he raised his head. He suddenly began to speak eloquently and a great deal, to talk on the newest subjects, which he extremely quickly and unexpectedly mastered until they became a passion. He sought out opportunities to speak, travelled all over the city and in many places succeeded i
n being accorded the reputation of a desperate liberal, which gratified him a great deal. On this evening, having drunk some four glasses, he was particularly expansive. He wanted to persuade Stepan Nikiforovich, whom he had not seen for a long time and whom he had hitherto always respected and even obeyed, to change his mind about everything. For some reason he considered him a retrograde and attacked him with uncommon ardour. Stepan Nikiforovich raised almost no objections, merely listened slyly, even though the subject interested him. Ivan Ilyich got excited and in the heat of the imaginary argument sipped from his glass more frequently than he should have. Then Stepan Nikiforovich would take the bottle and at once fill his glass, which for some unknown reason, suddenly began to offend Ivan Ilyich, all the more so because Semyon Ivanych Shipulenko, whom he particularly despised and moreover even feared for his cynicism and malice, sat there right beside him keeping his silence most insidiously, and smiling more often than he should have. ‘It seems they take me for a little boy,’ flashed in Ivan Ilyich’s head.
‘No, sir, it’s time, it’s already high time,’ he continued with fervour. ‘It’s long overdue, sir, and in my opinion humaneness is the first thing, humaneness towards one’s subordinates, remembering that they, too, are people. Humaneness will save everything and set everything on the right path …’
‘He-he-he-he!’ could be heard from Semyon Ivanovich’s direction.
‘But why is it that you’re giving us such a tongue-lashing?’ Stepan Nikiforovich finally objected, smiling amiably. ‘I confess, Ivan Ilyich, that I still don’t grasp what it is that you wish to explain. You advocate humaneness. Does that mean love of your fellow man?’
‘Yes, if you will, even love for your fellow man. I …’
‘Excuse me, sir. As far as I’m able to judge, there’s more to it than that. Love of one’s fellow man has always been called for. The reforms aren’t confined to that. Questions have been raised about the peasantry, the courts, agriculture, tax-farming,9 morality and … and … and there is no end to them, these questions, and all of them taken together, all of them at once might give rise to large-scale, so to speak, instability. That’s what we’re afraid of, it’s not just a matter of humaneness …’
‘Yes, sir, the matter is a bit deeper, sir,’ Semyon Ivanovich observed.
‘I quite understand, sir, and allow me to observe, Semyon Ivanovich, that I by no means consent to lag behind you in the deepness of my understanding of things,’ Ivan Ilyich observed sarcastically and much too harshly, ‘but, then, I will nevertheless take the liberty of observing to you as well, Stepan Nikiforovich, that you have failed to understand me at all …’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Meanwhile, I precisely hold to and advance the idea that humaneness, and precisely humaneness to one’s subordinates, from official to scribe, from scribe to household servant, from servant to peasant – humaneness, I say, might serve, so to speak, as the cornerstone of the impending reforms and in general for the revitalization of things. Why? Because. Take the syllogism: I am humane, consequently, they love me. They love me, therefore, they trust me. They trust me, therefore, they believe me; they believe me, therefore, they love me … that is, no, I mean to say that if they believe, then they will believe in reform, they will understand, so to speak, the very essence of the matter, so to speak, they will embrace one another morally and decide the entire matter amicably, thoroughly. What are you laughing at, Semyon Ivanovich? Isn’t it clear?’
Stepan Nikiforovich silently raised his eyebrows; he was surprised.
‘It seems that I’ve had a bit too much to drink,’ Semyon Ivanych observed venomously, ‘and therefore I’m having difficulty grasping it. My mind’s somewhat clouded.’
Ivan Ilyich winced.
‘We won’t bear it,’ Stepan Nikiforovich uttered suddenly, after a slight hesitation.
‘What do you mean “we won’t bear it”?’ Ivan Ilyich asked, surprised at Stepan Nikiforovich’s sudden and scrappy remark.
‘Just that, we won’t bear it,’ Stepan Nikiforovich clearly had no wish to elaborate any further.
‘You’re not thinking about the new wine in new wineskins,10 are you?’ Ivan Ilyich objected not without irony. ‘No, no, sir; I can answer for myself.’
At that moment the clock struck half past eleven.
‘It’s time for us to be going,’ Semyon Ivanych said, as he made to get up from his seat. But Ivan Ilyich anticipated him, stood up from the table at once and took his sable hat from the mantel-piece. He looked aggrieved.
‘So then, Semyon Ivanych, you’ll give it some thought?’ Stepan Nikiforovich said, as he was seeing his guests out.
‘About the apartment, sir? Yes, I’ll think about it, sir.’
‘Let me know as soon as you can, when you have made up your mind.’
‘Still talking about business,’ Mr Pralinsky observed amiably with a certain ingratiating air as he played with his hat. He thought that they had forgotten about him.
Stepan Nikiforovich raised his eyebrows and kept silent, as a sign that he was not detaining his guests. Semyon Ivanych hurriedly took his leave.
‘Oh … well … as you wish … if you don’t understand common courtesy,’ Mr Pralinsky decided to himself, and he somehow with a particularly independent manner held out his hand to Stepan Nikiforovich.
In the entryway Ivan Ilyich wrapped himself up in his light, expensive fur coat, for some reason trying not to notice Semyon Ivanych’s worn-out raccoon coat, and they both started to make their way down the stairs.
‘Our old man seemed offended,’ Ivan Ilyich said to the silent Semyon Ivanych.
‘No, why should he?’ the other answered quietly and coldly.
‘Lackey!’ Ivan Ilyich thought to himself.
They came out on to the porch, and up drove Semyon Ivanych’s sledge with its unprepossessing grey horse.
‘What the devil! Where has Trifon gone with my carriage!’ Ivan Ilyich cried, when he didn’t see his trap.
There was no carriage to be seen, neither this way nor that. Stepan Nikiforovich’s man knew nothing about it. They turned to Varlam, Semyon Ivanych’s coachman, and received the answer that he had been there the whole time and that the carriage had been there as well, but now it was nowhere to be seen.
‘A nasty business!’ Mr Shipulenko uttered, ‘would you like me to give you a lift?’
‘The common folk are scoundrels!’ Mr Pralinsky cried out in fury. ‘He asked me, the rascal, if he could go to a wedding, here on the Petersburg Side, some godmother or other was getting married, the devil take her. I strictly forbade him to absent himself. And now I’ll bet that’s where he’s gone!’
‘He actually did go there, sir,’ Varlam observed, ‘and he promised to be back in a minute, that is, right on time.’
‘Well, then! I just knew it! Wait till I get hold of him!’
‘You’d be better off having him whipped a few times at the police station, then he’ll carry out his orders,’ Semyon Ivanych said, as he covered himself with a rug.
‘Please, don’t trouble yourself, Semyon Ivanych!’
‘So you don’t want a lift?’
‘Have a pleasant journey, merci.’11
Semyon Ivanych drove off, while Ivan Ilyich walked along the little wooden footway, intensely irritated.
‘No, wait till I get hold of you, you rascal! I’m deliberately going on foot so that you’ll understand, so that you’ll be frightened! He’ll come back and find out that the master left on foot … the swine!’
Ivan Ilyich had never cursed like that before, but he was so very infuriated, and to top it off his head was pounding. He was not a drinking man, and so he quickly felt the effects of those five or six glasses. But the night was delightful. It was frosty, but unusually quiet and still. The sky was clear, starry. The full moon flooded the earth with a suffused silver brilliance. It was so nice that Ivan Ilyich, after walking some fifty paces, had almost forgotten about his misfortune. He was beginning
to feel somehow particularly contended. Besides, when people are a bit tipsy they’re very impressionable. He even began to like the homely little wooden houses on the empty street.
‘You know, it’s marvellous that I left on foot,’ he thought to himself. ‘It’s a lesson for Trifon and a pleasure for me. Really, I should walk more often. What’s the big deal? I’ll find a cab right away on Bolshoy Prospekt.12 It’s a marvellous night. Look at the little houses here. Must be the small fry that live here, officials … merchants, maybe … that Stepan Nikiforovich! And what retrogrades they all are, those old simpletons! Precisely simpletons, c’est le mot. But he’s an intelligent man, he’s got that bon sens,13 a sober, practical understanding of things. But then, these old men, old men! They don’t have that … what’s it called now! Well, they don’t have something … We won’t bear it! What did he mean by that? He even became lost in his thoughts when he said it. However, he didn’t understand me at all. But how could he not? It’s more difficult not to understand than to understand. The main thing is that I’m convinced, convinced with all my heart. Humaneness … love of one’s fellow man. To return man to himself … to revive his self-respect and then … Get down to business with this ready material. Seems clear enough! Yes, sir! Allow me, Your Excellency, now take this syllogism: we meet, for example, a clerk, a poor, downtrodden clerk. “Well … who are you?” Answer: “A clerk.” Fine, a clerk; further: “What kind of clerk are you?” Answer: “I’m such and such,” he says, “kind of clerk.” “Are you employed?” “I am!” “Do you want to be happy?” “I do.” “What do you need to be happy?” Such and such. “Why?” Because … And you see the man understands me right from the start: my man is a man who has been caught, so to speak, in the net and I can do anything with him that I wish, that is, for his own good. That Semyon Ivanych is a nasty man! And what a nasty mug he has … Whip him at the police station – he said that on purpose. No, it’s all lies – whip him yourself, I’m not going to whip anyone; I’ll wear down Trifon with words, I’ll wear him down with reproaches – and then he’ll feel it. As for birch rods, hm … it’s a question that has yet to be settled, hm … But maybe I should drop in on Emerans? Ugh! The devil take it! These damned footways!’ he cried out, after suddenly taking a wrong step. ‘And this is the capital! Enlightenment! You could break your leg! Hm. I hate that Semyon Ivanych; a most disgusting mug. It was he who was sniggering when I said: they will embrace one another morally. Well, let them embrace, what business is it of yours? But I’m not going to embrace you; I’d rather embrace a peasant … If I meet a peasant, I’ll have a talk with him. However, I was drunk and maybe I didn’t express myself properly. And maybe even now I’m not expressing myself properly … Hm. I’m never going to drink. You talk a lot of nonsense in the evening, and the next day you repent. Now then, you see I’m not staggering, I’m walking … But all the same they’re all crooks!’
The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.) Page 12
