The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘You’ve become apathetic,’ he observed, ‘not only have you renounced life, your interests both personal and social, your duty as a man and a citizen, your friends (and all the same you did have friends); not only have you renounced any goal whatsoever, apart from winning, you have even renounced your own memories. I remember you at an ardent and intense moment of your life; but I’m certain that you’ve forgotten all your best impressions of that time; your dreams, your most urgent desires now don’t go further than pair and impair, rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers and so forth and so on, I’m certain of it!’

  ‘Enough, Mr Astley, please, please, don’t remind me,’ I cried out in vexation and almost with malice. ‘You should know that I have forgotten absolutely nothing; but I merely have driven all this out of my head, even my memories – for the time being, until I radically improve my circumstances; then … then you will see, I will rise up from the dead!’

  ‘You will still be here in ten years’ time,’ he said. ‘I’ll wager that I will remind you of this, if I am alive, right here on this very bench.’

  ‘Well, that’s enough,’ I broke in with some impatience, ‘and to prove to you that I’m not so forgetful of the past, allow me to ask: where is Miss Polina now? If it wasn’t you who paid my debt, then it must certainly have been she. I have had no news of her since that time.’

  ‘No, oh, no! I don’t think that it was she who paid your debt. She’s in Switzerland now, and you would be doing me a great favour if you stopped asking me about Miss Polina,’ he said resolutely and even angrily.

  ‘That means that she must have hurt you very badly as well!’ I began to laugh involuntarily.

  ‘Miss Polina is the best being of all beings who are most worthy of respect, but I repeat, you would be doing me a big favour if you stopped asking me about Miss Polina. You never knew her and I consider her name on your lips to be an insult to my moral sensibilities.’

  ‘So that’s how it is! However, you’re wrong; and judge for yourself – what else is there for me to talk to you about besides that? You see, all our memories consist of nothing else. However, don’t worry, I don’t need to know your inner, secret affairs … I’m only interested in Miss Polina’s external situation, as it were, only her present outward circumstances. That can be conveyed in a few words.’

  ‘All right, on the condition that it ends with these few words. Miss Polina was ill for a long time; she’s ill now too; she lived for a while with my mother and sister in northern England. Six months ago her grandmother – you remember that crazy woman – died and left her, personally, a fortune of 7,000 pounds. Miss Polina is now travelling with my married sister’s family. Her little brother and sister were also provided for by the grandmother’s will and are studying in London. The general, her stepfather, died of a stroke a month ago in Paris. Mlle Blanche treated him well, but she managed to have transferred to her own name all that he received from the grandmother … there, that seems to be everything.’

  ‘And des Grieux? Isn’t he travelling in Switzerland as well?’

  ‘No, des Grieux is not travelling in Switzerland, and I do not know where des Grieux is; moreover, I warn you once and for all to avoid such remarks and ignoble associations, otherwise you will definitely have to answer to me.’

  ‘What! Despite our former friendly relations?’

  ‘Yes, despite our former friendly relations.’

  ‘I beg your pardon a thousand times, Mr Astley. But allow me nonetheless: there’s nothing insulting or ignoble about it; you see I do not blame Miss Polina for anything. Moreover, a Frenchman and a Russian young lady, generally speaking, is an association, Mr Astley, the likes of which neither you nor I could explain or fully understand.’

  ‘If you will not mention the name of des Grieux together with that other name, then I would ask you to explain to me what you mean by the expression: “a Frenchman and a Russian young lady”? What is this “association”? Why is it precisely a Frenchman and why without fail a Russian young lady?’

  ‘You see, you are interested. But it’s a lengthy subject, Mr Astley. You need to know a lot beforehand. However, it’s an important question – no matter how ridiculous it looks at first glance. The Frenchman, Mr Astley, is a finished, beautiful form. You, as a Briton, may disagree with this; I, as a Russian, also disagree, well, maybe, from envy; but our young ladies are of a different opinion. You might find Racine1 unnatural, distorted and perfumed; you probably wouldn’t even bother to read him. I also find him unnatural, distorted and perfumed, and even ridiculous from a certain point of view; but he is delightful, Mr Astley, and the main thing, he is a great poet, whether we like it or not. The national form of a Frenchman, that is, a Parisian, began to develop its elegant form when we were still bears. The Revolution succeeded the nobility. Now the most vulgar little Frenchy can have manners, methods, expressions and even thoughts quite elegant in form, without taking part in this form through his own initiative, or his soul or his heart; all this comes to him by way of inheritance. Of course, they may be shallower than the shallowest and more base than the basest. Well, Mr Astley, I tell you now that there is not a being in the world more trusting and open than a good, bright and not too affected Russian young lady. Des Grieux, by appearing in some role, by appearing masked, can conquer her heart with unusual ease; he has an elegant form, Mr Astley, and the young lady takes this form to be his real soul, the natural form of his heart and soul, and not garments that came to him by way of inheritance. To your great displeasure, I must declare to you that Englishmen, by and large, are awkward and inelegant, and Russians can discern beauty rather deftly and have a weakness for it. But to discern a beautiful soul and original personality, one needs incomparably more independence and freedom than our women have, especially the young ladies – and, in any event, more experience. Now Miss Polina – forgive me, you can’t take back what’s been said – needs a very, very long time to make up her mind to prefer you to that scoundrel des Grieux. She will appreciate you, become your friend, open up her heart to you; but nevertheless the loathsome scoundrel, the nasty and petty moneylender des Grieux will reign in her heart. This will even persist, so to speak, out of stubbornness and pride alone, because this same des Grieux appeared to her once with the halo of an elegant marquis, a disillusioned liberal who brought ruin upon himself (supposedly?) by helping her family and the frivolous general. All these shams were revealed afterwards. But it doesn’t matter that they were revealed: all the same, give her the former des Grieux now – that’s what she wants! And the more she hates the present des Grieux, the more she yearns for the former one, even though the former existed only in her imagination. You’re a sugar refiner, aren’t you Mr Astley?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a partner in the well-known sugar refinery Lowell and Co.’

  ‘Well, then, you see, Mr Astley. On the one hand you have a sugar refiner, and on the other Apollo Belvedere;2 they have nothing in common. And I’m not even a sugar refiner; I’m simply a petty gambler at the roulette table, and I was even a lackey, which is probably already known to Miss Polina, because she seems to have good detectives.’

  ‘You’re embittered, and that’s why you’re talking all this nonsense,’ Mr Astley said coolly, after giving it some thought. ‘Besides, your words lack originality.’

  ‘I agree! But that’s precisely what’s so terrible, my noble friend, that all these accusations of mine, no matter how out-of-date, however banal, however vaudevillian – they are true nevertheless! You and I have nevertheless achieved nothing!’

  ‘That’s vile nonsense … because, because … See here now!’ Mr Astley uttered in a trembling voice, his eyes flashing. ‘See here now, you ignoble and unworthy, petty and unfortunate man, I have come to Homburg expressly at her bidding in order to see you, to have a long heart-to-heart talk with you, and to convey to her everything – your feelings, thoughts, hopes and … memories!’

  ‘Really! Really?’ I cried and the tears flowed from my eyes i
n torrents. I couldn’t hold them back and I believe this was the first time it happened in my life.

  ‘Yes, you unfortunate man, she loved you, and I can reveal that to you, because you are a ruined man! What’s more, even if I were to tell you that she loves you to this day, you would remain here all the same! Yes, you have brought ruin upon yourself. You had certain abilities, a lively nature, and you weren’t a bad fellow; you might even have proved useful to your fatherland, which is in such need of men, but you will remain here and your life is over. I do not blame you. As I see it, all Russians are like that or inclined to be so. If it’s not roulette, then it’s something else like it. Exceptions are rare. You are not the first not to understand what work is (I’m not speaking about your peasants). Roulette for the most part is a Russian game. So far you have been honest and would rather become a lackey than steal … but I dread to think what it will be like in the future. Enough, goodbye! You, of course, need money? Here are ten louis d’or from me, I won’t give you any more, because you’ll gamble it away all the same. Take it and goodbye! Now take it!’

  ‘No, Mr Astley, after all that has been just said …’

  ‘T-a-k-e it!’ he cried. ‘I’m convinced that you are still a noble person and I give this to you as one true friend to another. If I could be certain that you would quit gambling, leave Homburg and go to your fatherland – I would be prepared to give you a thousand pounds at once so that you might begin a new career. But I’m not giving you a thousand pounds, but only ten louis d’or, precisely because at the present time it’s absolutely one and the same to you – you’ll gamble it away all the same. Take it and goodbye.’

  ‘I’ll take it if you’ll permit me to embrace you at parting.’

  ‘Oh, with pleasure.’

  We embraced sincerely, and Mr Astley walked away.

  No, he’s wrong! If I was harsh and foolish about Polina and des Grieux, then he was sharp and rash about Russians. I won’t say anything about myself. However … however, for the time being all this is beside the point. All this is words, words and words, when it’s action that is called for! Now the main thing is Switzerland! Tomorrow first thing – oh, if only it were possible to set out tomorrow! To be reborn, to rise up from the dead. I need to show them … To let Polina know that I can still be a man. All I need to do is … now, however, it’s late – but tomorrow … Oh, I have a presentiment and it can’t be otherwise! I now have fifteen louis d’or, and I began with fifteen gulden! If one begins carefully … And really, really, am I such a baby! Do I really not understand that I am a ruined man. But – why shouldn’t I rise up from the dead? Yes! All it would take is just once in my life to be careful and patient and – and that’s all there is to it! All it would take is to stand firm just once, and I can change my whole destiny in a single hour! The main thing is standing firm. Just remember what happened to me in similar circumstances seven months ago in Roulettenburg, before my final loss. Oh, that was a remarkable instance of resolve: I had lost everything, everything … I’m leaving the casino, and I see that I still have a single gulden knocking about in my waistcoat pocket. ‘Ah, so I’ll be able to buy myself some dinner!’ I thought, but after taking about a hundred steps, I changed my mind and went back. I staked that gulden on manque (this time it was manque), and there really is something peculiar in the feeling, when you’re alone, in a foreign country, far from your native land and friends, and you don’t know if you’re going to eat that day, you stake your last gulden, the very, very last one! I won and twenty minutes later I walked out of the casino with 170 gulden in my pocket. That is a fact, sir! That’s what your last gulden can mean sometimes! And what if I had lost heart, if I hadn’t dared to bring myself to do it? …

  Tomorrow, tomorrow it will all be over!

  1866

  BOBOK

  This time I’m submitting ‘The Notes of a Certain Person’. It is not I; it is by an altogether different person. I think nothing more in the way of an introduction is necessary.

  The Notes of a Certain Person

  The day before yesterday Semyon Ardalyonovich suddenly comes out with:

  ‘And would you kindly tell me, Ivan Ivanych, will the day come when you’ll be sober?’

  A strange request. I don’t take offence, I’m a shy person; but, just the same, they’ve gone and made me out to be a madman. An artist happened to paint my portrait: ‘After all,’ he says, ‘you’re a literary man.’ I acquiesced, and he exhibited it. I read: ‘Go take a look at this sickly face that is on the verge of madness.’1

  Even if my face is like that, really how can one be so direct in print? In print everything should be noble: there should be ideals, but here …

  At the very least say it indirectly, that’s what you have style for. No, he doesn’t want to do it indirectly. Nowadays humour and good style are disappearing and swear words are taken for wit. I’m not offended, I’m not some God-knows-what-kind of fancy man of letters to lose my mind over something like that. I wrote a story – it wasn’t published. I wrote a feuilleton2 – it was rejected. I took a lot of these feuilletons around to different publishers, and was rejected everywhere: ‘You don’t have enough salt,’ they told me.

  ‘What kind of salt do you want?’ I ask with scorn. ‘Attic salt?’3

  He doesn’t even understand. For the most part, I translate from French for the booksellers. And I write advertisements for the merchants. ‘A rare treat! Fine tea,’ I write, ‘from our own plantations …’ I made a bundle on a panegyric for His Excellency, the late Pyotr Matveyevich. I was commissioned by a bookseller to compile The Art of Pleasing the Ladies. I’ve put out about six books like this in my lifetime. I want to collect Voltaire’s bon mots,4 but I’m afraid that they’ll seem a bit flat to people here. Who needs Voltaire now; these days it’s a cudgel you need, not Voltaire! We’ve knocked out each other’s teeth – every last one! Well, and that’s the whole extent of my literary endeavours. Although I do dispatch letters to the editorial offices free of charge, signed with my name in full. I give advice and make recommendations, I offer criticism and point out the proper path. Last week I sent my fortieth letter in two years to a certain editorial office; I’ve spent four roubles on stamps alone. I have a nasty temper, that’s what it is.

  I think the painter did my portrait not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of the two symmetrical warts on my forehead: it’s a phenomenon, he says. They don’t have any ideas, so now they resort to phenomena. Well, and what a fine job he did of capturing my warts in the portrait – they’re lifelike! That’s what they call realism.

  And as far as madness is concerned, last year a lot of people were put down as mad. And with such style: ‘Such an original talent …’ they say, ‘and then towards the end it turned out that … However, this should have been foreseen long ago …’ This is still rather ingenious; so that one might even praise it from the point of view of pure art. Well, and then suddenly these madmen came back even smarter. There you are – we know how to drive people out of their minds, but we’ve never made anyone smarter …

  In my opinion, the one who’s smarter than all the rest is the one who calls himself a fool at least once a month – an unheard of talent nowadays! Before, a fool knew once a year at the very least that he was a fool, but now nothing doing. And they’ve muddled things so that you can’t tell a fool from an intelligent person. They do this on purpose.

  I’m reminded of a Spanish witticism, when two and a half centuries ago the French built the first madhouse: ‘They locked up all their fools in a special building to reassure themselves that they’re the sane ones.’ But really, locking somebody else up in a madhouse doesn’t prove that you have brains. ‘K. lost his mind, that means that we are sane.’ No, that isn’t what that means.

  However, what the devil … and why am I fussing about my brains: I grumble and grumble. Even the servant girl is tired of it. Yesterday a friend dropped by: ‘Your style is changing,’ he says, ‘it’s choppy. You chop
and chop – and then you’ve got a parenthetic clause, then you pile on another parenthetic clause, and then you stick something else in parentheses, and then you start chopping and chopping again …’

  My friend’s right. Something strange is happening to me. And my character is changing, and my head aches. I’m beginning to see and hear certain strange things. Not exactly voices, but it’s as if someone were right beside me, saying: ‘Bobok, bobok, bobok!’5

  What is this bobok? I need some diversion.

  I went out in search of diversion and ended up at a funeral. A distant relative. A collegiate councillor, however. A widow, five daughters, all young. What it must come to just for shoes alone! The deceased managed, but now there’s only a little pension. They’ll have their tails between their legs. I had always been given a less than hearty welcome. And I wouldn’t have gone now if it hadn’t been such a special occasion. I took part in the procession to the cemetery along with the others; they keep their distance and put on airs. My uniform,6 indeed, is in pretty bad shape. It’s been about twenty-five years, I think, since I’ve been to the cemetery; there’s a nice little place for you!

  First of all, the smell. About fifteen corpses had arrived. Palls of various prices; there were even two catafalques: one for a general and one for some lady. There were a lot of mournful faces, and a lot of bogus mourning as well, and even a lot of undisguised gaiety. The clergy can’t complain: it’s money. But the smell, the smell. I wouldn’t want to be one of the local ecclesiastics.7

  I took a cautious look at the corpses, not having confidence in controlling my impressionability. There were some gentle expressions, but there were unpleasant ones as well. Generally, the smiles weren’t very nice, and some were quite far from nice. I don’t like them; I’ll have dreams about them.

  During the service I walked out of the church for some air; it was a greyish day, but dry. It was cold as well; well, it is October after all. I walked for a bit among the graves. There are various classes. The third class costs thirty roubles: decent and not too expensive. The first two classes are inside the church and under the church porch; well, they charge an arm and a leg for those. This time there were six third-class burials, including the general and the lady.