Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (624 page)

He was in a perfect tremble of anxiety to avoid contradicting or offending me and to make me go on drinking.  It was so coarse and obvious that even at the time I could not help noticing it.  But nothing could have made me go away; I kept drinking and talking, and was desperately anxious to give full expression to what I was feeling.  When Lambert brought in another bottle, Alphonsine was playing some Spanish air on the guitar; I was almost in tears.

“Lambert, do you know everything?” I exclaimed with intense feeling.  “That man must be saved, for he’s spell-bound . . . by sorcery.  If she were to marry him, he would spurn her from him the day after the wedding . . . for that does happen sometimes.  For such a wild outrageous love is like a fit, like a deadly noose, like an illness, and — as soon as it is gratified — the scales fall from the eyes at once and the opposite feeling comes — loathing and hatred, the desire to strangle, to crush.  Do you know the story of Avisage, Lambert?  Have you read it?”

“No, I don’t remember: a novel?” muttered Lambert.

“Oh, you know nothing.  Lambert, you’re fearfully, fearfully ignorant . . . but I don’t care a damn for that.  It’s no matter.  Oh, he loves mother, he kissed her portrait; he’ll spurn that woman next morning and come back to mother of himself; but then it will be too late, so we must save him now. . . .”

In the end I began crying bitterly, but I still went on talking and drank a fearful quantity of champagne.  It was most characteristic of Lambert that all that evening he did not once ask about the “document”: where it was, that I should show it, should put it on the table.  What would have been more natural than to inquire about it, since we were planning to take action?  Another point: we kept saying that we must do “this,” that we certainly would do “this,” but of the place, the time and manner — we did not say a word!  He only assented to all I said and kept looking at Alphonsine, that was all!  Of course, I was incapable of reflecting on that at the time, but I remember it.

I ended by falling asleep on his sofa without undressing.  I slept a long time and waked up very late.  I remember that after waking I lay for a long time on the sofa, as it were petrified, trying to reflect and remember, and pretending that I was still asleep.  But it appeared that Lambert was not in the room, he had gone out.  It was past nine o’clock, the stove had been heated and was crackling exactly as it had done when I found myself the first time at Lambert’s after that night.  But Alphonsine was behind the screen keeping guard on me; I noticed it at once, for she had twice peeped out and glanced at me, but each time I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.  I did this because I was overwhelmed and wanted to think over my position.  I felt with horror all the ineptitude and loathsomeness of my confession to Lambert, my plotting with him, the blunder I had made in running to him!  But, thank God, the letter was still in my keeping; it was still sewn up in my side pocket; I felt with my hand — it was there!  So all I had to do was to get up and run away, I need not care what Lambert thought of me afterwards.  Lambert was not worth it.

But I was ashamed of myself!  I was my own judge, and — my God, what was there in my heart!  But there’s no need to describe that hellish, insufferable feeling, and that consciousness of filth and vileness.  But yet I must confess it, for I feel the time has come.  It must be recorded in my story.  So let it be known that I meant to shame her, and planned to be almost a witness of her yielding to Lambert’s demands — oh, the baseness! — not for the sake of saving Versilov in his madness and bringing him back to mother, but because . . . perhaps because I was myself in love and jealous!  Jealous of whom: of Büring, of Versilov?  Of anyone she might look at, or talk to at a ball, while I should be standing in a corner ashamed of myself. . . .  Oh, the hideousness of it!

In short, I don’t know of whom I was jealous on her account; but all I felt and knew the evening before was that as certainly as twice two make four, she was lost to me, that that woman would spurn me and laugh at me for falseness and absurdity!  She was truthful and honest, while I — I was a spy, using letters to threaten her!

All this I have kept hidden in my heart ever since, but now the day has come and I make up my account, but, again, for the last time.  Perhaps fully half, or perhaps even seventy-five per cent. of what I am saying is a libel upon myself!  That night I hated her in a kind of delirium, and afterwards like a drunken rowdy.  I have said already that it was a chaos of feelings and sensations in which I could distinguish nothing clearly myself.  But still I have had to confess it, for though only a part of what I felt, it was certainly present.

With an overpowering sense of disgust, and a firm determination to cancel all that had happened, I suddenly jumped up from the sofa; but as I jumped up, Alphonsine instantly popped out.  I seized my overcoat and cap and told her to tell Lambert that I had been raving the evening before, that I had slandered a woman, that I had been joking, and that Lambert must not dare come near me again. . . .  All this I expressed in a blundering fashion, talking hurriedly in French, and, of course, anything but clearly, but, to my surprise, Alphonsine understood everything perfectly; and what was most surprising of all, she seemed positively relieved at something.

“Oui, oui,” she said approvingly, “c’est une honte!  Une dame. . . . Oh, vous être génereux, vous!  Soyez tranquille, je ferai voir raison à Lambert. . . .”

So that I was even at that moment puzzled to explain the sudden change in her attitude, and consequently I suppose in Lambert’s.  I went away, however, saying nothing; all was in confusion within me, and I was hardly capable of reasoning.  Oh, afterwards I could explain it all, but then it was too late!  Oh, what a hellish plot it was!  I will pause here and explain it beforehand, as otherwise it will be impossible for the reader to understand it.

The fact was that at my very first interview with Lambert, when I was thawing in his lodging, I had muttered to him like a fool that the letter was sewn up in my pocket; then I had suddenly fallen asleep for a time on the sofa in the corner, and Lambert had promptly felt my pocket and was convinced that there was a piece of paper sewn up in it.  Several times afterwards he made sure that the paper was still there; when we were dining, for instance, at the “Tatar’s,” I remember that he several times put his arms round my waist on purpose.  Grasping the importance of the letter he made a separate plan of his own of which I had no suspicion at all.  I, like a fool, imagined all the time that he urged me to come home so persistently to get me to join his gang and to act only in concert with him, but, alas! he invited me with quite a different object!  He wanted to make me dead drunk, and when I was stretched snoring and unconscious, to rip open my pocket and take possession of the letter.  This was precisely what he and Alphonsine had done that night; Alphonsine had unpicked the pocket, taking out the letter, HER LETTER, the document I had brought from Moscow, they had taken a piece of plain notepaper the same size, put it in the pocket and sewn it up again, as if nothing had happened, so that I might notice no difference.  Alphonsine had sewn it up.  And I, up to the very end, for another day and a half — still went on believing that I was in possession of the secret, and that Katerina Nikolaevena’s fate was still in my hands.

A last word: that theft of the letter was the cause of everything and of all the other disasters that followed.

2

The last twenty-four hours of my story have come and I am at the end!

It was, I believe, about half-past ten, when excited, and, as far as I remember, strangely absent-minded, but with a firm determination in my heart, I dragged myself to my lodgings.  I was not in a hurry, I knew how I was going to act.  And scarcely had I stepped into the passage when I realised at once that a new calamity had occurred, and an extraordinary complication had arisen: the old prince had just been brought from Tsarskoe-Syelo and was in the flat; with him was Anna Andreyevna!

He had been put not in my room but in the two rooms next to mine that had been occupied by my landlord and his wife.  The day before, as it appeared, some changes and improvements had been made in the room, but only of the most superficial kind.  The landlord and his wife had moved into the little room of the whimsical lodger marked with small-pox whom I have mentioned already, and that individual had been temporarily banished, I don’t know where.

I was met by the landlord, who at once whisked into my room.  He looked less sure of his ground than he had done the evening before, but was in an unusual state of excitement, so to say, at the climax of the affair.  I said nothing to him, but, moving aside into a corner and clutching my head in my hands, I stood so for a moment.  He thought for the first moment that I was “putting it on,” but at last his fortitude gave way, and he could not help being scared.

“Can anything be wrong?” he muttered.  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” he added, seeing I did not answer, “whether you preferred that door to be opened so that you may have direct access to the prince’s rooms . . . instead of going by the passage?”  He pointed to the door at the side always locked, which led to the landlord’s rooms, now the old prince’s apartments.

“Look here, Pyotr Ippolitovitch,” I turned to him with a stern air, “I humbly beg you to go to Anna Andreyevna and ask her to come here at once to discuss the situation.  Have they been here long?”

“Going on for an hour.”

“Go and fetch her then.”

He went and brought the strange reply “that Anna Andreyevna and Prince Nikolay Ivanitch were impatiently expecting me in the next room”; so Anna Andreyevna would not come.  I smoothed out my coat, which was creased from sleeping in it that night, brushed it, washed, combed my hair; I did all this deliberately, realising how necessary it was to be careful, and I went in to the old prince.

The prince was sitting on the sofa at a round table, and Anna Andreyevna in another corner, at another table covered with a cloth, on which the landlady’s samovar, polished as it had never been before, was boiling for tea.  I walked in with the same stern look on my face, and the old man instantly noticed this and winced, and the smile on his face was instantly replaced by a look of terror; but I could not keep it up, I instantly laughed and held out my hands to him; the poor old fellow simply flung himself into my arms.

I realised unmistakably at once the condition of the man I had to deal with.  To begin with, it was as clear as twice two make four that in the interval since I had seen him last they had turned the old man, till lately almost hale, and to some extent rational, and not altogether without will-power, into a sort of mummy, a scared and mistrustful child.  I may add, he quite knew why they had brought him here, and everything had been done as I have explained already.  He was suddenly shocked, crushed, and overwhelmed by being told of his daughter’s treachery and of a possible madhouse.  He had allowed himself to be carried off, so scared that he hardly knew what he was doing; he was told that I was in possession of the secret and that I had the proof that would establish the fact conclusively.  I may mention at once: it was just that proof that would establish the fact which he dreaded more than anything in the world.  He was expecting me to go in to him with a sort of death sentence in my face and a document in my hand, and was immensely delighted that I was ready meanwhile to laugh and chatter of other things.  While we were embracing he shed tears.  I must confess I shed a tear also; I felt suddenly very sorry for him.  Alphonsine’s little lap-dog broke into a bark as shrill as a bell, and made dashes at me from the sofa.  He had not parted from this tiny dog since he had had it and even slept with it.

“Oh je disais, qu’il a du coeur!” he exclaimed, indicating me to Anna Andreyevna.

“But how much stronger you look, prince, how well and fresh and strong you look!” I observed.  Alas!  It was just the opposite: he looked like a mummy and I only said it to cheer him up!

“N’est-ce pas, n’est-ce pas?” he repeated joyfully.  “Oh, I’ve regained my health wonderfully.”

“But drink your tea, and if you’ll give me a cup I’ll drink some with you.”

“That’s delightful!  ‘Let us drink the cup that cheers’ . . . or how does it go, that’s in some poem.  Anna Andreyevna, give him some tea; il prend toujours par les sentiments. . . .  Give us some tea, my dear.”

Anna Andreyevna poured out the tea, but suddenly turning to me began with extreme solemnity:

“Arkady Makarovitch, we both, my benefactor, Prince Nikolay Ivanitch and I, have taken refuge with you.  I consider that we have come to you, to you alone, and we both beg of you to shelter us.  Remember that the whole fate of this saintly, this noble and injured man, is in your hands . . . we await the decision, and count upon the justice of your heart!”

But she could not go on; the old prince was reduced to terror and almost trembling with alarm.

“Après, après, n’est-ce pas, chère amie,” he kept repeating, holding out his hands to her.

I cannot express how disagreeably her outburst impressed me.  I made no response but a chilly and dignified bow; then I sat down to the table, and with undisguised intention began talking of other things, of various trifles, laughing and making jokes. . . .  The old man was evidently grateful to me and was enthusiastically delighted; but enthusiastic as his gaiety was, it was evidently insincere and might any moment have been followed by absolute dejection: that was clear from the first glance.

“Cher enfant, I hear you’ve been ill. . . .  Ah, pardon, I hear you’ve been busy with spiritualism all this time.”

“I never thought of such a thing,” I said smiling.

“No? who was it told me about spiritualism?”

“It was your landlord here, Pyotr Ippolitovitch,” Anna Andreyevna explained, “he’s a very amusing man and knows a great many anecdotes; shall I ask him in?”

“Oui, oui, il est charmant . . . he knows anecdotes, but better send for him later.  We’ll send for him and he’ll tell us stories, mais après.  Only fancy, they were laying the table just now and he said: ‘Don’t be uneasy, it won’t fly about, we are not spiritualists.’  Is it possible that the tables fly about among the spiritualists?”