Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (627 page)

“Good heavens! can’t we run to the opera then . . . oh, no, we can’t.  What will become of the old man now?  He may die in the night!”

“Listen, don’t go there, but go to your mother’s for the night, and early to-morrow . . .”

“No, I won’t desert the old man, whatever happens.”

“Well, don’t desert him; you are right there.  But do you know I’ll run round to her and leave a note . . . I write in our own words (she’ll understand), that the document’s here and that she must be here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning — punctually!  Don’t worry yourself, she’ll come, she’ll obey me; and then we’ll put everything right.  And you run home, and use all your little arts to please the old prince, put him to bed, and perhaps he’ll hold out till the morning!  Don’t frighten Anna either, I am fond of her too; you are unjust to her, because you can’t understand: she feels injured, she has been injured from a child; ach, you’ve all been a burden on me! Oh, don’t forget, tell her from me, that I’ll see to this business myself, and with a good will, and tell her not to worry, and her pride shall not suffer. . . .  You see of late we’ve done nothing but quarrel — we’ve been spitting and scolding at one another!  Come, run along. . . .  But stay, show me your pocket again . . . is it true, is it true?  Oh, is it true?  Give me that letter if only for the night, what is it to you?  Leave it, I won’t eat it.  You may let it slip out of your hands in the night you know. . . .  You’ll change your mind?”

“Not for anything!” I shouted.  “Here, feel it, look at it, but I won’t leave it for anything!”

“I see it’s paper,” she said, feeling it with her fingers.  “Oh, very well, go along, and I’ll go round to her, maybe I’ll look in at the theatre, too, that was a good idea of yours!  But run along, run along!”

“Tatyana Pavlovna, wait a minute.  How is mother?”

“She’s alive.”

“And Andrey Petrovitch?”

She waved her hand.

“He will come to himself!”

I ran off, feeling cheered, and more hopeful, although I had not been successful, as I had reckoned to be, but alas! destiny had decided otherwise, and there were other things in store for me — there certainly is a fate in things.

2

From the stairs I heard a noise in my lodging, and the door of the flat turned out to be open.  At the door stood a servant in livery whom I did not know.  Pyotr Ippolitovitch and his wife were both in the passage, too, looking scared and expectant.  The door into the prince’s room was open, and I could hear within a voice of thunder, which I could recognise at once — the voice of Büring.  I had hardly taken two steps forward when I saw the old prince trembling and in tears, led out into the passage by Büring and Baron R. the gentleman who had called on Versilov about the duel.  The prince was sobbing loudly, embracing and kissing Büring.  Büring was shouting at Anna Andreyevna, who had followed the old prince into the passage.  Büring was threatening her, and I believe stamped at her — in fact the coarse German soldier came to the surface in spite of his aristocratic breeding.  It afterwards came out that he had somehow got hold of the notion that Anna Andreyevna was guilty of something positively criminal, and certainly would have to answer for her conduct before a court of law.  In his ignorance he exaggerated it as the ignorant commonly do, and so considered he had the right to be unceremonious in the extreme.  He had not yet got to the bottom of the business: he had been informed of it by an anonymous letter (which I shall have to refer to later) and he had rushed round in that state of fury in which even the most sharp- witted people of his nationality are sometimes prepared to fight like brigands.  Anna Andreyevna had met all this outburst with the utmost dignity, but I missed that.  All I saw was that, after bringing the old man into the passage, Büring left him in the hands of Baron R. and rushing impetuously back to her, shouted, probably in reply to some remark of hers:

“You’re an intriguing adventuress, you’re after his money!  You’ve disgraced yourself in society and will answer for it in a court of law! . . .”

“You’re taking advantage of an unfortunate invalid and driving him to madness . . . and you’re shouting at me because I’m a woman, and there’s no one to defend me . . .”

“Oh, yes, you are his betrothed, a fine betrothed,” Büring chuckled, with spiteful violence.

“Baron, Baron . . . chère enfant, je nous aime,” wailed the prince, stretching out his hands towards Anna Andreyevna.

“Go along, prince, go along, there’s been a plot against you, and maybe your life was threatened,” shouted Büring.

“Qui, oui, je comprends, j’ai compris au commencement . . .”

“Prince,” Anna Andreyevna raised her voice.  “You are insulting me, and letting me be insulted!”

“Get along with you,” Büring shouted at her suddenly.

That I could not endure.

“Blackguard!” I yelled at him:  “Anna Andreyevna, I’m here to defend you!”

What happened then I cannot describe exactly, and will not attempt to.  The scene that followed was horrible and degrading.  I seemed suddenly to lose my reason.  I believe I dashed up and struck him, or at least gave him a violent push.  He struck me with all his might on my head so that I fell on the floor.  When I came to, I rushed after them down stairs.  I remember that my nose was bleeding.  At the entrance a carriage was waiting for them, and while they were getting the prince in, I ran up, and in spite of the lackey, who pushed me back I rushed at Büring again.  At this point the police turned up, I don’t know how.  Büring seized me by the collar and in a threatening voice ordered the police to take me into custody.  I shouted that he ought to come with me, that we might make our affirmation together, and that they dare not take me almost from my own lodging.  But as it had all happened in the street and not in the flat, and as I shouted and fought like a drunken man, and as Büring was wearing his uniform, the policeman took me.  But flying into a perfect frenzy, I believe at that point I struck the policeman too.  Then I remember two of them suddenly appeared and carried me off.  I faintly remember they took me to a room full of tobacco smoke, with all sorts of people standing and sitting about in it waiting and writing; here too I went on shouting, and insisting on making a statement.  But things had gone beyond that, and were complicated by violence and resisting the police, besides I looked absolutely disreputable.  Some one shouted at me angrily.  Meanwhile the policeman charging me with fighting was describing the colonel . . .

“What’s your name?” some one shouted to me.

“Dolgoruky,” I yelled.

“Prince Dolgoruky?”

Beside myself, I answered by a very coarse word of abuse, and then . . . then I remember they dragged me to a very dark little room, set apart for drunkards.  Oh, I’m not complaining.  Readers will have seen of late in the newspapers a complaint made by a gentleman who was kept all night under arrest, tied up, and in a room set apart for drunkards, but I believe he was quite innocent while I had done something.  I threw myself on the common bed which I shared with two unconscious sleepers.  My head ached, my temples throbbed, and so did my heart.  I must have been unconscious, and I believe I was delirious.  I only remember waking up in the middle of the night, and sitting on the bed.  I remembered everything at once and understood it in all its bearings, and, with my elbow propped on my knees and my head in my hands, I sank into profound meditation.

Oh, I am not going to describe my feelings, and there is no time to do it, but I will note one thing only: perhaps I never spent moments more consolatory to my soul than those moments of reflection in the middle of the night on that prison bed.  This will perhaps strike the reader as strange, and he may be inclined to set it down to brag and the desire to be original — and yet it was just as I have said. It was one of those minutes which come perhaps to every one, but only come once in a lifetime.  At such moments men decide their fate, define their point of view, and say to themselves once and for all:  “That’s where the truth lies, and that is the path to take to attain it.”  Yes, those moments were the light of my soul.  Insulted by haughty Büring and expecting to be insulted next day by that aristocratic lady, I knew that I could revenge myself on them, but I decided not to revenge myself.  I decided, in spite of every temptation, that I would not produce the letter, and publish it to the whole world (the idea had been floating in my mind); I repeated to myself that next day I would put that letter before her, and, if need be, instead of gratitude, would bear her ironical smile, but in any case I would not say a word but would go away from her for ever. . . .  There is no need to enlarge on this, however.  What would happen next day here, how I should be brought before the authorities, and what they would do with me — I almost forgot to think about.  I crossed myself with love in my heart, lay down on the bed, and fell into a sound childlike sleep.

I waked up late, when it was daylight.  I found myself alone in the room.  I sat down to wait in silence and waited about an hour; it must have been about nine o’clock when I was suddenly summoned.  I might go into greater detail but it is not worth while, for all this is now irrelevant; I need only record what matters.  I must note, however, that to my great astonishment I was treated with unexpected courtesy; I was questioned, I answered, and I was at once allowed to depart.  I went out in silence, and to my satisfaction saw in their faces some surprise at a man who was able to keep up his dignity even in such circumstances.  If I had not noticed that, I should not have recorded it.  Tatyana Pavlovna was waiting for me at the entrance.  I will explain in a couple of words why I was let off so easily.

Early in the morning, by eight o’clock perhaps, Tatyana Pavlovna had flown round to my lodging, that is to Pyotr Ippolitovitch’s, expecting to find the old prince still there, and she heard at once of all the horrors of the previous day, above all that I had been arrested.  She instantly rushed off to Katerina Nikolaevna (who on returning from the theatre the evening before had had an interview with the father who had been restored to her).  Tatyana Pavlovna waked her up, alarmed her and insisted that I should be at once released.  With a note from her she flew at once to Büring’s and demanded from him forthwith another note, to the proper authorities, with an urgent request from Büring himself that I should be released, as I had been arrested through a misunderstanding.  With this note she presented herself to the prison and her request was respectfully granted.

3

Now I will go on with my story.

Tatyana Pavlovna pounced on me, put me in a sledge, and took me home with her, she immediately ordered the samovar, and washed and brushed me herself in the kitchen.  In the kitchen she told me in a loud voice that at half-past eleven Katerina Nikolaevna would come herself — as they had agreed that morning — to meet me.  Marya overheard this.  A few minutes later she brought in the samovar, and two minutes later, when Tatyana Pavlovna called her, she did not answer; it appeared that she had gone out for something.  I beg the reader to make special note of this; it was about a quarter to ten I believe.  Though Tatyana Pavlovna was angry at her disappearance without asking leave, she only thought she had gone out to the shop, and immediately forgot about it.  And, indeed, we had no thoughts to spare for it, we talked away without ceasing, for we had plenty to talk about, so that I, at least, scarcely noticed Marya’s disappearance; I beg the reader to make a note of that.

As for me, I was in a sort of delirium, I poured out my feelings, and above all we were expecting Katerina Nikolaevna, and the thought that in an hour I should meet her at last, and at such a turning-point in my life, made me tremble and quiver.  At last, when I had drunk two cups of tea, Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly stood up, took a pair of scissors from the table, and said:

“Let me have your pocket, I must take out the letter, we can’t unpick it when she’s here.”

“Yes,” I exclaimed and unbuttoned my coat.

“What a muddle it’s in! who sewed it up?”

“I did, I did, Tatyana Pavlovna.”

“Well, I can see you did.  Come, here it is. . . .”

We took it out . . . the old envelope was the same, but inside was a blank sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, turning it round and round . . . “what’s the matter with you?”

But I was standing pale and speechless . . . and I suddenly sank helplessly into a chair.  I really almost fainted.

“What does it mean?” wailed Tatyana Pavlovna.  “Where is your letter?”

“Lambert!”  I jumped up suddenly, slapping myself on the forehead as I guessed.

With breathless haste I explained to her — the night at Lambert’s and our plot; I had, however, confessed that to her the night before.

“They’ve stolen it, they’ve stolen it!” I cried, stamping on the floor and clutching at my hair.

“That’s terrible!” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, grasping what had happened.

“What time is it?”

It was about eleven.

“Ech, there’s no Marya! . . . Marya, Marya!”

“What is it, mistress?” Marya responded from the kitchen.

“Are you here?  What are we to do now!  I will fly to her. . . .  Ah, slow coach, slow coach!”

“And I to Lambert,” I yelled, “and I will strangle him if need be.”

“Mistress,” Marya piped suddenly from the kitchen, “here’s a person asking for you very particularly.”

But before she had time to finish, the person burst in from the kitchen, making a great outcry and lamentation.  It was Alphonsine.  I will not describe the scene in detail; the scene was a fraud and a deception, but I must say Alphonsine acted it splendidly.  With tears of repentance and with violent gesticulations she babbled (in French, of course), that she had unpicked the letter herself, that it was now in Lambert’s hands, and that Lambert, together with that “brigand,” cet homme noir, meant to entice Mme. la générale to shoot her, immediately within an hour . . . that she knew all this from them, and that she had suddenly taken fright because she saw they had a pistol, le pistolet, and now she had rushed off to us, that we might go, might save, might warn. . . .  That cet homme noir. . . .”