Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (610 page)

“I am glad that you have come at last.  Alphonsine, not a step out of the house!  Let us go.”

At the steps a smart turn-out was waiting for him.  We got in; but all the way he could not quite regain his composure and get over a sort of rage against the two young men.  I was surprised at his taking it so seriously; and what’s more, at their being so disrespectful to Lambert, and his seeming almost frightened of them.

From the old impression that had been stamped on me from childhood, it still seemed to me that every one must be afraid of Lambert, as in spite of all my independence, I certainly stood in awe of him myself at that moment.

“I tell you now they are all a low lot,” Lambert persisted.  “Would you believe it that tall ruffian pestered me, the day before yesterday, in decent company.  He stood in front of me and shouted:  ‘Ohé Lambert!’ in decent company!  Every one laughed, and do you know, it was for me to give him money — would you believe it.  I gave it him.  Oh, that — r-r-ruffian!  Would you believe it?  He was an ensign in a regiment, but he was kicked out, and, you wouldn’t imagine it, but he is a man of education: he was brought up in a good family, you would hardly believe it!  He has ideas, he might . . . and damn it all!  And he is a perfect Hercules.  He is of use, though of not much use.  And you can see he does not wash his hands.  I interested a lady in his case, an old lady of very good position, telling her that he was penitent, and on the point of committing suicide from remorse, and he went to see her, sat down and began whistling.  And the other, the pretty fellow, is a general’s son; his family is ashamed of him.  I got him off when he was arrested, I saved him, and you see how he repays me.  There are no people worth their salt here!  I’ll pay them out, I’ll pay them out!”

“They know my name; did you talk to them about me?”

“Yes, it was stupid of me.  Please stay on a little after dinner, control your feelings. . . .  There’s an awful canaille coming.  Yes, he’s an awful canaille, and awfully cunning; they are all rascals here, there’s not an honest man about!  Well, we’ll finish — then. . . .  What’s your favourite dish?  But it doesn’t matter, the fare is always good.  I’ll pay, don’t you worry.  It’s a good thing you are well dressed.  I can give you money.  You must come often.  Only fancy, I’ve stood them meat and drink here, it’s fish pie every day of the week; that watch he sold — it’s the second time.  That little fellow, Trishatov, you saw him; Alphonsine is sick at the very sight of him, and won’t let him come near her; and here in the presence of officers he calls out:  ‘I must have woodcock.’  I stood him woodcock!  But I’ll pay them out.”

“Do you remember, Lambert, how we went to a restaurant together in Moscow, and you stuck a fork into me, and how you had fifty roubles then!”

“Yes, I remember!  Damn it, I remember!  I like you . . . you may believe it.  Nobody likes you; but I like you; I’m the only one that does, you remember that. . . .  The pockmarked fellow that is coming here is a cunning canaille; don’t you answer any of his questions; if he begins talking, it’s all right; but if he begins questioning, make some nonsensical answer, or hold your tongue.”

At any rate, in his excitement he did not question me much on the way.  I even felt insulted at his having such confidence in me, and not even suspecting that I mistrusted him; I fancied that I detected in him the absurd idea that he could still order me about.  “And what’s more, he’s awfully ignorant and ill-bred,” I thought, as I went into the restaurant.

3

I had been into that restaurant, in the Morskaya, before, during my disgraceful period of degradation and depravity, and so the impression of those rooms, of those lackeys looking at me, and recognizing me as a familiar visitor, and finally the impression made on me by the mysterious company of Lambert’s friends, amongst whom I found myself so suddenly, and to whom I seemed already to belong, and above all an obscure feeling that of my own freewill I was going into something abominable, and that I should certainly end up by doing something horrid — all this seemed to go through me in a flash.  There was a moment when I very nearly went away; but the moment passed and I remained.

The “pock-marked man,” of whom for some reason Lambert was so much afraid, was already waiting for us.  He was one of those men of stupidly practical appearance, whom I have always from my childhood detested; he was about forty-five, of middle height, with hair just turning grey.  He was disgustingly close-shaven, except for two little neatly trimmed grey whiskers, like sausages, one on each side of his extremely flat and spiteful-looking face.  He was of course dull, solemn, and taciturn, and even conceited, as such nonentities always are.  He looked at me very attentively, but he did not say a word.  Lambert was so stupid that though he sat us down at the same table together, he did not think it necessary to introduce us, and so he may well have taken me for one of the blackmailers associated with Lambert.  To the two young men (who arrived almost simultaneously with us) he did not address a single word during the whole of dinner, but it was evident that he knew them well.  He talked only to Lambert, and then almost in a whisper, and indeed Lambert did most of the talking, and the pock-marked man confined himself to fragmentary and wrathful ejaculations, which sounded like an ultimatum.  He behaved superciliously, was ill-humoured and sarcastic, while Lambert on the other hand was extremely excited and was evidently trying to persuade him all the time, probably urging him on to some undertaking.  On one occasion I put out my hand to take a bottle of red wine; the pock-marked man immediately took a bottle of sherry and handed it to me, though he had not said a word to me till then.

“Try this,” he said, offering me the bottle.  I guessed, on the spot, that he too, knew everything in the world about me — my story, and my name, and perhaps the fact that Lambert was counting upon me.  The idea that he was taking me for a satellite maddened me again, and Lambert’s face betrayed an intense and very stupid uneasiness when the pock-marked man addressed me; the latter noticed it and laughed.  “There’s no doubt that Lambert depends on all of them,” I thought, hating him at that instant with my whole soul.  In this way, though we were sitting at the same table, throughout the whole dinner we were divided into two groups; the pock-marked man with Lambert, facing each other close to the window, while I was beside the grubby Andreyev, and Trishatov sat facing me.  Lambert hurried on the dinner, continually urging the waiters to make haste with the dishes.  When the champagne was brought he held out his glass to me:

“To your health, let’s clink glasses!” he said, breaking off his conversation with the pock-marked man.

“And will you let me clink with you too?” said the pretty youth, holding out his glass across the table.  Till the champagne arrived he had been very silent, and seemed pensive.  The dadais said nothing at all, but sat silent and ate a great deal.

“With pleasure,” I answered Trishatov.  We clinked glasses and drank.

“But I’m not going to drink your health,” observed the dadais turning to me; “not because I desire your death, but so that you may not drink any more here to-day.”  He spoke gloomily and ponderously.  “Three glasses is enough for you.  I see you are looking at my unwashed fist!” he went on, putting his fist on the table.  “I don’t wash it, but as it is I put it at Lambert’s service for smashing other people’s heads when he’s in a tight place.”  And saying this he brought down his fist on the table with such force that he set all the plates and glasses rattling.  Besides us there were people dining at four other tables, all of them officers or gentlemen of dignified appearance.  It was a fashionable restaurant; all broke off their conversation for a moment and looked round to our corner; and indeed I fancied we had attracted curiosity for some time past.  Lambert flushed crimson.

“Ah, he’s at it again!  I thought I had asked you to behave yourself, Nikolay Semyonovitch,” he said to Andreyev in a furious whisper.  The latter gave him a prolonged stare.

“I don’t want my new friend Dolgorowky to drink a great deal here to-day.”

Lambert flushed more hotly than ever.

The pock-marked man listened in silence but with evident pleasure.  Andreyev’s behaviour seemed to please him, for some reason.  I was the only one who did not understand why I was not to drink much wine.

“He says that because he’s only just had some money!  You shall have another seven roubles directly after dinner — only do let us have dinner, don’t disgrace us,” Lambert hissed at him.

“Aha!” the dadais growled triumphantly.  At this the pock-marked man was absolutely delighted, and he sniggered spitefully.

“Listen, you really . . ,” began Trishatov to his friend with uneasiness and almost distress in his voice, evidently anxious to restrain him.  Andreyev subsided, but not for long; that was not his intention.  Just across the table, five paces from us, two gentleman were dining, engaged in lively conversation.  Both were middle-aged gentleman, who looked extremely conscious of their own dignity; one was tall and very stout, the other was also very stout but short, they were discussing in Polish the events of the day in Paris.  For some time past the dadais had been watching them inquisitively and listening to their talk.  The short Pole evidently struck him as a comic figure, and he promptly conceived an aversion for him after the manner of envious and splenetic people, who often take such sudden dislikes for no reason whatever.  Suddenly the short Pole pronounced the name of the deputy, Madier de Montjeau, but, as so many Poles do, he pronounced it with an accent on the syllable before the last, instead of on the last syllable; this was enough for the dadais, he turned to the Poles, and drawing up himself with dignity, he suddenly articulated loudly and distinctly as though addressing a question to them:

“Madier de Montjeáu?”

The Poles turned to him savagely.

“What do you want?” the tall stout Pole shouted threateningly to him in Russian.

The dadais paused.  “Madier de Montjeáu,” he repeated suddenly again, to be heard by the whole room, giving no sort of explanation, just as he had stupidly set upon me at the door with the reiterated question “Dolgorowky.”  The Poles jumped up from their seats, Lambert leapt up from the table and rushed to Andreyev, but leaving him, darted up to the Poles and began making cringing apologies to them.

“They are buffoons, Pani, they are buffoons,” the little Pole repeated contemptuously, as red as a carrot with indignation.  “Soon it will be impossible to come!”  There was a stir all over the room too, and a murmur of disapproval, though laughter was predominant.

“Come out . . . please . . . come along!” Lambert muttered completely disconcerted, doing his utmost to get Andreyev out of the room.  The latter looking searchingly at Lambert, and judging that he would now give the money, agreed to follow him.  Probably he had already extorted money from Lambert by the same kind of disgraceful behaviour.  Trishatov seemed about to run after them too, but he looked at me and checked himself.

“Ach, how horrid,” he said hiding his eyes with his slender fingers.

“Very horrid,” whispered the pock-marked man, looking really angry at last.

Meanwhile Lambert came back looking quite pale, and gesticulating eagerly, began whispering something to the pock-marked man.  The latter listened disdainfully, and meanwhile ordered the waiter to make haste with the coffee; he was evidently in a hurry to get off.  And yet the whole affair had only been a schoolboyish prank.  Trishatov got up with his cup of coffee, and came and sat down beside me.

“I am very fond of him,” he said to me with a face as open as though he had been talking to me like this all his life.  “You can’t imagine how unhappy Andreyev is.  He has wasted all his sister’s dowry on eating and drinking, and in fact all they had he spent on eating and drinking during the year he was in the service, and I see now he worries.  And as for his not washing, it’s just through despair.  And he has awfully strange ideas: he’ll tell you all of a sudden that he’s both a scoundrel and an honest man — that it’s all the same and no difference: and that there’s no need to do anything, either good or bad, they are just the same, one may do good or bad, but that the best of all is to be still, not taking off one’s clothes for a month at a time, to eat, and drink, and sleep — and nothing else.  But believe me, he only says that.  And do you know, I really believe he played the fool like this just now to break off with Lambert once for all.  He spoke of it yesterday.  Would you believe it, sometimes at night or when he has been sitting long alone, he begins to cry, and, do you know, when he cries, it’s different from anyone else; he howls, he howls in an awful way, and you know it’s even more pitiful . . . and he’s such a big strong fellow, and then all of a sudden — to see him howling.  It is sad, poor fellow, isn’t it?  I want to save him, though I am a wretched hopeless scamp myself, you wouldn’t believe.  Will you let me in, Dolgoruky, if I ever come and see you?”

“Oh, do come, I really like you.”

“What for?  Well, thank you.  Listen, will you drink another glass?  But after all you’d better not.  He was right when he said you had better not drink any more,” he suddenly gave me a significant wink, “but I’ll drink it all the same.  I have nothing now, but would you believe it, I can’t hold myself back in anything; if you were to tell me I must not dine at a restaurant again, I should be ready to do anything, simply to dine there.  Oh, we genuinely want to be honest, I assure you, but we keep putting it off,

          “And the years pass by and the best of our years!

“I am awfully afraid that he will hang himself.  He’ll go and do it without telling anyone.  He’s like that.  They are all hanging themselves nowadays; why, I don’t know — perhaps there are a great many people like us.  I, for instance, can’t exist without money to spend.  Luxuries matter a great deal more to me than necessities.

“I say, are you fond of music?  I’m awfully fond of it.  I’ll play you something when I come and see you.  I play very well on the piano and I studied music a very long time.  I’ve studied seriously. If I were to compose an opera, do you know I should take the subject from Faust.  I am very fond of that subject.  I am always making up a scene in the cathedral, just imagining it in my head, I mean.  The Gothic cathedral, the interior, the choirs, the hymns; Gretchen enters, and mediaeval singing, you know, so that you can hear the fifteenth century in it.  Gretchen overwhelmed with grief; to begin with a recitative, subdued but terrible, full of anguish; the choirs thunder on, gloomily, sternly, callously,