Текст книги "Notes from Underground"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

I was painfully twinged by this remark. It was not what I was expecting.

I did not even understand that she was purposely assuming a mask of mockery, that this is the usual last device of a bashful and chaste-hearted person whose soul is being rudely and importunately pried into, and who will not surrender till the last minute out of pride, and is afraid of showing any feeling before you. I should have guessed it from the very timidity with which she ventured, haltingly, upon her mockery, before she finally brought herself to express it. But I did not guess, and a wicked feeling took hold of me. "You just wait," I thought.

VII

Eh, come now, Liza, what have books got to do with it, if I myself feel vile for your sake. And not only for your sake. It all just rose up in my soul… Can it be, can it be that you don't find it vile here? No, habit evidently counts for a lot! Devil knows what habit can't make of a person. But can it be that you seriously think you'll never get old, that you'll be forever good-looking, and they'll keep you here forever and ever? It's foul enough even here, needless to say… However, this is what I can tell you about that, I mean, about your present life: granted you're young, attractive, nice, with a soul, with feelings; well, but do you know that when I came to my senses just now, I immediately felt vile for being here with you! One has to be drunk to end up here. But if you were in a different place, living as good people live, I might not just dangle after you, but simply fall in love with you, and be glad if you merely glanced at me, let alone spoke. I'd watch for you by the gate, I'd stay forever on my knees before you; I'd look upon you as my fiancee, and regard it as an honor. I wouldn't dare even think anything impure about you. While here I know I just have to whistle and, like it or not, you'll go with me, and it's no longer I who ask your will, but you mine. The merest peasant hires himself out to work – yet his bondage isn't total; besides, he knows there's a term to it. But where is your term? Just think: what is it you're giving up here? What are you putting in bondage? It's your soul, your soul, over which you have no power, that you put in bondage along with your body! You give your love to be profaned by any drunkard! Love! – but this is everything, it's a diamond, a maiden's treasure, this love! To deserve this love a man would be ready to lay down his soul, to face death. And what is the value of your love now? You're all bought, bought outright, and why try to obtain love if everything is possible without love? There's no worse offense for a girl, do you understand that? Now, I've heard that they humor you, fools that you are – they allow you to have lovers here. That's only an indulgence, only a deception, only a mockery of you, yet you believe it. What, does he really love you, this lover? I don't believe it. How can he love you, when he knows that you'll be called away from him any moment. He's a rotter in that case! Does he have even a drop of respect for you? What do you have in common with him? He's laughing at you while he steals from you – that's what his love amounts to! You can be thankful if he doesn't beat you. But maybe he does. Ask yours, if you have one: will he marry you? He'll burst out laughing in your face, if he doesn't spit, or give you a beating -and meanwhile his total worth is maybe two broken kopecks. And for the sake of what, one wonders, have you ruined your life here? For having coffee to drink, and being well fed? But what do they feed you for? Another woman, an honest one, would choke on it, because she'd know what they're feeding her for. You're in debt here, so you'll stay in debt, and you'll be in debt till the final end, till the time when the clients start spurning you. And that will come soon, don't count on your youth. It all flies by posthaste here. So they'll kick you out. And not simply kick you out, but first start picking on you long beforehand, reproaching you, abusing you – as if it wasn't you who gave her your health, destroyed your youth and soul for her in vain, but as if it was you who ruined her, beggared her, robbed her. And don't look for any support: the other girls will also attack you, to get in good with her, because everyone here is a slave and has long since lost all conscience and compassion. They're sunk in meanness, and no abuse in the world is more foul, mean, or offensive than that. And you'll lay down everything here, everything without stint – health, and youth, and beauty, and hopes – and at twenty-two you'll look like you're thirty-five, and you'll be lucky if you're not sick, pray to God for that. You must be thinking now that it's a picnic and not work at all! But there is not and never has been any harder or harsher work in the world than this. One would think your heart alone would simply pour itself out in tears. And you won't dare say a word, not half a word, when they throw you out of here; you'll go as if you were the one to blame. You'll go to another place, then to a third, then somewhere else, and finally you'll reach the Haymarket. And there they'll give you the routine beating; it's a courtesy of the place; there a client can't even be nice to a girl without beating her first. You don't believe it's so disgusting there? Go and look someday, maybe you'll see with your own eyes. I once saw a girl there, alone, by the door, on New Year's day. Her own people had kicked her out for the fun of it, to cool her off a bit, because she was howling too much, and locked the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she was already completely drunk, disheveled, half-naked, all beaten up. Her face was powdered white, and her eyes were black-and-blue; blood was flowing from her nose and teeth: some coachman had just given her a pasting. She sat down on the stone stairs, holding some kind of salted fish; she was howling and wailing something about her 'miserble lot,' beating her fish against the steps. And coachmen and drunken soldiers crowded around the steps, teasing her. You don't believe you'll be the same? I wouldn't want to believe it either, but how do you know, maybe this same girl, the one with the salted fish, came here from somewhere ten or, say, eight years ago, fresh as a little cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, and blushing at every word. Maybe she was just like you – proud, touchy, different from the rest; she had the look of a princess, and knew that complete happiness awaited the one who would love her, and whom she would love. See where it ended up? And what if at the same moment as she sat there, drunk and disheveled, beating her fish on the dirty steps, what if at that moment she recalled all her former pure years in her father's house, when she was still going to school, and the neighbor's son used to watch for her on the way, assured her he would love her all his life, that he would make his fate hers, and they made a vow together to love each other forever and to be married as soon as they got bigger! No, Liza, it will be lucky, lucky for you if you die quickly of consumption, someplace in a corner, in a basement, like that girl. In a hospital, you say? If they take you there, fine, but what if your madam still needs you? Consumption is that sort of illness; it's not a fever. A person goes on hoping till the last moment, saying he's well. It's just self-indulgence. But there's profit in it for the madam. Don't worry, it's true; you've sold your soul, you owe money besides, so you don't dare make a peep. And when you're dying, they'll all abandon you, they'll all turn away from you – because what good are you then? They'll even reproach you for uselessly taking up space and not dying quickly enough. You'll have a hard time getting a drink of water, they'll give it to you with a curse: 'Hurry up and croak, you slut; you're moaning, people can't sleep, the clients are disgusted.' It's true; I've overheard such words myself. They'll shove you, on the point of croaking, into the stinkingest corner of the basement – dark, damp; what will you go over in your mind then, lying there alone? You'll die – they'll lay you out hurriedly, strangers' hands, grumblingly, impatiently – and no one will bless you, no one will sigh over you, all they'll think is how to get you off their backs quickly. They'll buy a pine box, take you out as they did that poor girl today, and go to a pot-house to commemorate you. There's slush, muck, wet snow in the grave – they won't go to any trouble over you. 'Lower her in, Vanyukha; look at this "miserble lot" going legs up even here – the so-and-so. Shorten the ropes, you rascal.' 'It'll do as it is.' 'What'll do? She's lying on her side. You got a human being here, don't you? Well, that'll do, fill it in.' They won't even want to argue long because of you. They'll cover you up quickly with wet blue clay and go to the pothouse… That's the end of your memory on earth; other people's graves are visited by children, fathers, husbands, but at yours -not a tear, not a sigh, not a prayer, and no one, no one in the whole world will ever come to you; your name will disappear from the face of the earth – as if you'd never existed, as if you'd never been born! Mud and swamp, go ahead and knock on your coffin lid at night, when dead men rise: 'Let me out, good people, to live in the world! I lived – but saw nothing of life, my life was used up like an old rag; it got drunk up in a pothouse on the Haymarket; let me out, good people, to live in the world one more time!

I waxed pathetic, so much so that I myself was about to have a spasm in my throat, when… suddenly I stopped, raised myself in alarm, and, inclining my head fearfully, with pounding heart, began to listen. I indeed had reason to be troubled.

For a long time already I'd sensed that I had turned her whole soul over and broken her heart and the more convinced of it I was, the more I wished to reach my goal quickly and as forcefully as possible. It was the game, the game that fascinated me; not just the game, however…

I knew I'd been speaking stiffly, affectedly, even bookishly; in short, I couldn't speak any other way than "as if from a book." But that didn't trouble me; I knew, I sensed that I'd be understood, and that this very bookishness might even help things along. But now, having achieved my effect, I suddenly turned coward. No, never, never before had I witnessed such despair! She was lying prone, her face buried deep in her pillow, which she embraced with both arms. Her breast was bursting. Her whole young body was shuddering as in convulsions. Suppressed sobs were straining, tearing her breast, and would suddenly burst out in wails and cries. Then she'd cling to her pillow even more: she did not want anyone there, not a living soul, to learn of her torment and tears. She bit the pillow, she bit into her hand till it bled (I saw it later), or, clutching her loosened braids, she would go stiff with effort, holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I started to say something to her, to beg her to calm down, but felt I didn't dare, and suddenly, all in a sort of fever myself, almost horrified, I rushed gropingly, in haphazard haste, to get myself ready to go. It was dark: no matter how I tried, I couldn't finish quickly. Suddenly I touched a box of matches and a candlestick with a whole, unused candle. As soon as light shone in the room, Liza suddenly rose, sat up, and looked at me almost senselessly, with a somehow distorted face and a half-crazed smile. I sat down next to her and took her hands; she recovered herself, made a quick move as if to embrace me, but did not dare, and quietly bowed her head before me.

"Liza, my friend, I shouldn't have… forgive me," I tried to begin, but she squeezed my hands in her fingers with such force that I realized I was saying the wrong thing and stopped.

"Here's my address, Liza, come to me."

"I will…" she whispered resolutely, still without raising her head.

"And now I'll go, good-bye… till then."

I got up, she got up as well, and suddenly blushed all over, gave a start, grabbed a shawl that was lying on a chair, and wrapped her shoulders in it all the way to the chin. Having done so, she again smiled somehow painfully, blushed, and glanced at me strangely. I felt pained; I was in a hurry to leave, to efface myself.

"Wait," she said suddenly, already in the entryway and right at the door, stopping me with a hand on my overcoat, and in a flurry she set down the candle and ran off – she must have remembered something or wanted to bring something to show me. As she ran off, she blushed all over, her eyes shone, a smile appeared on her lips – what could it mean? Like it or nor, I had to wait; she came back in a minute, her eyes as if apologizing for something. Generally, this was no longer the same face, the same look as before – sullen, mistrustful, and obstinate. Now her eyes were soft, pleading, and at the same time trustful, tender, timid. Children look that way at someone they love very much, when they're asking for something. She had light brown eyes, beautiful eyes, alive, capable of reflecting both love and sullen hatred.

Without explaining anything – as if, like some higher being, I must know everything without explanations – she handed me a piece of paper. Her whole face simply lit up at that moment with the most naive, childlike triumph. I unfolded it. It was a letter to her from some medical student or the like – a very grandiloquent, flowery, but extremely respectful declaration of love. I don't remember the expressions now, but I remember very well that through the high-flown style one caught glimpses of true feeling, which cannot be feigned. When I finished reading, I met her ardent, curious, and childishly impatient gaze on me. Her eyes were riveted to my face, and she waited impatiently – what would I say? In a few words, haphazardly, but somehow joyfully and as if proudly, she explained to me that she had been at a dancing party somewhere, in a family home, the home of some "very, very nice people, family people, and where they still know nothing, nothing at all," because she's still quite new here and just… and hasn't at all decided to stay yet, and will certainly leave as soon as she's paid her debt… "Well, and there was this student, dancing and talking with her all evening, and it turned out he had known her still in Riga, still as a child, they had played together, only very long ago – and he knew her parents, but he knows nothing, nothing, nothing about this and doesn't even suspect! And so, the next day after the dance (three days ago), he sent her this letter through a girlfriend with whom she'd gone to the party… and… well, that's all."

She lowered her flashing eyes somehow shyly as she finished telling me.

Poor little thing, she was keeping this student's letter as a treasure, and had run to fetch her only treasure, not wishing me to leave without knowing that she, too, was loved honestly and sincerely, that she, too, was spoken to respectfully. Most likely the letter was doomed simply to lie in a box without consequences. But what matter; I'm sure she would keep it all her life as a treasure, as her pride and justification, and now, at such a moment, she remembered the letter and brought it out to take naive pride before me, to restore herself in my eyes, so that I, too, should see, and I, too, should praise. I said nothing, pressed her hand, and walked out. I wanted so much to leave… I went the whole way on foot, in spite of the wet snow still falling in thick flakes. I was worn out, crushed, perplexed. But the truth was already shining through my perplexity. The nasty truth!

VIII

It took me a while, however, to consent to recognize this truth. Having awakened in the morning after several hours of deep, leaden sleep, and having come at once to a realization of the whole day yesterday, I was even amazed at my yesterday's sentimentality with Liza, at all of "yesterday's horrors and pities." "Now there's a real fit of womanish nerves, pah!" I decided. "And why on earth did I shove my address at her? What if she comes? However, why not, let her come; it's no matter…" But, obviously, that was not the main and most important thing now: I had to make haste and, whatever the cost, quickly save my reputation in the eyes of Zverkov and Simonov. That was the main thing. And I even quite forgot about Liza that morning, what with all the bustle.

First of all, I had immediately to return yesterday's debt to Simonov. I resolved on a desperate measure: borrowing a whole fifteen roubles from Anton Antonovich. As luck would have it, he was in the most wonderful spirits that day, and handed me the money at once, at my first request. I was so glad that, as I signed the receipt, with a sort of bravado, I casually told him that yesterday I had done "a bit of carousing with some friends at the Hotel de Paris; a farewell party for a schoolmate, even, one might say, a childhood friend – a big carouser, you know, a spoiled fellow – well, naturally, from a good family, a considerable fortune, a brilliant career, witty, charming, intrigues with all those ladies, you understand; we drank a 'half-dozen' too many, and…" And nothing to it; it was all spoken very lightly, easily, and smugly.

Having come home, I wrote at once to Simonov.

To this day I'm filled with admiration as I recall the truly gentlemanly, good-natured, frank tone of my letter. Adroitly, nobly, and, above all, with not a word too many – I blamed myself for everything. I excused myself, "if I may still be permitted to excuse myself," with being quite unaccustomed to wine, and thus becoming drunk at the first glass, which I (supposedly) drank before them, while waiting for them from five to six in the Hotel de Paris. I mainly begged pardon of Simonov; and I asked him to convey my explanations to all the others, especially Zverkov, whom, "I recall as in a dream," I seemed to have insulted. I added that I would have gone to them all myself, but I had a headache and, above all, was ashamed. I remained especially pleased with the "certain lightness," even all but casual (though perfectly decent), that suddenly reflected itself in my pen and at once gave them to understand, better than any possible reasons, that I looked upon "all that nastiness yesterday" quite independently; in no way, by no means, was I killed on the spot, as you good sirs probably think, but on the contrary I looked upon it as befits a calmly self-respecting gentleman. "The errors of youth are soon forgotten," as they say.

"And that certain marquisian playfulness, even?" I admired, rereading the note. "And all because I'm a developed and educated man! Others in my place wouldn't know how to extricate themselves, and here I've wriggled out of it and can go on carousing, and all because I'm 'an educated and developed man of our times.' Besides, maybe it really did all come from the wine yesterday. Hm… well, no, not from the wine. And I didn't drink any vodka between five and six, while I was waiting for them. I lied to Simonov; lied shamelessly; and even now I'm not ashamed…

"Ah, spit on it, however! I'm out of it, that's the main thing."

I put six roubles into the letter, sealed it, and prevailed upon

Apollon to take it to Simonov. On learning that there was money inside, Apollon became more respectful and agreed to go. Towards evening I went out for a stroll. My head was still aching and dizzy from yesterday. But the more evening advanced and the twilight thickened, the more my impressions and, after them, my thoughts as well, kept changing and tangling. Something within me, deep in my heart and conscience, would not die, refused to die, and betrayed itself in a burning anguish. I loitered about mainly on the most crowded business streets -Meshchanskaya, Sadovaya, around the Yusupov Garden. I had always liked especially to stroll along those streets at twilight, precisely when the crowd thickens with all sorts of passers-by, merchants, and tradesmen, their faces preoccupied to the point of anger, going home from their daily work. I precisely liked this twopenny bustle, this insolent prosiness. But now all this street jostling only irritated me the more. I simply could not get hold of myself, could not find the loose ends. Something in my soul was rising, rising, ceaselessly, painfully, and refused to be still. I returned home thoroughly upset. Like as if some crime lay on my soul.

I was constantly tormented by the thought that Liza would come. What I found strange was that, of all those memories from yesterday, the memory of her tormented me somehow specially, somehow quite separately. By evening I had already quite successfully forgotten all the rest, brushed it aside, and I was still perfectly pleased with my letter to Simonov. But with this I was somehow not so pleased. It was like as if I were tormented over Liza alone. "What if she comes?" I thought ceaselessly. "Well, no matter, let her come. Hm. The only bad thing is that she'll see, for example, how I live. Yesterday I showed myself to her as such a… hero… and now, hm! It's bad, however, that I've gone so much to seed. Sheer poverty in the apartment. And I dared go to dinner yesterday in such clothes! And this oilcloth sofa of mine, with the stuffing hanging out of it! And this dressing gown that doesn't even cover me! Such tatters… And she'll see all this; and she'll see Apollon. The brute is sure to insult her. He'll pick on her in order to be rude to me. And I, of course, as is my custom, will turn coward, start mincing before her, covering myself with the skirts of my dressing gown, start smiling, start lying. Ohh, vileness! And that's not even the chief vileness! There's something chiefer in it, viler, meaner! Yes, meaner! And again, again to put on that dishonorable, lying mask!…"

Having arrived at this thought, I simply flared up:

"Why dishonorable? What's dishonorable? I spoke sincerely yesterday. I remember there was also true feeling in me. I precisely wanted to evoke noble feelings in her… if she cried a bit, that's good, it'll have a good effect…"

But all the same I just could not calm down.

That whole evening, when I'd already returned home, when it was already past nine and by my reckoning Liza simply could not come, I still kept imagining her, and I recalled her, mostly, in one and the same position. Namely, of all that had happened yesterday, I pictured one moment especially vividly: it was when I lighted up the room with a match and saw her pale, distorted face with its tormented eyes. And how pathetic, how unnatural, how twisted her smile was at that moment! But I did not know then that even after fifteen years I would still be picturing Liza precisely with the pathetic, twisted, needless smile she had at that moment.

The next day I was again prepared to regard it all as nonsense, frazzled nerves, and, above all – exaggeration. I was always aware of this weak link in me, and at times was very afraid of it: "I'm forever exaggerating; that's where I'm lame," I repeated to myself at all hours. But nevertheless, "nevertheless, Liza may still come" – this was the refrain with which all my reasonings at that time concluded. I worried so much that I sometimes became furious. "She'll come! She's sure to come!" I'd exclaim, running up and down my room. "If not today, then tomorrow, but she'll find me! That's the cursed romanticism of all these pure hearts! Oh, the vileness, oh, the stupidity, oh, the narrowness of these 'rotten, sentimental souls'! How can one not understand, how indeed can one not understand…" But here I myself would stop, and even in great confusion.

"And it took so little, so little talk," I thought in passing, "such a little idyll (an affected idyll besides, a contrived, a bookish one), to succeed in turning a whole human soul the way I wanted. There's virginity for you! There's the freshness of the soil!"

At times the thought occurred to me of going to her myself, "to tell her everything" and prevail upon her not to come to me. But here, at this thought, such spite rose up in me that I think I would simply have squashed this "cursed" Liza if she'd suddenly happened to be there, insulted her, spat upon her, driven her out, struck her!

A day passed, however, then another, then a third – she did not come, and I began to calm down. I especially took heart and let myself go after nine o'clock, I sometimes even began to dream, and that quite sweetly: "I save Liza," for example, "precisely through her coming to me, and my telling her… I develop her, educate her. I finally notice that she loves me, loves me passionately. I pretend not to understand (I don't know, however, why I pretend; probably just for the beauty of it). At last, all confused, beautiful, trembling and weeping, she throws herself at my feet and says that I am her savior, and that she loves me more than anything in the world. I am amazed, but… 'Liza,' I say, 'can you really think I haven't noticed your love? I saw everything, I guessed, but I dared not presume first upon your heart, because I had influence over you and feared lest you, out of gratitude, might deliberately make yourself return my love, might call up by force a feeling that perhaps is not there, and I did not want that, because that is… despotism… It is indelicate'" (well, in short, here I let my tongue run away with me in some such European, George-Sandian, ineffably noble refinement…). 17 "'But now, now – you are mine, you are my creation, you are pure, beautiful, you are – my beautiful wife.

And now, full mistress of the place, Come bold and free into my house.' 18

"And then we begin living happily ever after, go abroad, etc., etc." In short, I felt vile and would end by sticking my tongue out at myself.

"They won't even let the 'slut' come!" I thought. "They don't seem to allow them out much, especially in the evening" (for some reason it seemed certain to me that she must come in the evening, and precisely at seven o'clock). "Though she said she's not completely bound to them yet, she has some special privileges there; so – hm! Devil take it, she'll come, she's sure to come!

It was a good thing Apollon diverted me at that time with his rudeness. Drove me out of all patience! He was my thorn, a scourge visited upon me by Providence. He and I had been in constant altercation for several years on end, and I hated him. My God, how I hated him! I think I've never in my life hated anyone as I did him, especially at certain moments. He was an elderly, imposing man, who occupied himself part of the time with tailoring. I don't know why, but he despised me even beyond all measure and looked at me with an insufferable haughtiness. But then he looked at everyone with haughtiness. One glance at that pale-haired, slicked-down head, at the quiff he fluffed up on his forehead and oiled with vegetable oil, at that serious mouth forever pursed in a V – and you immediately sensed before you a being who never doubted himself. He was in the highest degree a pedant, and the most enormous pedant of any I've ever met on earth; and this was accompanied by a vanity perhaps befitting only Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with his every button, his every fingernail – absolutely in love, and he looked it! He treated me quite despotically, spoke extremely little with me, and if he chanced to let his eyes rest on me, he did so with a firm, majestically self-confident, and permanently mocking look, which sometimes drove me to fury. He fulfilled his duties with such an air as if he were bestowing the highest favor upon me. However, he did almost exactly nothing for me, and did not even consider himself obliged to do anything. There was no doubting that he considered me the most complete fool in the whole world, and if he "kept me around," it was solely because he could get his wages from me every month. He agreed to "do nothing" in my service for seven roubles a month. Many sins will be forgiven me for him. It sometimes reached such hatred that I'd be all but thrown into convulsions by his gait alone. But I loathed his lisp especially. His tongue was a bit longer than it should have been, or something like that, which caused him to be forever lisping and sissing, and he was apparently terribly proud of it, imagining that it lent him a great deal of dignity. He spoke softly, measuredly, placing his hands behind his back and looking down. He especially infuriated me when he'd start reading the Psalter behind his partition. I endured many a battle on account of that reading. But he liked terribly much to read in the evenings, in a soft, even voice, chanting as over a dead body. Curiously, that's how he ended up: he now hires himself out to read the Psalter over the deceased, and along with that he exterminates rats and makes shoe polish. But at the time I was unable to throw him out, as though he had combined chemically with my existence. Besides, he would not have agreed to leave me for anything. It was impossible for me to live in chambres garnies: 19 my apartment was my mansion, my shell, my case, in which I hid from all mankind, and Apollon, it seemed to me -devil knows why – belonged to that apartment, and for a whole seven years I was unable to throw him out.

To withhold his wages, for example, for as little as two or three days, was impossible. He'd make such a to-do that I wouldn't even know where to hide. But in those days I was so embittered against everyone that I resolved, who knows why or what for, to punish Apollon and not give him his wages for another two weeks. I had long been intending to do this, for two years or so – solely to prove to him that he dared not get so puffed up over me, and that if I wished I could always not give him his wages. I decided not to tell him about it and even to maintain a deliberate silence, in order to vanquish his pride and make him be the first to speak of his wages. Then I would take all seven roubles from the drawer, to show him that I had them and had deliberately set them aside, but that I "did not, did not, simply did not want to give him his wages, did not want to because that's how I wanted it, because such was 'my will as the master,' because he was irreverent, because he was a boor; but that if he asked reverently, perhaps I would relent and pay him; otherwise he'd have to wait another two weeks, wait three weeks, wait a whole month…"