Humiliated and Insulted

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “No. If you have Natasha’s good at heart, what right do you have to stop the marriage which alone can restore her good name? She’s still got all her life ahead of her. She needs her good name.”

  “To hell with all social conventions, that’s how she should argue! She must realize that the greatest ignominy for her lies in this very marriage, this union with these vile people, this contemptible social set. Dignified scorn should be her response to society. Perhaps in that case even I might be persuaded to put my hand out to her, and we’d see who would then dare to offend my child.”

  Such desperate idealism astonished me. But I immediately realized that he was not himself and spoke in the heat of the moment.

  “That is too high-minded,” I replied, “and consequently cruel. You demand from her a strength with which you have perhaps not endowed her at birth. And do you really think she is agreeing to this marriage because she wants to become a princess? This is love. This is passion. This is fate. And finally, you expect her to ignore public opinion, while you yourself are only too ready to bow to it. The Prince has offended you, he has publicly accused you of a sordid and dishonest attempt to marry your daughter into his titled family, and this is how your argument now runs: if she herself were to turn down their formal proposal, it would naturally be the most convincing and obvious denial of the slander. That is what you are after, you subscribe to the same view as the Prince, you want him to admit his own mistake. You are anxious to make him look ridiculous, to wreak revenge upon him, and to this end you are ready to sacrifice your daughter’s happiness. If that isn’t selfishness, I don’t know what is!”

  Ikhmenev sat for a long time frowning in glum silence.

  “You’re unfair to me, Vanya,” he said at last, and a tear glistened beneath his eyelids, “unfair – I swear to you, but let that pass! I cannot bare my heart before you,” he continued, rising from the chair and reaching for his hat. “Just let me say one thing: you mentioned my daughter’s happiness just now. I absolutely and categorically have no faith whatever in this happiness, quite apart from the fact that even without my intervention this marriage will never take place.”

  “Why is that?” I exclaimed with curiosity. “What makes you think so? Perhaps you know something?”

  “No, I’m not privy to anything in particular. But that damned fox couldn’t have agreed to this matter. There must be something behind it – it’s a trap. I’m sure of it and, mark my words, that’s how it’ll be. Second, even if this marriage were to take place – that is, in accordance with some special, mysterious plan which that scoundrel can profit from and he alone knows anything about, because I certainly don’t – then judge for yourself, ask yourself this question: could she find happiness in that marriage? Rebukes, neglect, a mere stripling for a fiancé who’s already tiring of her love, but as soon as he marries – the end to all respect, just insults and abuse. Strong passion on her side, gradual cooling-off on his – jealousy, heartache, living hell, divorce, crime itself perhaps… no, Vanya! If that’s what’s being hatched and what you’re aiding and abetting, then, I swear, you’ll be answerable before God, but it’ll be too late! Goodbye!”

  I stopped him.

  “Listen, Nikolai Sergeich, let’s come to an agreement – let’s wait. Rest assured, there are others too who are keeping a close eye on the matter, and perhaps it’ll all resolve itself in the best possible manner, of its own accord, without any violent and extraneous interference, such as this duel for instance. Time’s the best healer! And lastly, permit me to tell you, your proposal is just not feasible. Did you really think even for a moment that the Prince would accept your challenge?”

  “Why shouldn’t he? Come now, be sensible!”

  “I swear to you, he wouldn’t, and believe me, he’d come up with a perfectly adequate excuse. It would be done with every semblance of correctness, but as a result you’d be made a laughing stock…”

  “Have a heart, my boy, say no more! This is too much! How could he not accept! No, Vanya, you’re simply a dreamer – you are, yes – you don’t understand a thing! Are you telling me I’m not a worthy opponent in a duel, or what? I’m no worse than him. I’m an old man, an aggrieved father. You’re a Russian man of letters, therefore also perfectly respectable and well suited to be a second and… and… I’ve no idea what more you want…”

  “You’ll see. He’ll come up with such excuses that you’ll be the first to agree that duelling with him is totally out of the question.

  “Hm… all right, my boy, have it your way! I’ll grin and bear it, for the time being, of course. Let time take its course. But look here, my boy – I want you to give me your word of honour not to reveal our conversation either to them or to Anna Andreyevna.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Another thing, Vanya, do me a favour, don’t ever bring this matter up with me again.”

  “All right, I give you my word.”

  “And, finally, one more thing: I know, my dear chap, you must perhaps be bored to tears at our place, but come and see us more often if you can. My poor Anna Andreyevna loves you so, and… and… she misses you… you understand me, Vanya?”

  And he shook my hand firmly. I gave him a hearty promise.

  “And now, Vanya, just before I go, one last ticklish matter – are you short of money?”

  “Money?” I repeated in surprise.

  “Yes,” and the old man blushed and lowered his eyes. “This place of yours, my dear chap… the way you live… and when I think that you probably have other additional expenses, now especially, that’s why… here, take this, hundred and fifty roubles, to start with…”

  “Hundred and fifty roubles, and only to start with, after losing your case!”

  “Vanya, as I see it, you don’t understand me at all! Surely there can be such things as emergency needs, you must realize it. Money brings personal independence, freedom of action. Perhaps you don’t need it this very minute, but might you not need it for something in the future? Anyway, I’ll leave it here with you. It’s all I can scrape together. If you don’t spend it, you can give it back to me. But goodbye for now! God, how pale you are! My word, you’re quite ill…”

  I did not object and took the money. It was only too obvious why he was leaving it for me.

  “I can barely stand on my feet,” I replied.

  “You should take care of yourself, Vanya, my dear fellow, you really should! Don’t go out today. I’ll tell Anna Andreyevna the state you’re in. Do you need a doctor? I’ll look you up tomorrow – I’ll do my best, if I haven’t given up the ghost myself that is. Why don’t you lie down for now?… Well, goodbye! Goodbye, young lady! She’s turned away! Listen, my boy! Here’s another five roubles – it’s for the little girl. By the way, I’d rather you didn’t tell her I gave it, just go ahead and spend it on her, a pair of shoes or what not, some underwear… there’s so many things she might need! Goodbye, my boy!…”

  I saw him to the house gate. I had to ask the caretaker to fetch some food. Yelena still hadn’t had her tea…

  11

  But as soon as i came back in, my head began to spin and I collapsed in the middle of the floor. All I can remember was Yelena’s scream – she thrust out her arms and rushed forward to support me. That was the last thing that has survived in my memory…

  Later I remember I was already in bed. Yelena told me subsequently that with the caretaker’s help, who just then had happened to bring in the food, they had laid me on the settee.

  I awoke several times and on each occasion saw Yelena’s com­pas­sionately solicitous face bending over me. But all this I recall as in a dream, as though through a fog in which the precious image of the poor girl flickered before me as a vision, as a delusion in my state of delirium; she brought me something to drink, she nursed me as I lay there on my couch, or sat by me, sad and frightened, stroking my hair with her little fingers. O
nce I remember a soft kiss on my cheek. On another occasion, awaking suddenly in the night by the light of a guttering candle placed on a small table that was pulled up against the side of the settee, I saw Yelena sleeping fitfully, her head resting on my pillow, her pale lips half-open and the palm of her hand pressed against her warm cheek. But it was only early in the morning that I awoke properly. The candle had burnt down completely; a bright, pink beam of the approaching dawn was already resplendent on the wall. Yelena was fast asleep in a chair by the table, her tired head resting on her left arm stretched out across the table, and I recall I was lost in admiration of her childish face, fraught even in her sleep with some kind of unchildlike sadness, yet strangely, feverishly beautiful – pallid, with long eyelashes on emaciated cheeks, framed in jet-black hair tied in a thick, heavy knot, dangling loosely to one side. Her other hand was on my pillow. I ever so gently kissed that delicate hand of hers, but the poor child did not wake up, only a shadow of a smile seemed to flit across her pallid lips. I looked and looked at her and gradually fell into a restful, healing sleep. This time I slept nearly till noon. On waking up I felt almost recuperated. Only a general weakness and stiffness in the joints testified to my recent illness. I had experienced such sudden nervous attacks before, and knew them well. The illness would normally be over almost completely in twenty-four hours, which however did not prevent it incapacitating me totally throughout its duration.

  It was nearly midday. The first thing that caught my eye was the hangings which I had bought the previous day strung out on a line in a corner. Yelena had taken things into her own hands and sectioned off a private corner for herself in the room. She was sitting in front of the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. Noticing that I had woken up, she smiled cheerfully and approached me at once.

  “My darling girl,” I said, taking her by the hand, “you’ve been looking after me the whole night. I didn’t know you were so good.”

  “How do you know I looked after you? Maybe I slept right through the night?” she asked, looking at me with kindly and bashful mis­chievousness, blushing demurely as she spoke.

  “I kept waking up and saw everything. You fell asleep only just before dawn—”

  “Would you like a glass of tea?” she interrupted, as though finding it difficult to pursue the conversation, which happens with all virtuous, unyieldingly honest people whenever one praises them to their face.

  “Yes, please,” I replied. “But did you have your lunch yesterday?”

  “Not lunch, but supper. The caretaker brought it. You shouldn’t be speaking though, just lie still. You’re not well enough yet,” she added, bringing me a glass of tea and sitting down next to me.

  “Lie still? I wish I could! On second thoughts, I might do so till dusk, but then I must go out. It can’t be helped, Lenochka.”

  “That’s too bad! Who is it you want to go and see? Not your visitor who was here yesterday?”

  “No, not him.”

  “I’m glad it’s not him. He upset you. So it’s his daughter then?”

  “How do you know about his daughter?”

  “I heard everything yesterday,” she replied, her head lowered. Her face became overcast. She knitted her eyebrows together. “He’s a bad old man,” she added after a while.

  “Why, do you know him? On the contrary, he’s a very good man.”

  “No, no! He’s evil. I heard him,” she replied, getting agitated.

  “So what did you hear?”

  “He doesn’t want to forgive his daughter…”

  “But he loves her. She has done him wrong, but he cares for her, he suffers for her.”

  “And why doesn’t he forgive her? Even if he forgave her, she wouldn’t go to him now.”

  “Why is that? Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t deserve to be loved by his daughter,” she replied with animation. “I wish she’d leave him for ever and go begging, and he could watch his daughter beg and it would serve him right.” Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks glowing.

  “She isn’t just saying this,” I thought to myself.

  “Is he the one you wanted me to go and live with?” she added after a pause.

  “Yes, Yelena.”

  “No, I’d rather go and work as a housemaid.”

  “Oh, what a shame you should be saying such things, Lenochka. And isn’t it all very silly? Who do you think would take you?”

  “Any man,” she replied brusquely, lowering her head still further. She was visibly on edge.

  “No man would want a worker like you,” I said with a grin.

  “A family then.”

  “With your character?”

  “Yes, with mine.”

  The more irritated she became, the more clipped were her re­sponses.

  “You wouldn’t survive.”

  “I would. If they told me off, I’d keep quiet deliberately. If they beat me, I wouldn’t make a sound, not a peep. Let them beat me. I wouldn’t cry. They’d go mad with anger not to see me cry.”

  “The things you say, Yelena! There’s so much bitterness in you. And you’re so proud too! My word, you’ve been through some hard times!…”

  I got up and went over to my desk. Yelena stayed on the settee, looking pensively at the ground and picking at the beading with her little finger. She was silent. “Has she taken exception to what I said?” I wondered.

  Standing at the table, I absent-mindedly opened the books I had brought with me yesterday, and little by little became engrossed in reading. This happens a lot with me – I take a book, open it up to make a quick reference, and become so absorbed I forget everything.

  “What is it you write all the time?” Yelena enquired with a meek smile, approaching the table noiselessly.

  “Nothing much, Lenochka, all kinds of stuff. I get money for it.”

  “Petitions?”

  “No, not petitions.” And I explained to her as best I could that I wrote all kind of stories about various people; these go into the making of books which are called novels and tales. She listened with rapt attention.

  “And is all you write about true?”

  “No, I make things up as I go along.”

  “Why do you write things that aren’t true?”

  “Here, read this, look, this one here – you’ve looked at it before. You can read, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “You’ll see for yourself. I wrote this book.”

  “Did you? I’ll read it…”

  There was something she was dying to tell me, but evidently couldn’t bring herself to do so and was all on edge. There was something behind her questions.

  “Do you get paid a lot for this?” she asked at last.

  “It depends. Sometimes a lot, but sometimes nothing at all, because the work just grinds to a halt. It’s a hard graft, Lenochka.”

  “So you’re not rich.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Well then, I’ll work and help you…”

  She darted me a quick glance, flushed, lowered her eyes and, taking a couple of steps towards me, suddenly flung both her arms around me and pressed her face tightly against my chest. I looked at her in amazement.

  “I love you… I’m not proud,” she faltered. “You said yesterday I was proud. No, no… I’m not like that… I love you. You’re the only one who loves me…”

  Tears were choking her. A minute later sobs welled up from her chest as violently as during her seizure the day before. She fell on her knees before me, kissing my hands and feet…

  “You love me!…” she kept repeating, “you’re the only one, the only one…”

  She was convulsively tightening her arms around my knees. All her emotions, held back for so long, suddenly welled up irrepressibly, and I was given a sense of that strange passion chastely held back,
only to gush forth the more violently and precipitately the greater the need to find an outlet, a catharsis, culminating in that inevitable outburst when one’s whole essence surrenders itself to the need for love, gratitude, tenderness and tears…

  Her sobbing ended in hysteria. With some effort I drew her arms apart, which she had tightened round my knees. I lifted her and took her over to the settee. She sobbed for a long while yet, her face stuck in the cushions as though embarrassed to look at me, but clutching my hand tightly in her little one as she held it against her heart.