Humiliated and Insulted

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “Prince, wouldn’t it be better to talk business?” I interrupted him.

  “You mean, about our business. I can read you like a book, mon ami, and you won’t even suspect how close we’ll come to talking business once we start talking about you, provided of course you don’t interrupt me. And so, to continue – what I wanted to say to you, my priceless Ivan Petrovich, is that to live like you do is simply to bury yourself alive. I hope you will allow me to touch upon this rather delicate matter – in all friendship. You are poor, you borrow money from your publishers, you settle your miserable little debts, and for the next six months you survive on nothing but tea as you shiver in your garret, hoping to get that novel of yours published in instalments. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  “What of it, but still it’s—”

  “More honourable than stealing, bowing and scraping, taking bribes, stabbing people in the back and so on and so forth. I know, I know exactly what you want to say. All this is as old as the hills.”

  “And consequently there is no need to talk about my affairs. Do I really have to teach you manners, Prince?”

  “No, not you, of course. But what are we to do if it’s precisely this delicate matter we’re touching upon, and there’s no avoiding it? Still, let’s not go on about garrets. I’ve no particular interest in them myself, except in certain cases,” and with that he chuckled coarsely. “But the thing that puzzles me is, what attraction is there for you in playing second fiddle? True enough, one of your writers,* I seem to remember, said somewhere that perhaps man’s greatest accomplishment is when he can find it in him to settle for the second-best in life… or something to that effect anyway. I heard it mentioned somewhere… but the fact remains, however, Alyosha has stolen your bride-to-be, that much I do know, and like some kind of a Schiller you now torment yourself on the lovers’ behalf, and offer them your assistance almost to the point of being their errand boy… I’m very sorry, my dear chap, but this really is a rather nauseating travesty of magnanimity… It’s a wonder you don’t get tired of the whole thing, honestly! The indignity of it. If I were in your shoes, I think I’d have died of misery, but it’s the humiliation, the sheer ignominy of it all!”

  “Prince! I think you brought me here deliberately to insult me!” I exclaimed beside myself with rage.

  “Not at all, my friend, no, at this point in time I’m simply being practical and am only concerned with your happiness. In a word I want to see the whole matter settled. But let’s put the whole business aside for a moment and – if you’d only hear me out to the end and try not to get excited – a couple of minutes is all I ask. Look here, what if you were to get married? You notice, this is a complete digression on my part – so why are you staring at me with such surprise?”

  “I’m waiting for you to finish,” I replied, indeed staring at him in astonishment.

  “There’s really nothing more to be said. What I’d really like to know is what would you say if one of your friends, who wished you lasting, genuine happiness, as opposed to the ephemeral kind, were to offer you a girl – young, pretty but… who’d already been there before. I’m speaking figuratively, but you know what I mean, well, someone after the likeness of Natalya Fyodorovna, with a generous reward thrown in of course… (You will notice, I’m digressing again rather than talking about our business.) So, what would you say?”

  “I’d say you were… mad.”

  “Hahaha! Goodness! I can see you’re on the point of striking me!”

  I really was ready to attack him. I was at the end of my tether. He seemed to me like some kind of a snake or a huge spider that I’d have liked to crush. He enjoyed ridiculing me; he played cat and mouse with me, believing me to be completely in his power. It seemed to me (and I was sure of this) that he derived some kind of enjoyment, even some kind of wanton pleasure, in his self-abasement and in the insolence, the cynicism with which he tore off his mask in front of me. He wanted to relish my surprise and my horror. He genuinely detested me and was mocking me to my face.

  I had a feeling from the start that all this was stage-managed and that he had an ulterior motive, but my position was such that, come what may, I had to hear him out. It was in Natasha’s interests, and I had to endure and brave everything, because at that instant perhaps everything hung in the balance. But how could one listen to those cynical, outrageous references to her, how could one keep one’s temper? To make matters worse, he understood only too well that I had to listen to him, and this merely exacerbated the indignity. “Come to think of it, he needs me just as much,” I thought and began to reply gruffly and defiantly. He caught on immediately.

  “Look here, my young friend,” he began, looking at me gravely, “we two cannot continue like this, therefore let’s come to an agreement. You see, I intend to communicate something to you, and you ought to be kind enough to agree to listen to whatever I have to say. I wish to speak as I want and as I please, which is only proper under the circumstances. So, how shall it be then, my young friend, will you be obliging enough?”

  I bit my lip and said nothing, and this despite the fact that he regarded me with such caustic scorn as though he himself were challenging me to the most vigorous protest. But he sensed that I had already decided to stay, and went on, “Don’t be angry with me, my friend. What is it, in fact, you object to? You’ve mistaken the manner for the substance, isn’t that right? Let’s be quite frank, you expected nothing different of me, no matter what tone I’d have adopted with you – consequently the end effect would have been the same whether I’d been unctuously polite or like now. You detest me, don’t you? You see how guileless, sincere and full of bonhomie I am? I conceal nothing from you, not even my facetious mannerisms. Yes, mon cher,* yes, would that there were more bonhomie from your side, the two of us would get on famously, come to terms completely and in the end understand each other perfectly. And don’t be surprised at me – in truth I’m so fed up with all this naivety, this mock sentimentality that Alyosha affects, all this Schillerian romanticism, this rhetoric in this damned relationship with this Natasha (sweet little girl that she is when all’s said and done), that I, so to speak, can’t but welcome an opportunity to cock a snook at it all. Well, here’s my opportunity. Besides, I always wanted to pour my heart out to you. Hahaha!”

  “You surprise me, Prince, and I can hardly recognize you. A veritable Pulcinella* judging by your tone of voice – all these unexpected revelations…”

  “Hahaha, that’s quite true in a way! What a cute comparison! Hahaha! Such fun, my friend, such excellent fun I’m having, I’m on top of the world, well, and as for you, my poet, you ought to show me every kind of consideration. But better still, let’s just drink and be merry,” he concluded, well pleased with himself and topping up his glass. “Look here, my friend, just that silly evening, you remember, at Natasha’s, was really the end. True, she herself was very nice about it, but I left the place in a foul mood and won’t forget it in a hurry. Neither forget nor brush it under the carpet. Of course, our time will come too, and in fact it’s fast approaching, but let’s leave that be for now. Incidentally, I wanted to explain to you there’s a trait in my character which you’ve not spotted as yet – a hatred of all this banal, utterly pointless show of innocence and sentimentality, one of my most sporting amusements being to pretend I am that way inclined myself and, as I enter into the spirit of it, to befriend and string along some everlastingly juvenile Schiller, only suddenly and unexpectedly to give him the shock of his life – lift up my mask, pull a face, poke my tongue out at him just at the moment when he’s least expecting it. What was that? You can’t see the point of it, you think it’s disgusting, outrageous, uncouth perhaps, is that so?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re honest. But I can’t help it if these people get on my nerves! It’s silly, but I too am being honest – such is my nature. Still, I’d like to tell you one or two details of my life. It
’ll help you to get to know me all the better, which will only add to the fun. Yes, come to think of it, I really am a bit of a Pulcinella tonight. Pulcinella’s an honest sort, isn’t he?”

  “Listen, Prince, it’s getting late, and, really—”

  “What? Goodness, you’re so impatient! And what’s the hurry? I say, no need to rush, let’s have a friendly open chat, you know, over a glass of wine, like the best of pals. You think I’m drunk? Never mind, it’s better that way. Hahaha! To be sure, these friendly get-togethers are always so unforgettable, they bring back such fond memories. You’re not a good person, Ivan Petrovich. There’s no sentimentality in you, no warmth. Why should you begrudge the odd hour with such a pal as me? Besides, all this is also germane to our business… I’d have thought that was obvious! And you call yourself a writer! You ought to be grateful for the opportunity. You could model one of your characters on me, you know, hahaha! Goodness, how disarmingly sincere I am tonight!”

  He was getting noticeably drunk. His face changed and took on an angry cast. He was obviously raring to wound, hurt, snap, ridicule. “In a way it’s better he’s drunk,” I thought to myself, “that way he’s bound to blurt out more.” But he was on his guard.

  “My friend,” he began, evidently full of himself, “I just made an admission to you, perhaps not an altogether appropriate one, that I’m sometimes possessed by an indomitable urge to poke my tongue out at someone in certain circumstances. As a result of this naive and simple-hearted disclosure you compared me to Pulcinella, which amused me mightily. But if you disapprove of me or are astonished that I’m uncivil towards you now, or even gross like a peasant – in a word, that I’ve suddenly changed my attitude towards you – you are in that case completely unfair. First, that’s how I want to play it, and secondly I’m not at home, I’m with you… what I want to say is that we’re now having a party like good pals, and thirdly that I’m full of quirks. You know, I once was even quirky enough to fancy myself a metaphysician and philanthropist, and dabbled in ideas that were nearly as way out as yours! To be sure, that was in the dim and distant past, in the golden days of my youth. I recall the time when, full of the milk of human kindness, I visited my estate in the country and, it goes without saying, was bored to death, and you’ll hardly believe what happened to me then! Out of sheer boredom I started keeping an eye out for some pretty girls… Look, no need to pull faces! Oh my young friend! Can’t you see what a friendly setting we’re now in? What better time to have fun, let one’s hair down! I’m a Russian through and through, you know, a genuine Russian, a patriot, I like to let my hair down, and besides one must seize the opportunity and enjoy life. Death will come and that’ll be that! And so, I sowed my wild oats. I remember this shepherd girl and her husband, a handsome peasant lad he was. I was pretty hard on him. Had a good mind to send him into the army (past misdemeanours, my poet!), but he never made it into the army. He died in my hospital… You know I used to run a hospital in the village, twelve beds – every convenience, all spick and span, parquet floors. But I pulled it down ages ago, whereas at the time I was well and truly proud of it – the philanthropist in me. As for the peasant lad, I well nigh beat the life out of him because of his wife… Look, why are you pulling those faces again? Have I said something disgusting? Your finer feelings have been offended? There, there, calm yourself! It’s all in the past now. That was my romantic phase, when I was full of good causes, wanted to found a philanthropic society… it was all the rage of the time! That’s when I let the whip do the talking. But not anymore. Now I’m reduced to pulling faces – now we’ve all been reduced to just pulling faces – the world has moved on… But it’s that fool Ikhmenev who really makes me laugh more than anything now. I’m sure he knew only too well that episode with the peasant lad… ay, and here’s the rub! Weak as dishwater, overflowing with kindness, he fell in love with the image of me that he had created himself and decided to turn a blind eye to the lot, which he duly did. In other words, he refused to believe facts staring him in the face, and for the next twelve years supported me to the hilt against all odds until he found himself on the receiving end. Hahaha! But it’s all a load of nonsense anyway! Let’s drink, my young friend. Listen – do you like women?”

  I did not answer. I only listened. He had already started on his second bottle.

  “But I like talking about them over supper. Why don’t I introduce you after supper to one Mlle Phileberte – eh? What do you think? Goodness, what’s wrong with you? You don’t even want to look at me… hm!”

  He paused to think. But suddenly he raised his head, looked at me with some kind of a meaningful intensity and continued.

  “You know, my poet, I want to let you in on one of nature’s secrets, which has probably escaped you altogether so far. I’m convinced that at this moment you look upon me as a sinner, perhaps even a scoundrel, a monster of depravity and vice. But this is what I’ll tell you! If only it could come about (which, following the laws of human nature it never can, of course), if it could come about that each one of us were to describe his innermost secrets – secrets which one would hesitate and fear to tell not only to people at large, but even to one’s closest friends, nay, fear to admit even to one’s own self – the world would be filled with such a stench that each one of us would choke to death. That’s why, speaking in parenthesis, all our social conventions and niceties are so beneficial. There is much profound wisdom in them, I won’t say moral, but simply cautionary, comforting, which of course is all for the better, because in essence morality is comfort – that is, it has been devised solely for comfort. But of niceties later, I’m getting confused now, remind me of them later. I shall conclude as follows, however: you accuse me of vice, debauchery, immorality, whereas my only fault now perhaps is that I’m more honest than others, and nothing else; that I don’t cover up what others conceal even from themselves, as I already said previously… It’s wrong of me, but that’s my choice. To be sure though, don’t worry,” he added with a derisive smile, “I said ‘wrong’, but it’s not as if I were asking for pardon. One other thing you must note: I’m not out to embarrass you, I’m not enquiring if you have similar secrets of your own, that I may use them in order to justify myself… I’m behaving properly and like a gentleman. As a matter of fact I always behave like a gentleman…”

  “You simply talk too much,” I said, looking at him with contempt.

  “Talk too much, hahaha! And shall I tell you what you’re thinking about now? You’re thinking – why has he brought me here and suddenly, without any rhyme or reason, started to unbutton himself? Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’ll find that out later.”

  “More likely you’ve had nearly two bottles and… it’s gone to your head.”

  “You mean simply drunk. And it may well be so. ‘Gone to your head!’ – not quite as crude as drunk. My word, the very soul of discretion! But… we’re in danger of falling out again after touching upon such an interesting topic. Yes, my poet, if there’s anything sweet and charming left in this world, it has to be women.”

  “You know, Prince, I still can’t understand why you’ve decided to choose me in particular as the confidant of your secrets and… sexual propensities.”

  “Hm… as I told you, all in good time. Don’t worry. But even if for no reason except sport. You’re a poet, you’re bound to understand me, something I already pointed out to you anyway. There’s a peculiar gratification to be derived from the sudden tearing-down of a mask, from the cynicism of not even deigning to betray any sense of shame in suddenly exposing oneself to another indecently. I’ll tell you a story. There used to be a mentally sick clerk in Paris – he was confined to an asylum after he was finally pronounced unbalanced. Well then, during his bouts of madness this is how he used to amuse himself: he’d undress at home, stark-naked as the day he was born, down to his shoes, throw a large, ankle-length cloak over his shoulders, wra
p himself in it and, affecting a grand and self-important air, step out into the street. To look at he was just like anyone else, a man in a large cloak strolling for his pleasure. But no sooner would he see some lone passer-by ahead with no one else about than he’d walk straight towards him, with the most serious and profound expression on his face, stop in front of him suddenly, fling his cloak open and expose himself in all his… glory. He’d stand for about a minute in silence, then cover himself up again and, keeping a straight face and with perfect composure, glide past the thunderstruck observer regally, like the ghost in Hamlet. He’d do that to everybody – men, women, children – and that’s all he needed to keep him happy. It’s precisely some of this thrill that one can experience in suddenly knocking some kind of a jumped-up Schiller into the middle of next week by poking one’s tongue out at him when he’s least expecting it. ‘Knocking someone into the middle of next week’ – a fine expression, I like it. I’m not sure if I didn’t come across it in a recent something one of you lot wrote.”

  “Well, he was mad, whereas…”

  “I’m sane?”

  “Yes.”

  The Prince roared with laughter.

  “You are perfectly right, my dear chap,” he added with the most overbearing expression on his face.

  “Prince,” I said, ruffled by his impudence, “you hate me, as you hate the lot of us, and now you’re using me to avenge yourself on all and sundry. And all this because of your paltry self-esteem. You’re evil and petty with it. We put your nose out of joint, and you just cannot live down what happened that night. Of course nothing could be calculated to get your own back better than the utter contempt you’re holding me in. You’ve even absolved yourself from the normal and universally binding respect that we all owe one another. You’re clearly out to demonstrate that you don’t even wish to show me the courtesy of being embarrassed in appearing before me in your true colours, as you pull down your mask with such indecent haste and expose yourself with such blatant moral cynicism—”