Fortunately, Apollon took my mind off Lisa by his churlish behaviour. I lost my patience with him completely! He was the bane of my life, the punishment Providence had imposed upon me. For years on end we had been continually squabbling, and I hated him. Lord, how I hated him! I don’t think I ever hated anyone as much as him, particularly at certain times. He was an elderly, pompous man, who did some tailoring in his spare time. For some unknown reason he despised me beyond measure, and looked down upon me in a way that was simply maddening. He looked down upon everyone, as a matter of fact. Take one look at that fair, smoothly brushed head, at the tuft of hair which he fluffed out over his forehead and smeared with lenten oil, at that gravely pursed mouth, always compressed into the shape of the letter V—and you felt that you were in the presence of a creature who was never in doubt. He was pedantic to a degree, the greatest pedant, in fact, I ever met in my life, and, in addition, possessed of a vanity that was worthy only of Alexander the Great. He was in love with every button on his coat, with every hair on his head. Yes, in love, most decidedly in love with them! And he looked it. His attitude towards me was utterly despotic. He hardly ever spoke to me, and if occasionally he did deign to look at me, his look was so hard, so majestically self-confident, and invariably so contemptuous, that it alone was sometimes sufficient to drive me into a fury. He carried out his duties with an air of conferring the greatest favour upon me. As a matter of fact, he hardly ever did anything for me, and he did not even consider himself bound to do anything for me. There could be no doubt whatever that he looked upon me as the greatest fool on earth, and if he graciously permitted me “to live with him,” it was only because he could get his wages from me every month. He did not mind “doing nothing” for me for seven roubles a month. I’m certain many of my sins will be forgiven me for what I suffered from him. At times I hated him so bitterly that I was almost thrown into a fit when I heard him walking about. But what I loathed most of all was his lisp. His tongue must have been a little too long, or something of the sort, and because of that he always lisped and minced his words, and, I believe, he was terribly proud of it, imagining that it added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured voice, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He infuriated me particularly when he began reading the psalter in his room behind the partition. I have fought many battles over that reading. But he was terribly fond of reading aloud of an evening, in a slow, even, sing-song voice, as though he were chanting psalms for the dead. It is interesting that he is doing just that at present: he hires himself out to read psalms over the dead and exterminates rats and manufactures a boot polish as well. But at that time I could not get rid of him, as though he formed one chemical substance with me. Besides, he would never have consented to leave me for anything in the world. I could not afford to live in furnished rooms. I lived in an unfurnished self-contained flat—it was my shell, the case into which I hid from humanity, and for some confounded reason Apollon seemed to be an integral part of my flat, and for seven years I could not get rid of him.
To be behind with his wages even for two or three days, for instance, was quite out of the question. He’d have made such a fuss that I shouldn’t have known how to keep out of his way. But at that time I was feeling so exasperated with everyone that for a reason I did not myself clearly understand I made up my mind to punish Apollon by withholding his wages for a whole fortnight. I had been intending to do it for a long time, for the last two years, just to show him that he had no business to treat me with such insolence and that if I liked I could always refuse to pay him his wages. I decided to say nothing to him about it and to ignore the whole thing deliberately so as to crush his pride and force him to speak about his wages first. Then I would take the seven roubles out of the drawer, show him that I had the money, that I had purposely put it aside, and say that “I won’t, I won’t, I simply won’t give you your wages! I won’t just because I don’t want to,” because I was the master in this house, because he had been disrespectful, because he had been rude; but if he were to ask me nicely, I might relent and give it to him; otherwise he would have to wait a fortnight, or three weeks, or maybe a month even.…
But furious though I was with him, he got the better of me in the end. I could not hold out for four days even. He started, as he always did start in such circumstances, for they had already happened before, I had already tried it on before (and, let me add, I knew all this beforehand, I knew all his contemptible tactics by heart)—he started by fixing me with a stern glare which he kept up for several minutes at a time, particularly when he used to meet me or when I went out of the house. If I did not shrink back and pretended not to notice his glances, he would set about—still in silence—to inflict more tortures upon me. He would suddenly and without any excuse whatever enter my room quietly and smoothly when I was either reading or pacing my room, and remain standing at the door, with one hand behind his back and one foot thrust forward, and stare fixedly at me. This time his stare was not only stern, but witheringly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him what he wanted, he would not reply, but continue to stare straight at me for a few more seconds, then he would purse his lips with a specially significant expression, turn round slowly, and slowly go back to his room. About two hours later he would leave his room again, and again appear before me in the same manner. Sometimes, beside myself with rage, I did not even ask him what he wanted, but just raised my head sharply and imperiously and began staring back at him. We would thus stare at each other for about two minutes till at last he would turn round, slowly and pompously, and again go back for two hours.
If that did not make me come to my senses and I continued to be rebellious, he would suddenly break into sighs as he stared at me, as though measuring with each sigh the whole depth of my moral turpitude and, of course, it all ended in his complete victory over me: I raved, I shouted, but I still had to do what was expected of me.
No sooner did his manœuvre of stern looks begin this time than I lost my temper at once and flew at him in a blind rage.
“Stop!” I shouted, beside myself, as he was turning round slowly and silently, with one hand behind his back, to go back to his room. “Stop! Come back, I tell you! Come back!”
I must have roared at him in so unnatural a voice that he turned round again and began looking at me with surprise. He still said nothing, and that maddened me.
“How dare you come into my room without knocking and stare at me like that? Come on, answer me!”
But after looking calmly at me for half a minute, he started turning round again.
“Stop!” I roared, rushing up to him. “Don’t you dare to move! Ah, that’s better! Now answer me: what did you come in to look at me for?”
“If there is anything, sir, you want me to do for you now, it is my duty to carry it out,” he replied, once more pausing a little before speaking, with his slow and measured lisp, raising his eyebrows and calmly inclining his head first to one side and then to another, and all this with the most exasperating self-composure.
“That’s not what I asked you about, you tormentor!” I screamed, trembling with rage. “I’ll tell you myself, you tormentor, why you come here. You see I’m not giving you your wages, and being too proud to come and ask for them yourself, you come here to stare at me stupidly in order to punish me, in order to torment me, without suspecting, tormentor that you are, how damned silly, silly, silly, silly it all is!”
He was about to turn round again silently, but I caught hold of him.
“Look,” I shouted to him, “here’s the money! Do you see? Here it is! (I took it out of the table drawer.) All the seven roubles. But you won’t get them, you—will—not—get—them, until you come to me respectfully, acknowledge your fault, and say you are sorry! Do you hear?”
“That will never be!” he answered with a sort of unnatural self-confidence.
“It shall be!” I screamed. “I give you my word of honour—it shall be!”
“The
re’s nothing I have to apologise for,” he went on, as though not noticing my screams, “because you, sir, called me ‘tormentor,’ for which I can lodge a complaint against you at the police station.”
“Go and lodge your complaint!” I roared. “Go at once, this very minute, this very second! You are a tormentor! A tormentor! A tormentor!”
But he only gave me a look, then turned round and, without paying any attention to my screams to stop, went out to his room with a measured step and without turning round.
“But for Lisa this would never have happened!” I said to myself. Then, after standing still for a minute, I went myself to his room behind the partition, gravely and solemnly, and without hurrying, though my heart was thumping slowly and violently. “Apollon,” I said quietly and with great emphasis, though rather breathlessly, “go at once and fetch the police inspector. At once!”
He had in the meantime seated himself at his table, put on his spectacles, and settled down to his sewing. But, hearing my order, he burst into a loud guffaw.
“Go at once! This minute! Go, I say, or I shan’t be responsible for what happens!”
“You must be off your head, sir,” he remarked, without even raising his head, with his usual, slow lisp, calmly threading the needle. “Whoever heard of a man going to report to the police against himself! But, of course, sir, if you want to frighten me, then you might as well save yourself the trouble, for nothing will come of it.”
“Go!” I screamed, grasping him by the shoulder. I felt that I was going to strike him any minute.
But I did not hear the door from the passage open quietly and slowly at that instant and someone come in, stand still, and start gazing at us in bewilderment. I looked up, nearly fainted with shame, and rushed back to my room. There, clutching at my hair with both hands and leaning my head against the wall, I remained motionless in that position.
About two minutes later I heard Apollon’s slow footsteps.
“There’s a certain young lady to see you, sir,” he said, looking rather severely at me.
He then stood aside to let Lisa in. He did not seem to want to go, and stood staring at us sarcastically.
“Go! Go!” I ordered him, completely thrown off my balance.
At that moment my clock made a tremendous effort, and, wheezing, struck seven.
IX
And my house, fearlessly and freely,
As mistress you can enter now!
By the same poet.
I stood before her, feeling utterly crushed, disgraced, and shockingly embarrassed, and, I think, I smiled, trying desperately to wrap myself in the skirts of my tattered, wadded old dressing gown, exactly as a short while ago in one of the moments of complete depression I had imagined I would do. After watching us for a few minutes, Apollon went away, but that did not make me feel any better. Worst of all, she too was suddenly overcome with confusion, which I had hardly expected.
“Sit down,” I said mechanically, placing a chair for her near the table.
I myself sat down on the sofa. She sat down at once, obediently, looking at me with wide-open eyes and evidently expecting something from me at any moment. It was this naïve expectancy of hers that incensed me, but I controlled myself.
If she had had any sense, she would have pretended not to have noticed anything, as though everything had been as usual, but instead she …
And I felt vaguely that I would make her pay dearly for all this.
“I’m afraid you’ve found me in a rather strange situation, Lisa,” I began, stammering, and realising perfectly well that I shouldn’t have opened the conversation like that. “No, no, don’t think there’s anything wrong,” I exclaimed, seeing that she had suddenly blushed. “I’m not ashamed of my poverty. On the contrary, I look on it with pride. I’m a poor but honourable man. One can be poor and honourable, you know,” I stammered. “However, will you have some tea?”
“No, thank you,” she began.
“Wait a minute!”
I jumped up and ran out to Apollon. I had to get out of her sight somehow.
“Apollon,” I whispered feverishly, talking very fast and flinging down on the table before him the seven roubles I had been keeping in my clenched hand all the time, “here are your wages. You see, I give them to you. But for that you must save me: go at once and fetch a pot of tea and a dozen rusks from the tea-shop. If you won’t go, you’ll make me the unhappiest man in the world! You don’t know what a fine woman she is! She’s wonderful! You may be thinking there’s something—er—but you don’t know what a fine woman she is!”
Apollon, who had sat down to his work and put on his spectacles again, at first looked silently at the money without putting down the needle; then, without paying any attention to me or replying to me, he went on busying himself with the needle, which he was still threading. I waited for three minutes, standing in front of him with my hands crossed à la Napoléon. My temples were wet with perspiration; I was very pale—I could feel it. But, thank God, he must have felt sorry as he looked at me, for having finished threading his needle, he slowly rose from his place, slowly pushed back his chair, slowly took off his glasses, slowly counted the money, and at last, asking me over his shoulder whether he should get a pot of tea for two, slowly left the room. As I was going back to Lisa, the thought occurred to me whether it would not be a good idea to run away just as I was in my dressing gown, run away no matter where, and let things take their course.
I sat down again. She regarded me uneasily. For a few minutes neither of us spoke.
“I’ll murder him!” I suddenly screamed, banging my fist on the table with such violence that the ink spurted out of the ink-well.
“Good heavens, what are you saying?” she cried, startled.
“I’ll murder him! I’ll murder him!” I screamed, banging the table, beside myself with rage, but realising very well at the same time how stupid it was to be in such a rage.
“You can’t imagine, Lisa, what a tormentor he is to me. He’s my tormentor. He’s gone out for some rusks now—he—”
And suddenly I burst into tears. It was a nervous attack. In between my sobs I felt awfully ashamed, but I could do nothing to stop them.
She was frightened. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” she kept asking, standing helplessly over me.
“Water … Give me some water, please. It’s over there!” I murmured in a weak voice, realising very well at the same time that I could have managed without a drink of water and without murmuring in a weak voice. But I was, what is called, play-acting to save appearances, though my fit was real enough.
She gave me water, looking at me in utter confusion. At that moment Apollon brought in the tea. I felt that this ordinary, prosaic tea was very inappropriate and paltry after all that had happened, and I blushed. Lisa looked at Apollon almost in terror. He went out without a glance at us.
“Do you despise me, Lisa?” I said, looking straight at her and trembling with impatience to know what she was thinking of.
She was overcome with confusion and did not know what to say.
“Drink your tea,” I said, angrily.
I was angry with myself, but of course it was she who would suffer for it. A terrible resentment against her suddenly blazed up in my heart. I believe I could have killed her. To revenge myself on her, I took a silent vow not to say a single word to her while she was in my room. “She’s to blame for everything,” I thought.
Our silence went on for almost five minutes. The tea stood on the table, but she did not touch it. I had got so far that I deliberately did not want to start drinking it in order to make her feel even more embarrassed. And she could not very well start drinking it alone. She glanced at me a few times in mournful perplexity. I kept obstinately silent. I was, of course, the chief sufferer, for I fully realised the whole despicable meanness of my spiteful stupidity, and yet I could do nothing to restrain myself.
“I—I want to get away from that—place for good,” she began
in an effort to do something to break the silence, but, poor thing, that was just what she should not have spoken about at the moment, for it was a stupid thing to say and especially to a man who was as stupid as I. Even I felt a pang of pity in my heart for her clumsiness and unnecessary frankness. But something hideous inside me at once stifled my feeling of pity. It provoked me even more—to hell with it all! Another five minutes passed.
“I haven’t come at the wrong time, have I?” she began shyly in a hardly audible whisper, and made to get up.
But the moment I saw the first signs of injured dignity, I shook with spite and burst out at once.
“What have you come here for? Answer me! Answer!” I began, gasping for breath and paying no attention to the logical order of my words. I wanted to blurt it all out at once, and I didn’t care a damn what I started with, “I’ll tell you, my dear girl, what you have come for. You’ve come because I made pathetic speeches to you the other night. So you were softened and now you want more of these pathetic speeches. Well, I may as well tell you at once that I was laughing at you then. And I’m laughing at you now. What are you shuddering for? Yes, I was laughing at you! I had been insulted before, at dinner, by the fellows who came before me that night. I came to your place intending to thrash one of them, an army officer, but I was too late. He had already gone. So to avenge my wounded pride on someone, to get my own back, I vented my spite on you and I laughed at you. I had been humiliated, so I too wanted to humiliate someone; they wiped the floor with me, so I too wanted to show my power. That’s what happened, and you thought I’d come there specially to save you, did you? You thought so, didn’t you? You did, didn’t you?”
I knew that she would probably be confused and unable to make head or tail of it, but I knew, too, that she would grasp the gist of it perfectly. And so it was. She turned white as a sheet, tried to say something, her lips painfully twisted. But before she could say anything, she collapsed in a chair as though she had been felled by an axe. And afterwards she listened to me all the time with parted lips and wide-open eyes, trembling with terror. The cynicism, the cynicism of my words crushed her.…
The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Modern Library Classics) Page 25