“A strange idea!” said the general.
“Nothing could be stranger, your excellency; but that’s the best of it.”
“Ridiculous idea,” said Totsky. “But I can understand it — it’s just a form of bragging.”
“Perhaps that was just what we wanted, Afanasy Ivanovitch.”
“But such a petit-jeu would set us crying, instead of laughing,” observed the sprightly lady.
“It’s quite impossible and absurd,” Ptitsyn chimed in.
“Was it successful?” asked Nastasya Filippovna.
“Well, no, it was a failure. Every one certainly did tell something; many of them told the truth, and, would you believe it, some of them positively enjoyed telling it. But afterwards every one was ashamed: they couldn’t keep it up. On the whole, though, it was very amusing, in a way, of course.”
“It really would be nice,” observed Nastasya Filippovna, suddenly growing eager. “Let’s try it, gentlemen. We really are not very lively. If each of us would consent to tell something . . . of that sort... of course, voluntarily. No one is forced to do it, eh? Perhaps we could keep it up. It would be awfully original, anyway.”
“It’s a stroke of genius!” said Ferdyshtchenko. “Ladies are excluded, however; men must begin. We’ll cast lots, as we did then. We must — we must! If anyone really doesn’t want to, of course, he needn’t; but that’s being very disagreeable. Throw your lots into my hat here, gentlemen; the prince shall draw them. Nothing could be simpler — to describe the worst thing you’ve done in your life, that’s awfully easy, gentlemen! “Vbu’ll see. If any one forgets, I’ll undertake to remind him.”
The idea seemed a very queer one and almost every one disliked it. Some frowned, some smiled slyly. Some protested, but faintly; Ivan Fyodorovitch, for instance, who was loth to oppose Nastasya Filippovna, and noticed how attracted she was by this strange idea, perhaps simply because it was strange and almost impossible. Nastasya Filippovna was always self-willed and inconsiderate when once she had expressed a desire, even though it were the veriest caprice, of no benefit to her. And now she seemed hysterical, ran to and fro and laughed spasmodically and violently, especially at Totsky’s uneasy protests. Her dark eyes glittered, there was a hectic flush on her pale cheeks. The deiected and disgusted air of some of her visitors possibly increased her ironical desire to play the game. Perhaps the cynicism and the cruelty of the idea was just what attracted her. Some of the party were persuaded that she had a special object in it. Yet they assented; it was curious, anyway, and to many people the prospect was alluring. Ferdyshtchenko was the most excited of all.
“What if it’s something one can’t tell . . . before ladies?” observed the silent youth timidly.
“Why, don’t tell it, then. There are plenty of wicked actions without that,” answered Ferdyshtchenko. “Ach, you young people!”
“But I don’t know which of my actions I consider the worst,” put in the sprightly lady.
“Ladies are exempted from the obligation,” repeated Ferdyshtchenko; “but only from the obligation: Anything of their own inspiration will be accepted with gratitude. Men are exempt as well, if they object too much.”
“But what proof is there that I shan’t tell lies?” inquired Ganya. “And if I do, the whole point of the game is lost. And who wouldn’t tell lies? Every one is sure to.”
“Why, that’s one thing that’s fascinating, to see what sort of lies a man will tell. There’s no particular danger of your telling lies, Ganya, for we all know your worst action as it is. But just fancy, gentlemen,” Ferdyshtchenko cried with sudden inspiration, “only think with what eyes we shall look at one another tomorrow, for instance, after we’ve told our tales!”
“But is this possible? Are you really in earnest, Nastasya Filippovna?” Totsky asked with dignity.
“If you are afraid of wolves, you mustn’t go into the forest,” observed Nastasya Filippovna sneeringly.
“But let me ask you, Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, what sort of petit-jeu can one make out of this?” Totsky went on, more and more uneasy. “I assure you that such things are never successful. You say yourself that it has been unsuccessful once already.”
“Unsuccessful! Why last time I told the story of how I stole three roubles, I simply told it straight off.”
“I dare say. But I suppose there was no possibility of your telling it so that it seemed like the truth, and that you were believed? Gavril Ardalionovitch has observed very justly that with the slightest hint of falsehood the whole point of the game is lost. Telling the truth is only possible by accident through a special sort of boastfulness, in the worst possible taste, inconceivable and utterly unsuitable here.”
“But what a subtle person you are, Afanasy Ivanovitch!” cried Ferdyshtchenko. “bu positively surprise me! Only fancy, gentlemen, by observing that I couldn’t tell the story of my thieving so as to make it like the truth, Afanasy Ivanovitch hints in the subtlest way that I couldn’t really have stolen (for it would have been bad form to have said so aloud); though perhaps he is privately convinced that Ferdyshtchenko may very well have been a thief. But to business, gentlemen, to business. The lots are collected and you’ve put in yours too, Afanasy Ivanovitch; so no one has refused. Prince, draw!”
Without a word Myshkin put his hand into the hat and the first lot he drew was Ferdyshtchenko’s, the second Ptitsyn’s, the third General Epanchin’s, the fourth Totsky’s, the fifth his own, the sixth Ganya’s, and so on. The ladies had not put in lots.
“Good heavens, what a misfortune!” cried Ferdyshtchenko. “I thought that the first would be the prince, and then the general. But, thank God, Ivan Petrovitch comes after me, and I shall be rewarded.
Well, gentlemen, I am bound of course to set a good example; but what I regret most of all at this moment is that I am a person of no consequence and not distinguished in any way — not even of decent rank. Of what interest is it to any one that Ferdyshtchenko should have done something horrid? And what is my worst action? There’s an embarras de richesse. Shall I tell of the same theft again, to convince Afanasy Ivanovitch that one may steal without being a thief?”
“You are also convincing me, Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, that it’s possible to enjoy, even to revel in describing one’s nasty actions, even though one is not asked about them. ButExcuse me, Mr.
Ferdyshtchenko.”
“Begin, Ferdyshtchenko, you are chattering too much and will never finish,” Nastasya Filippovna insisted with irritable impatience.
Everyone noticed that after her hysterical laughter she had suddenly become actually ill-humoured, peevish and irritable; yet she persisted obstinately and imperiously in her wild caprice. Afanasy Ivanovitch was horribly uncomfortable. He was furious too at Ivan Fyodorovitch, who sat sipping champagne, as though there were nothing the matter; perhaps reckoning on telling something when his turn came.
CHAPTER 14
I’VE NO wit, Nastasya Filippovna, that’s what makes me talk too much,” cried Ferdyshtchenko, beginning his story. “If I were as witty as Afanasy Ivanovitch or Ivan Petrovitch, I should have sat still and held my tongue tonight, like Afanasy Ivanovitch and Ivan Petrovitch. Prince, let me ask you, what do you think? Don’t you think that there are many more men in the world thieves than not thieves, and that there isn’t a man in the world so honest that he has never once in his life stolen anything? That’s my idea, from which I don’t conclude, however, that all men are thieves; though, goodness knows, I’ve often been tempted to. What do you think?”
“Ugh! how stupidly you tell your story!” commented the sprightly lady, whose name was Darya Alexeyevna. “And what nonsense! It’s impossible that every one should have stolen something. I’ve never stolen anything.”
“You’ve never stolen anything, Darya Alexeyevna; but what will the prince say? He is blushing all over.”
“I think what you say is true, only you exaggerate very much,” said Myshkin, who really was for some reason blushing.
&nbs
p; “And you, prince, have never stolen anything yourself?”
“Foo! how absurd this is! What are you thinking about, Mr. Ferdyshtchenko,” the general interposed.
“You are simply ashamed to tell it when it comes to the point, so you try to drag the prince in, because he can’t take his own part,” Darya Alexeyevna snapped out.
“Ferdyshtchenko, tell your story or hold your tongue, and don’t drag in other people. bu put one out of all patience,” said Nastasya Filippovna sharply and irritably.
“In a minute, Nastasya Filippovna; but since the prince has confessed — for I insist that the prince has as good as confessed — what would anyone else (to mention no names) say, if he wanted to tell the truth for once? As for me, gentlemen, there’s no need to tell more; it’s very simple and stupid and nasty. But I assure you I am not a thief; I don’t know how I came to steal. It happened the year before last, one Sunday, at Semyon Ivanovitch’s villa; he had friends dining with him. After dinner the gentlemen were sitting over their wine. It occurred to me to ask the daughter, a young lady called Marya Semyonovna, to play the piano. I walked through the corner room. On Marya Ivanovna’s worktable lay a green paper note for three roubles. She must have taken it out for the housekeeping. There was no one in the room. I took the note and put it in my pocket, what for I can’t say. What came over me I don’t know. Only I hastily went back and sat down at the table. I sat on there, expecting something, in considerable excitement. I chattered away without stopping, told anecdotes, laughed. Afterwards Ijoined the ladies. About half an hour later they missed the note and began questioning the maids. They suspected one called Darya. I showed extraordinary interest and sympathy, and I remember that, when Darya was utterly overcome, I began persuading her to confess, assuring her that her mistress would be kind; and I
did that aloud, before every one. Every one looked on, and I felt extraordinary pleasure in the fact that I was preaching to her while the note lay in my pocket. I spent those three roubles drinking in a restaurant that night. I went in and asked for a bottle of Lafitte. I never asked for a bottle like that, by itself; I wanted to spend the money at once. I felt no particular pangs of conscience at the time, nor have I since. I shouldn’t do it again, certainly; you may believe that or not, as you like, I don’t care. Well, that’s all.”
“But there’s no doubt that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done,” said Darya Alexeyevna with aversion.
“That’s a pathological incident, not an action,” observed Totsky.
“And the servant?” asked Nastasya Filippovna, not disguising her intense disgust.
“The servant was turned away next day, of course. The family was strict.”
“And you let that happen?”
“That’s good! Why, could I have gone and told of myself?” chuckled Ferdyshtchenko, though he seemed struck by the extremely unpleasant impression made on all bv his story.
“How loathsome!” cried Nastasya Filippovna.
“Why, you want to hear of a man’s worst action, and yet you expect something brilliant! A man’s worst actions are always loathsome, Nastasya Filippovna; we shall hear that directly from Ivan Petrovitch. And a great many people are brilliant on the outside and want to seem virtuous because they have their own carriage. All sorts of people keep a carriage. And by what means? ...”
Ferdyshtchenko, in fact, was quite carried away, and flew into a sudden rage, positively forgetting himself and over-stepping all bounds; his whole face twitched with anger. Strange as it seems, he apparently had expected a very different reception of his story. These errors of taste, this special sort of bragging, as Totsky had called it, happened very frequently with Ferdyshtchenko, and were quite in his character.
Nastasya Filippovna positively quivered with fury and looked intently at Ferdyshtchenko. He was instantly quelled and relapsed into silence, almost cold with fear; he had gone too far.
“Hadn’t we better make an end of it?” Totsky asked artfully.
“It’s my turn, but I claim my right of exemption and shall not speak,” said Ptitsyn resolutely.
“Don’t you want to?”
“I can’t, Nastasya Filippovna; and in fact I look upon such a petit-jeu as out of the question.”
“General, I believe it’s your turn,” said Nastasya Filippovna, turning to Epanchin. “If you refuse, too, you will throw us all out, and I shall be sorry, for I was reckoning on finishing it by telling an incident from my own life. Only I wanted to do that after you and Afanasy Ivanovitch, for you must give me confidence,” she added, laughing.
“Oh, if you promise to,” cried the general fervently, “I am ready to tell you of my whole life; and I confess I have got my story ready for my turn....”
“And from his excellency’s air alone one may judge of the peculiar creative pleasure with which he has worked up his anecdote,” Ferdyshtchenko ventured to observe with a sarcastic smile, though he was still rather ill at ease.
Nastasya Filippovna glanced at the general, and she too smiled to herself. But her depression and irritability were obviously increasing every moment.
Totsky was more alarmed than ever at her promise to tell something herself.
“It has happened to me, friends, as to every one, to commit actions in my life that were not very pretty,” began the general; “but it’s strange that I regard the brief incident which I’ll describe directly as the basest action of my life. It’s almost thirty-five years ago, yet I can never escape a twinge at heart, so to say, at recalling it. It was an extremely foolish business, however, I was at that time only a lieutenant and was working my way up in the army. Well, we all know what a lieutenant is — young blood and ardour, but a miserable screw. I had an orderly in those days called Nikifor, who was awfully zealous on my behalf. He saved, sewed, scrubbed and cleaned, and even stole right and left anything he could lay his hands on to help our housekeeping. He was a most faithful and honest man. I was strict, of course, but just. We happened to stay for some time in a little town. I had lodgings in a suburb in the house of the widow of a retired sub-lieutenant. The old lady was eighty or thereabouts. She lived in a little ancient tumbledown wooden house, and was so poor she didn’t even keep a servant. What was worse, though, she had at one time had a numerous family and relations. Some had died, others were scattered, while others had forgotten the old woman. Her husband she had buried forty-five years before. Some years previously a niece used to live with her, a hunchback woman, as wicked as a witch, so people said; she had even bitten the old woman’s finger. But she too was dead; so that the old lady had been struggling on for three years quite alone. I was frightfully bored there, and she was so silly one could get nothing out of her. At last she stole a cock of mine. The matter has never been cleared up to this day, but there was no one else could have done it. We quarrelled over the cock — quarrelled in earnest; and it happened that as soon as I asked, I was transferred to other quarters, to a suburb the other side of the town, in the house of a merchant with a large family and a big beard, as I remember him. Nikifor and I were delighted to move. I left the old lady indignantly. Three days later I came in from drill and Nikifor informed me ‘We were wrong, your honour, to leave our bowl at our old lady’s; I have nothing to put the soup in.’ I was surprised, of course. ‘How so? How was it the bowl was left behind?’ Nikifor, surprised, went on to report that when we were leaving the landlady had not given him our bowl, because I had broken her pot; that she had kept our bowl in place of her pot, and that she had pretended I had suggested it. Such meanness on her part naturally made me furious; it would make any young officer’s blood boil. I leapt up and flew out. I was beside myself, so to say, when I got to the old woman’s. I saw her sitting in the passage, huddled up in the corner all alone, as though to get out of the sun, her cheek propped on her hand. I poured out a stream of abuse, calling her all sorts of names, you know, in regular Russian style. Only there seemed something strange as I looked at her: she sat with her face turned to me,
her eyes round and staring, and answered not a word. And she looked at me in such a queer way, she seemed to be swaying. At last I calmed down. I looked at her, I questioned her — not a word. I stood hesitating: flies were buzzing, the sun was setting, there was stillness. Completely disconcerted, I walked away. Before I got home I was summoned to the major’s; then I had to go to the company, so I didn’t get home till it was quite evening. Nikifor’s first words were, ‘Do you know, your honour, that our landlady is dead?”When did she die?”Why, this evening, an hour and a half ago. So that at the very time I was abusing her she was passing away. It made such an impression on me that, I assure you, I couldn’t get over it. The thought of it haunted me; I dream of it at night. I am not superstitious, of course, but two days after I went to church to the funeral. In fact, as time goes on it seems to haunt me more. Not that it haunts me exactly, but now and then one pictures it and feels uncomfortable. I’ve come to the conclusion that the sting of it lies in this. In the first place, it was a woman — so to speak, a fellow-creature, a humane creature, as they call it nowadays. She had lived, lived a long life, lived too long. At one time she had had children, a husband, family and relations — all this bubbling, so to say, smiling, so to say, life about her; and then all at once complete blank, everything gone, she left alone like . . . some fly accursed from the beginning of time. And then at last God had brought her to the end, as the sun was setting, on a quiet summer evening my old woman too was passing awav — a theme for pious reflection, to be sure. And then at that very moment, instead of a tear to see her off, so to say, a reckless young lieutenant, swaggering arms akimbo, escorts her from the surface of the earth to the Russian tune of violent swearing over a lost bowl! Of course I was to blame, and, though from the length of years and change in my nature, I’ve long looked at my action as though it had been another man’s, I still regret it. So that, I repeat, it seems positively queer to me; for if I were to blame, I was not altogether so. Why should she have taken it into her head to die at that moment? Of course there is only one explanation, that what I did was in a certain sense pathological. Yet I couldn’t be at peace till, fifteen years ago, I provided for two incurable old women in the almshouse, so as to soften the last days of their earthly existence by comfortable surroundings. I think of bequeathing a sum of money to make it a permanent charity. Well, that’s all about it. I repeat that I may have done wrong in many things in my life, but this incident I honestly consider my worst action.”
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 281