Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Her stern and peremptory voice resounded through the cottage; even the landlord and his wife were intimidated. She had only stopped to question them and make inquiries, being persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch must have reached Spasov long before. Learning that he was still here and ill, she entered the cottage in great agitation.

  “Well, where is he? Ah, that’s you!” she cried, seeing Sofya Matveyevna, who appeared at that very instant in the doorway of the next room. “I can guess from your shameless face that it’s you. Go away, you vile hussy! Don’t let me find a trace of her in the house! Turn her out, or else, my girl, I’ll get you locked up for good. Keep her safe for a time in another house. She’s been in prison once already in the town; she can go back there again. And you, my good man, don’t dare to let anyone in while I am here, I beg of you. I am Madame Stavrogin, and I’ll take the whole house. As for you, my dear, you’ll have to give me a full account of it all.”

  The familiar sounds overwhelmed Stepan Trofimovitch. He began to tremble. But she had already stepped behind the screen. With flashing eyes she drew up a chair with her foot, and, sinking back in it, she shouted to Dasha:

  “Go away for a time! Stay in the other room. Why are you so inquisitive? And shut the door properly after you.”

  For some time she gazed in silence with a sort of predatory look into his frightened face.

  “Well, how are you getting on, Stepan Trofimovitch? So you’ve been enjoying yourself?” broke from her with ferocious irony.

  “Chere,” Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, not knowing what he was saying, “I’ve learnt to know real life in Russia . . . et je precherai l’Evangile.”

  “Oh, shameless, ungrateful man!” she wailed suddenly, clasping her hands. ‘‘ As though you had not disgraced me enough, you’ve taken up with . . . oh, you shameless old reprobate!”

  “Chere . .

  .”

  His voice failed him and he could not articulate a syllable but simply gazed with eyes wide with horror.

  “Who is she?”

  “C’est un ange; c’etait plus qu’un ange pour moi. She’s been all night . . . Oh, don’t shout, don’t frighten her, chere, chere ...”

  With a loud noise, Varvara Petrovna pushed back her chair, uttering a loud cry of alarm.

  “Water, water!”

  Though he returned to consciousness, she was still shaking with terror, and, with pale cheeks, looked at his distorted face. It was only then, for the first time, that she guessed the seriousness of his illness.

  “Darya,” she whispered suddenly to Darya Pavlovna, “send at once for the doctor, for Salzfish; let Yegorytch go at once. Let him hire horses here and get another carriage from the town. He must be here by night.”

  Dasha flew to do her bidding. Stepan Trofimovitch still gazed at her with the same wide-open, frightened eyes; his blanched lips quivered.

  “Wait a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a bit, my dear!” she said, coaxing him like a child. “There, there, wait a bit! Darya will come back and ... My goodness, the landlady, the landlady, you come, anyway, my good woman!”

  In her impatience she ran herself to the landlady.

  “Fetch that woman back at once, this minute. Bring her back, bring her back!”

  Fortunately Sofya Matveyevna had not yet had time to get away and was only just going out of the gate with her pack and her bag. She was brought back. She was so panic-stricken that she was trembling in every limb. Varvara Petrovna pounced on her like a hawk on a chicken, seized her by the hand and dragged her impulsively to Stepan Trofimovitch.

  “Here, here she is, then. I’ve not eaten her. You thought I’d eaten her.”

  Stepan Trofimovitch clutched Varvara Petrovna’s hand, raised it to his eyes, and burst into tears, sobbing violently and convulsively.

  “There, calm yourself, there, there, my dear, there, poor dear man’! Ach, mercy on us! Calm yourself, will you?” she shouted frantically. “Oh, you bane of my life!”

  “My dear,” Stepan Trofimovitch murmured at last, addressing Sofya Matveyevna, “stay out there, my dear, I want to say something here. ...”

  Sofya Matveyevna hurried out at once.

  “Cherie . . . cherie . . .”he gasped.

  “Don’t talk for a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a little till you’ve rested. Here’s some water. Do wait, will you!”

  She sat down on the chair again. Stepan Trofimovitch held her hand tight. For a long while she would not allow him to speak. He raised her hand to his lips and fell to kissing it. She set her teeth and looked away into the corner of the room.

  “Je vous aimais,” broke from him at last. She had never heard such words from him, uttered in such a voice.

  “H’m!” she growled in response.

  “Je vous aimais toute ma vie . . . vingt ans!”

  She remained silent for two or three minutes.

  “And when you were getting yourself up for Dasha you sprinkled yourself with scent,” she said suddenly, in a terrible whisper.

  Stepan Trofimovitch was dumbfoundered.

  “You put on a new tie . . .”

  Again silence for two minutes.

  “Do you remember the cigar?”

  “My friend,” he faltered, overcome with horror.

  “That cigar at the window in the evening . . . the moon was shining . . . after the arbour ... at Skvoreshniki? Do you remember, do you remember?” She jumped up from her place, seized his pillow by the corners and shook it with his head on it. “Do you remember, you worthless, worthless, ignoble, cowardly, worthless man, always worthless!” she hissed in her furious whisper, restraining herself from speaking loudly. At last she left him and sank on the chair, covering her face with her hands. “Enough!” she snapped out, drawing herself up. “Twenty years have passed, there’s no calling them back. I am a fool too.”

  “Je vous aimais.” He clasped his hands again.

  “Why do you keep on with your aimais and aimais? Enough!” she cried, leaping up again. “And if you don’t go to sleep at once I’ll ... You need rest; go to sleep, go to sleep at once, shut your eyes. Ach, mercy on us, perhaps he wants some lunch! What do you eat? What does he eat? Ach, mercy on us! Where is that woman? Where is she?”

  There was a general bustle again. But Stepan Trofimovitch faltered in a weak voice that he really would like to go to sleep une heure, and then un bouillon, un the. . . . enfin il est si heureux. He lay back and really did seem to go to sleep (he probably pretended to). Varvara Petrovna waited a little, and stole out on tiptoe from behind the partition.

  She settled herself in the landlady’s room, turned out the landlady and her husband, and told Dasha to bring her that woman. There followed an examination in earnest.

  “Tell me all about it, my good girl. Sit down beside me; that’s right. Well?”

  “I met Stepan Trofimovitch . . .”

  “Stay, hold your tongue! I warn you that if you tell lies or conceal anything, I’ll ferret it out. Well?”

  “Stepan Trofimovitch and I ... as soon as I came to Hatovo . . .” Sofya Matveyevna began almost breathlessly.

  “Stay, hold your tongue, wait a bit! Why do you gabble like that? To begin with, what sort of creature are you?”

  Sofya Matveyevna told her after a fashion, giving a very brief account of herself, however, beginning with Sevastopol. Varvara Petrovna listened in silence, sitting up erect in her chair, looking sternly straight into the speaker’s eyes.

  “Why are you so frightened? Why do you look at the ground? I like people who look me straight in the face and hold their own with me. Go on.”

  She told of their meeting, of her books, of how Stepan Trofimovitch had regaled the peasant woman with vodka . . . “That’s right, that’s right, don’t leave out the slightest detail,” Varvara Petrovna encouraged her.

  At last she described how they had set off, and how Stepan Trofimovitch had gone on talking, “really ill by that time,” and here had given an account of his life from the v
ery beginning, talking for some hours. “Tell me about his life.”

  Sofya Matveyevna suddenly stopped and was completely nonplussed.

  “I can’t tell you anything about that, madam,” she brought out, almost crying; “besides, I could hardly understand a word of it.”

  “Nonsense! You must have understood something.”

  “He told a long time about a distinguished lady with black hair.” Sofya Matveyevna flushed terribly though she noticed Varvara Petrovna’s fair hair and her complete dissimilarity with the “brunette” of the story.

  “Black-haired? What exactly? Come, speak!”

  “How this grand lady was deeply in love with his honour all her life long and for twenty years, but never dared to speak, and was shamefaced before him because she was a very stout lady. . . .”

  “The fool!” Varvara Petrovna rapped out thoughtfully but resolutely.

  Sofya Matveyevna was in tears by now.

  “I don’t know how to tell any of it properly, madam, because I was in a great fright over his honour; and I couldn’t understand, as he is such an intellectual gentleman.”

  “It’s not for a goose like you to judge of his intellect. Did he offer you his hand?”

  The speaker trembled.

  “Did he fall in love with you? Speak! Did he offer you his hand?” Varvara Petrovna shouted peremptorily.

  “That was pretty much how it was,” she murmured tearfully. “But I took it all to mean nothing, because of his illness,” she added firmly, raising her eyes.

  “What is your name?”

  “Sofya Matveyevna, madam,”

  “Well, then, let me tell you, Sofya Matveyevna, that he is a wretched and worthless little man. . . . Good Lord! Do you look upon me as a wicked woman ‘!”

  Sofya Matveyevna gazed open-eyed.

  “A wicked woman, a tyrant? Who has ruined his life?”

  “How can that be when you are crying yourself, madam?”

  Varvara Petrovna actually had tears in her eyes.

  “Well, sit down, sit down, don’t be frightened. Look me straight in the face again. Why are you blushing? Dasha, come here. Look at her. What do you think of her? Her heart is pure. . . .”

  And to the amazement and perhaps still greater alarm of Sofya Matveyevna, she suddenly patted her on the cheek.

  “It’s only a pity she is a fool. Too great a fool for her age. That’s all right, my dear, I’ll look after you. I see that it’s all nonsense. Stay near here for the time. A room shall be taken for you and you shall have food and everything else from me . . . till I ask for you.”

  Sofya Matveyevna stammered in alarm that she must hurry on.

  “You’ve no need to hurry. I’ll buy all your books, and meantime you stay here. Hold your tongue; don’t make excuses. If I hadn’t come you would have stayed with him all the same, wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t have left him on any account,” Sofya Matveyevna brought out softly and firmly, wiping her tears.

  It was late at night when Doctor Salzfish was brought. He was a very respectable old man and a practitioner of fairly wide experience who had recently lost his post in the service in consequence of some quarrel on a point of honour with his superiors. Varvara Petrovna instantly and actively took him under her protection. He examined the patient attentively, questioned him, and cautiously pronounced to Varvara Petrovna that “the sufferer’s” condition was highly dubious in consequence of complications, and that they must be prepared “even for the worst.” Varvara Petrovna, who had during twenty years get accustomed to expecting nothing serious or decisive to come from Stepan Trofimovitch, was deeply moved and even turned pale. “Is there really no hope?”

  “Can there ever be said to be absolutely no hope? But ...” She did not go to bed all night, and felt that the morning would never come. As soon as the patient opened his eyes and returned to consciousness (he was conscious all the time, however, though he was growing weaker every hour), she went up to him with a very resolute air.

  “Stepan Trofimovitch, one must be prepared for anything. I’ve sent for a priest. You must do what is right. . . .”

  Knowing his convictions, she was terribly afraid of his refusing. He looked at her with surprise.

  “Nonsense, nonsense!” she vociferated, thinking he was already refusing. “This is no time for whims. You have played the fool enough.”

  “But ... am I really so ill, then?”

  He agreed thoughtfully. And indeed I was much surprised to learn from Varvara Petrovna afterwards that he showed no fear of death at all. Possibly it was that he simply did not believe it, and still looked upon his illness as a trifling one.

  He confessed and took the sacrament very readily. Every one, Sofya Matveyevna, and even the servants, came to congratulate him on taking the sacrament. They were all moved to tears looking at his sunken and exhausted face and his blanched and quivering lips.

  “Oui, mes amis, and I only wonder that you . . . take so much trouble. I shall most likely get up to-morrow, and we will . . . set off. . . . Toute cette ceremonie . . . for which, of course, I feel every proper respect . . . was ...”

  “I beg you, father, to remain with the in valid,” said Varvara Petrovna hurriedly, stopping the priest, who had already taken off his vestments. “As soon as tea has been handed, I beg you to begin to speak of religion, to support his faith.”

  The priest spoke; every one was standing or sitting round the sick-bed.

  “In our sinful days,” the priest began smoothly, with a cup of tea in his hand, “faith in the Most High is the sole refuge of the race of man in all the trials and tribulations of life, as well as its hope for that eternal bliss promised to the righteous.”

  Stepan Trofimovitch seemed to revive, a subtle smile strayed on his lips.

  “Man pere, je vous remercie et vous etes bien bon, mais . . .”

  “No mais about it, no mais at all!” exclaimed Varvara Petrovna, bounding up from her chair. “Father,” she said, addressing the priest, “he is a man who . . . he is a man who . . . You will have to confess him again in another hour! That’s the sort of man he is.”

  Stepan Trofimovitch smiled faintly.

  “My friends,” he said, “God is necessary to me, if only because He is the only being whom one can love eternally.”

  Whether he was really converted, or whether the stately ceremony of the administration of the sacrament had impressed him and stirred the artistic responsiveness of his temperament or not, he firmly and, I am told, with great feeling uttered some words which were in flat contradiction with many of his former convictions.

  “My immortality is necessary if only because God will not be guilty of injustice and extinguish altogether the flame of love for Him once kindled in my heart. And what is more precious than love? Love is higher than existence, love is the crown of existence; and how is it possible that existence should not be under its dominance? If I have once loved Him and rejoiced in my love, is it possible that He should extinguish me and my joy and bring me to nothingness again? If there is a God, then I am immortal. Voila ma profession de foi.”

  “There is a God, Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you there is,” Varvara Petrovna implored him. “Give it up, drop all your foolishness for once in your life!” (I think she had not quite understood his profession de foi.)

  “My friend,” he said, growing more and more animated, though his voice broke frequently, “as soon as I understood . . . that turning of the cheek, I ... understood something else as well. J’ai menti toute ma vie, all my life, all! I should like . . . but that will do to-morrow. . . . To-morrow we will all set out.”

  Varvara Petrovna burst into tears. He was looking about for some one.

  “Here she is, she is here!” She seized Sofya Matveyevna by the hand and led her to him. He smiled tenderly.

  “Oh, I should dearly like to live again!” he exclaimed with an extraordinary rush of energy. “Every minute, every instant of life ought to be a blessing to
man . . . they ought to be, they certainly ought to be! It’s the duty of man to make it so; that’s the law of his nature, which always exists even if hidden. . . . Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha . . . and all of them . . . Shatov ...”

  I may remark that as yet no one had heard of Shatov’s fate — not Varvara Petrovna nor Darya Pavlovna, nor even Salzfish, who was the last to come from the town.

  Stepan Trofimovitch became more and more excited, feverishly so, beyond his strength.

  “The mere fact of the ever present idea that there exists something infinitely more just and more happy than I am fills me through and through with tender ecstasy — and glorifies me — oh, whoever I may be, whatever I have done! What is far more essential for man than personal happiness is to know and to believe at every instant that there is somewhere a perfect and serene happiness for all men and for everything. . . . The one essential condition of human existence is that man should always be able to bow down before something infinitely great. If men are deprived of the infinitely great they will not go on living and will die of despair. The Infinite and the Eternal are as essential for man as the little planet on which he dwells. My friends, all, all: hail to the Great Idea! The Eternal, Infinite Idea! It is essential to every man, whoever he may be, to bow down before what is the Great Idea. Even the stupidest man needs something great. Petrusha . . . oh, how I want to see them all again! They don’t know, they don’t know that that same Eternal, Grand Idea lies in them all!”

  Doctor Salzfish was not present at the ceremony. Coming in suddenly, he was horrified, and cleared the room, insisting that the patient must not be excited.

  Stepan Trofimovitch died three days later, but by that time he was completely unconscious. He quietly went out like a candle that is burnt down. After having the funeral service performed, Varvara Petrovna took the body of her poor friend to Skvoreshniki. His grave is in the precincts of the church and is already covered with a marble slab. The inscription and the railing will be added in the spring.

  Varvara Petrovna’s absence from town had lasted eight days. Sofya Matveyevna arrived in the carriage with her and seems to have settled with her for good. I may mention that as soon as Stepan Trofimovitch lost consciousness (the morning that he received the sacrament) Varvara Petrovna promptly asked Sofya Matveyevna to leave the cottage again, and waited on the invalid herself unassisted to the end, but she sent for her at once when he had breathed his last. Sofya Matveyevna was terribly alarmed by Varvara Petrovna’s proposition, or rather command, that she should settle for good at Skvoreshniki, but the latter refused to listen to her protests.