Poor Folk Anthology

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  "By the way, in parenthesis," he rattled on at once, "some people here are babbling that you'll kill him, and taking bets about it, so that Lembke positively thought of setting the police on, but Yulia Mihailovna forbade it… . But enough about that, quite enough, I only spoke of it to let you know. By the way, I moved the Lebyadkins the same day, you know; did you get my note with their address?"

  "I received it at the time."

  "I didn't do that by way of 'stupidity.' I did it genuinely, to serve you. If it was stupid, anyway, it was done in good faith."

  "Oh, all right, perhaps it was necessary… ." said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch dreamily, "only don't write any more letters to me, I beg you."

  "Impossible to avoid it. It was only one."

  "So Liputin knows?"

  "Impossible to help it: but Liputin, you know yourself, dare not … By the way, you ought to meet our fellows, that is, the fellows not our fellows, or you'll be finding fault again. Don't disturb yourself, not just now, but sometime. Just now it's raining. I'll let them know, they'll meet together, and we'll go in the evening. They're waiting, with their mouths open like young crows in a nest, to see what present we've brought them. They're a hot-headed lot. They've brought out leaflets, they're on the point of quarrelling. Virginsky is a universal humanity man, Liputin is a Fourierist with a marked inclination for police work; a man, I assure you, who is precious from one point of view, though he requires strict supervision in all others; and, last of all, that fellow with the long ears, he'll read an account of his own system. And do you know, they're offended at my treating them casually, and throwing cold water over them, but we certainly must meet."

  "You've made me out some sort of chief?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch dropped as carelessly as possible.

  Pyotr Stepanovitch looked quickly at him.

  "By the way," he interposed, in haste to change the subject, as though he had not heard. "I've been here two or three times, you know, to see her excellency, Varvara Petrovna, and I have been obliged to say a great deal too."

  "So I imagine."

  "No, don't imagine, I've simply told her that you won't kill him, well, and other sweet things. And only fancy; the very next day she knew I'd moved Marya Timofyevna beyond the river. Was it you told her?"

  "I never dreamed of it!"

  "I knew it wasn't you. Who else could it be? It's interesting."

  "Liputin, of course."

  "N-no, not Liputin," muttered Pyotr Stepanovitch, frowning; "I'll find out who. It's more like Shatov… . That's nonsense though. Let's leave that! Though it's awfully important… . By the way, I kept expecting that your mother would suddenly burst out with the great question… . Ach! yes, she was horribly glum at first, but suddenly, when I came to-day, she was beaming all over, what does that mean?"

  "It's because I promised her to-day that within five days I'll be engaged to Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch said with surprising openness.

  "Oh! … Yes, of course," faltered Pyotr Stepanovitch, seeming disconcerted. "There are rumours of her engagement, you know. It's true, too. But you're right, she'd run from under the wedding crown, you've only to call to her. You're not angry at my saying so?"

  "No, I'm not angry."

  "I notice it's awfully hard to make you angry to-day, and I begin to be afraid of you. I'm awfully curious to know how you'll appear to-morrow. I expect you've got a lot of things ready. You're not angry at my saying so?"

  Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch made no answer at all, which completed Pyotr Stepanovitch's irritation.

  "By the way, did you say that in earnest to your mother, about Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" he asked.

  Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked coldly at him.

  "Oh, I understand, it was only to soothe her, of course."

  "And if it were in earnest?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked firmly.

  "Oh, God bless you then, as they say in such cases. It won't hinder the cause (you see, I don't say 'our,' you don't like the word 'our') and I … well, I … am at your service, as you know."

  "You think so?"

  "I think nothingnothing," Pyotr Stepanovitch hurriedly declared, laughing, "because I know you consider what you're about beforehand for yourself, and everything with you has been thought out. I only mean that I am seriously at your service, always and everywhere, and in every sort of circumstance, every sort really, do you understand that?"

  Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch yawned.

  "I've bored you," Pyotr Stepanovitch cried, jumping up suddenly, and snatching his perfectly new round hat as though he were going away. He remained and went on talking, however, though he stood up, sometimes pacing about the room and tapping himself on the knee with his hat at exciting parts of the conversation.

  "I meant to amuse you with stories of the Lembkes, too," he cried gaily.

  "Afterwards, perhaps, not now. But how is Yulia Mihailovna?"

  "What conventional manners all of you have! Her health is no more to you than the health of the grey cat, yet you ask after it. I approve of that. She's quite well, and her respect for you amounts to a superstition, her immense anticipations of you amount to a superstition. She does not say a word about what happened on Sunday, and is convinced that you will overcome everything yourself by merely making your appearance. Upon my word! She fancies you can do anything. You're an enigmatic and romantic figure now, more than ever you wereextremely advantageous position. It is incredible how eager every one is to see you. They were pretty hot when I went away, but now it is more so than ever. Thanks again for your letter. They are all afraid of Count K. Do you know they look upon you as a spy? I keep that up, you're not angry?"

  "It does not matter."

  "It does not matter; it's essential in the long run. They have their ways of doing things here. I encourage it, of course; Yulia Mihailovna, in the first place, Gaganov too… . You laugh? But you know I have my policy; I babble away and suddenly I say something clever just as they are on the look-out for it. They crowd round me and I humbug away again. They've all given me up in despair by now: 'he's got brains but he's dropped from the moon.' Lembke invites me to enter the service so that I may be reformed. You know I treat him mockingly, that is, I compromise him and he simply stares, Yulia Mihailovna encourages it. Oh, by the way, Gaganov is in an awful rage with you. He said the nastiest things about you yesterday at Duhovo. I told him the whole truth on the spot, that is, of course, not the whole truth. I spent the whole day at Duhovo. It's a splendid estate, a fine house."

  "Then is he at Duhovo now?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch broke in suddenly, making a sudden start forward and almost leaping up from his seat.

  "No, he drove me here this morning, we returned together," said Pyotr Stepanovitch, appearing not to notice Stavrogin's momentary excitement. "What's this? I dropped a book." He bent down to pick up the "keepsake" he had knocked down. The Women of Balzac,' with illustrations." He opened it suddenly. "I haven't read it. Lembke writes novels too."

  "Yes?" queried Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, as though beginning to be interested.

  "In Russian, on the sly, of course, Yulia Mihailovna knows and allows it. He's henpecked, but with good manners; it's their system. Such strict formsuch self-restraint! Something of the sort would be the thing for us."

  "You approve of government methods?"

  "I should rather think so! It's the one thing that's natural and practicable in Russia… . I won't … I won't," he cried out suddenly, "I'm not referring to that not a word on delicate subjects. Good-bye, though, you look rather green."

  "I'm feverish."

  "I can well believe it; you should go to bed. By the way, there are Skoptsi here in the neighbourhood they're curious people … of that later, though. Ah, here's another anecdote. There's an infantry regiment here in the district. I was drinking last Friday evening with the officers. We've three friends among them, vous comprenez? They were discussing atheism and I need hardly say they made short work of God. They were squealing with delight. By the way,
Shatov declares that if there's to be a rising in Russia we must begin with atheism. Maybe it's true. One grizzled old stager of a captain sat mum, not saying a word. All at once he stands up in the middle of the' room and says aloud, as though speaking to himself: 'If there's no God, how can I be a captain then?' He took up His cap and went out, flinging up his hands."

  "He expressed a rather sensible idea," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, yawning for the third time.

  "Yes? I didn't understand it; I meant to ask you about it. Well what else have I to tell you? The Shpigulin factory's interesting; as you know, there are five hundred workmen in it, it's a hotbed of cholera, it's not been cleaned for fifteen years and the factory hands are swindled. The owners are millionaires. I assure you that some among the hands have an idea of the Internationale,. What, you smile? You'll see only give me ever so little time! I've asked you to fix the time already and now I ask you again and then… . But I beg your pardon, I won't, I won't speak of that, don't frown. There!" He turned back suddenly. "I quite forgot the chief thing. I was told just now that our box had come from Petersburg."

  "You mean … " Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked at him, not understanding.

  "Your box, your things, coats, trousers, and linen have come. Is it true?"

  "Yes … they said something about it this morning."

  "Ach, then can't I open it at once! … "

  "Ask Alexey."

  "Well, to-morrow, then, will to-morrow do? You see my new jacket, dress-coat and three pair's of trousers are with your things, from Sharmer's, by your recommendation, do you remember?"

  "I hear you're going in for being a gentleman here," said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch with a smile. "Is it true you're going to take lessons at the riding school?"

  Pyotr Stepanovitch smiled a wry smile. "I say," he said suddenly, with excessive haste in a voice that quivered and faltered, "I say, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, let's drop personalities once for all. Of course, you can despise me as much as you like if it amuses youbut we'd better dispense with personalities for a time, hadn't we?"

  "All right," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch assented.

  Pyotr Stepanovitch grinned, tapped his knee with his hat, shifted from one leg to the other, and recovered his former expression.

  "Some people here positively look upon me as your rival with Lizaveta Nikolaevna, so I must think of my appearance, mustn't I," he laughed. "Who was it told you that though? H'm. It's just eight o'clock; well I must be off. I promised to look in on Varvara Petrovna, but I shall make my escape. And you go to bed and you'll be stronger to-morrow. It's raining and dark, but I've a cab, it's not over safe in the streets here at night… . Ach, by the way, there's a run-away convict from Siberia, Fedka, wandering about the town and the neighbourhood. Only fancy, he used to be a serf of mine, and my papa sent him for a soldier fifteen years ago and took the money for him. He's a very remarkable person."

  "You have been talking to him?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch scanned him.

  "I have. He lets me know where he is. He's ready for anything, anything, for money of course, but he has convictions, too, of a sort, of course. Oh yes, by the way, again, if you meant anything of that plan, you remember, about Lizaveta Nikolaevna, I tell you once again, I too am a fellow ready for anything of any kind you like, and absolutely at your service… . Hullo! are you reaching for your stick. Oh no … only fancy … I thought you were looking for your stick."

  Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was looking for nothing and said nothing.

  But he had risen to his feet very suddenly with a strange look in his face.

  "If you want any help about Mr. Gaganov either," Pyotr Stepanovitch blurted out suddenly, this time looking straight at the paper-weight, "of course I can arrange it all, and I'm certain you won't be able to manage without me."

  He went out suddenly without waiting for an answer, but thrust his head in at the door once more. "I mention that," he gabbled hurriedly, "because Shatov had no right either, you know, to risk his life last Sunday when he attacked you, had he? I should be glad if you would make a note of that." He disappeared again without waiting for an answer.

  Perhaps he imagined, as he made his exit, that as soon as he was left alone, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch would begin beating on the wall with his fists, and no doubt he would have been glad to see this, if that had been possible. But, if so, he was greatly mistaken. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was still calm. He remained standing for two minutes in the same position by the table, apparently plunged in thought, but soon a cold and listless smile came on to his lips. He slowly sat down again in the same place in the corner of the sofa, and shut his eyes as though from weariness. The corner of the letter was still peeping from under the paperweight, but he didn't even move to cover it.

  He soon sank into complete forgetfulness.

  When Pyotr Stepanovitch went out without coming to see her, as he had promised, Varvara Petrovna, who had been worn out by anxiety during these days, could not control herself, and ventured to visit her son herself, though it was not her regular time. She was still haunted by the idea that he would tell her something conclusive. She knocked at the door gently as before, and again receiving no answer, she opened the door. Seeing that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was sitting strangely motionless, she cautiously advanced to the sofa with a throbbing heart. She seemed struck by the fact that he could fall asleep so quickly and that he could sleep sitting like that, so erect and motionless, so that his breathing even was scarcely perceptible. His face was pale and forbidding, but it looked, as it were, numb and rigid. His brows were somewhat contracted and frowning. He positively had the look of a lifeless wax figure. She stood over him for about three minutes, almost holding her breath, and suddenly she was seized with terror. She withdrew on tiptoe, stopped at the door, hurriedly made the sign of the cross over him, and retreated unobserved, with a new oppression and a new anguish at her heart.

  He slept a long while, more than an hour, and still in the same rigid pose: not a muscle of his face twitched, there was not the faintest movement in his whole body, and his brows were still contracted in the same forbidding frown. If Varvara Petrovna had remained another three minutes she could not have endured the stifling sensation that this motionless lethargy roused in her, and would have waked him. But he suddenly opened his eyes, and sat for ten minutes as immovable as before, staring persistently and curiously, as though at some object in the corner which had struck him, although there was nothing new or striking in the room.

  Suddenly there rang out the low deep note of the clock on the wall.

  With some uneasiness he turned to look at it, but almost at the same moment the other door opened, and the butler, Alexey Yegorytch came in. He had in one hand a greatcoat, a scarf, and a hat, and in the other a silver tray with a note on it.

  "Half-past nine," he announced softly, and laying the other things on a chair, he held out the tray with the notea scrap of paper unsealed and scribbled in pencil. Glancing through it, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch took a pencil from the table, added a few words, and put the note back on the tray.

  "Take it back as soon as I have gone out, and now dress me," he said, getting up from the sofa.

  Noticing that he had on a light velvet jacket, he thought a minute, and told the man to bring him a cloth coat, which he wore on more ceremonious occasions. At last, when he was dressed and had put on his hat, he locked the door by which his mother had come into the room, took the letter from under the paperweight, and without saying a word went out into the corridor, followed by Alexey Yegorytch. From the corridor they went down the narrow stone steps of the back stairs to a passage which opened straight into the garden. In the corner stood a lantern and a big umbrella.

  "Owing to the excessive rain the mud in the streets is beyond anything," Alexey Yegorytch announced, making a final effort to deter his master from the expedition. But opening his umbrella the latter went without a word into the damp and sodden garden, which was dark as a cellar. The wind was roaring and tossing the bar
e tree-tops. The little sandy paths were wet and slippery. Alexey Yegoryvitch walked along as he was, bareheaded, in his swallow-tail coat, lighting up the path for about three steps before them with the lantern.

  "Won't it be noticed?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch asked suddenly.

  "Not from the windows. Besides I have seen to all that already," the old servant answered in quiet and measured tones.

  "Has my mother retired?"

  "Her excellency locked herself in at nine o'clock as she has done the last few days, and there is no possibility of her knowing anything. At what hour am I to expect your honour?"

  "At one or half-past, not later than two."

  "Yes, sir."

  Crossing the garden by the winding paths that they both knew by heart, they reached the stone wall, and there in the farthest corner found a little door, which led out into a narrow and deserted lane, and was always kept locked. It appeared that Alexey Yegorytch had the key in his hand.

  "Won't the door creak?" Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch inquired again.

  But Alexey Yegorytch informed him that it had been oiled yesterday "as well as to-day." He was by now wet through. Unlocking the door he gave the key to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch.

  "If it should be your pleasure to be taking a distant walk, I would warn your honour that I am not confident of the folk here, especially in the back lanes, and especially beyond the river," he could not resist warning him again. He was an old servant, who had been like a nurse to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, and at one time used to dandle him in his arms; he was a grave and severe man who was fond of listening to religious discourse and reading books of devotion.

  "Don't be uneasy, Alexey Yegorytch."

  "May God's blessing rest on you, sir, but only in your righteous undertakings."

  "What?" said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, stopping short in the lane.

  Alexey Yegorytch resolutely repeated his words. He had never before ventured to express himself in such language in his master's presence.