Poor Folk Anthology

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  "To your health, let's clink glasses!" he said, breaking off his conversation with the pock-marked man.

  "And will you let me clink with you too?" said the pretty youth, holding out his glass across the table. Till the champagne arrived he had been very silent, and seemed pensive. The dadais said nothing at all, but sat silent and ate a great deal.

  "With pleasure," I answered Trishatov. We clinked glasses and drank.

  "But I'm not going to drink your health," observed the dadais turning to me; "not because I desire your death, but so that you may not drink any more here to-day." He spoke gloomily and ponderously. "Three glasses is enough for you. I see you are looking at my unwashed fist!" he went on, putting his fist on the table. "I don't wash it, but as it is I put it at Lambert's service for smashing other people's heads when he's in a tight place." And saying this he brought down his fist on the table with such force that he set all the plates and glasses rattling. Besides us there were people dining at four other tables, all of them officers or gentlemen of dignified appearance. It was a fashionable restaurant; all broke off their conversation for a moment and looked round to our corner; and indeed I fancied we had attracted curiosity for some time past. Lambert flushed crimson.

  "Ah, he's at it again! I thought I had asked you to behave yourself, Nikolay Semyonovitch," he said to Andreyev in a furious whisper. The latter gave him a prolonged stare.

  "I don't want my new friend Dolgorowky to drink a great deal here to-day."

  Lambert flushed more hotly than ever.

  The pock-marked man listened in silence but with evident pleasure. Andreyev's behaviour seemed to please him, for some reason. I was the only one who did not understand why I was not to drink much wine.

  "He says that because he's only just had some money! You shall have another seven roubles directly after dinner—only do let us have dinner, don't disgrace us," Lambert hissed at him.

  "Aha!" the dadais growled triumphantly. At this the pock-marked man was absolutely delighted, and he sniggered spitefully.

  "Listen, you really … " began Trishatov to his friend with uneasiness and almost distress in his voice, evidently anxious to restrain him. Andreyev subsided, but not for long; that was not his intention. Just across the table, five paces from us, two gentleman were dining, engaged in lively conversation. Both were middle-aged gentleman, who looked extremely conscious of their own dignity; one was tall and very stout, the other was also very stout but short, they were discussing in Polish the events of the day in Paris. For some time past the dadais had been watching them inquisitively and listening to their talk. The short Pole evidently struck him as a comic figure, and he promptly conceived an aversion for him after the manner of envious and splenetic people, who often take such sudden dislikes for no reason whatever. Suddenly the short Pole pronounced the name of the deputy, Madier de Montjeau, but, as so many Poles do, he pronounced it with an accent on the syllable before the last, instead of on the last syllable; this was enough for the dadais, he turned to the Poles, and drawing up himself with dignity, he suddenly articulated loudly and distinctly as though addressing a question to them:

  "Madier de Montjeáu?"

  The Poles turned to him savagely.

  "What do you want?" the tall stout Pole shouted threateningly to him in Russian.

  The dadais paused. "Madier de Montjeáu," he repeated suddenly again, to be heard by the whole room, giving no sort of explanation, just as he had stupidly set upon me at the door with the reiterated question "Dolgorowky." The Poles jumped up from their seats, Lambert leapt up from the table and rushed to Andreyev, but leaving him, darted up to the Poles and began making cringing apologies to them.

  "They are buffoons, Pani, they are buffoons," the little Pole repeated contemptuously, as red as a carrot with indignation. "Soon it will be impossible to come!" There was a stir all over the room too, and a murmur of disapproval, though laughter was predominant.

  "Come out … please … come along!" Lambert muttered completely disconcerted, doing his utmost to get Andreyev out of the room. The latter looking searchingly at Lambert, and judging that he would now give the money, agreed to follow him. Probably he had already extorted money from Lambert by the same kind of disgraceful behaviour. Trishatov seemed about to run after them too, but he looked at me and checked himself.

  "Ach, how horrid," he said hiding his eyes with his slender fingers.

  "Very horrid," whispered the pock-marked man, looking really angry at last.

  Meanwhile Lambert came back looking quite pale, and gesticulating eagerly, began whispering something to the pock-marked man. The latter listened disdainfully, and meanwhile ordered the waiter to make haste with the coffee; he was evidently in a hurry to get off. And yet the whole affair had only been a schoolboyish prank. Trishatov got up with his cup of coffee, and came and sat down beside me.

  "I am very fond of him," he said to me with a face as open as though he had been talking to me like this all his life. "You can't imagine how unhappy Andreyev is. He has wasted all his sister's dowry on eating and drinking, and in fact all they had he spent on eating and drinking during the year he was in the service, and I see now he worries. And as for his not washing, it's just through despair. And he has awfully strange ideas: he'll tell you all of a sudden that he's both a scoundrel and an honest man—that it's all the same and no difference: and that there's no need to do anything, either good or bad, they are just the same, one may do good or bad, but that the best of all is to be still, not taking off one's clothes for a month at a time, to eat, and drink, and sleep—and nothing else. But believe me, he only says that. And do you know, I really believe he played the fool like this just now to break off with Lambert once for all. He spoke of it yesterday. Would you believe it, sometimes at night or when he has been sitting long alone, he begins to cry, and, do you know, when he cries, it's different from anyone else; he howls, he howls in an awful way, and you know it's even more pitiful … and he's such a big strong fellow, and then all of a sudden—to see him howling. It is sad, poor fellow, isn't it? I want to save him, though I am a wretched hopeless scamp myself, you wouldn't believe. Will you let me in, Dolgoruky, if I ever come and see you?"

  "Oh, do come, I really like you."

  "What for? Well, thank you. Listen, will you drink another glass? But after all you'd better not. He was right when he said you had better not drink any more," he suddenly gave me a significant wink, "but I'll drink it all the same. I have nothing now, but would you believe it, I can't hold myself back in anything; if you were to tell me I must not dine at a restaurant again, I should be ready to do anything, simply to dine there. Oh, we genuinely want to be honest, I assure you, but we keep putting it off,

  "And the years pass by and the best of our years!

  "I am awfully afraid that he will hang himself. He'll go and do it without telling anyone. He's like that. They are all hanging themselves nowadays; why, I don't know—perhaps there are a great many people like us. I, for instance, can't exist without money to spend. Luxuries matter a great deal more to me than necessities.

  "I say, are you fond of music? I'm awfully fond of it. I'll play you something when I come and see you. I play very well on the piano and I studied music a very long time. I've studied seriously. If I were to compose an opera, do you know I should take the subject from Faust. I am very fond of that subject. I am always making up a scene in the cathedral, just imagining it in my head, I mean. The Gothic cathedral, the interior, the choirs, the hymns; Gretchen enters, and mediaeval singing, you know, so that you can hear the fifteenth century in it. Gretchen overwhelmed with grief; to begin with a recitative, subdued but terrible, full of anguish; the choirs thunder on, gloomily, sternly, callously,

  "Dies irae, dies illa!

  "And all of a sudden—the voice of the devil, the song of the devil. He is unseen, there is only his song, side by side with the hymns, mingling with the hymns, almost melting into them, but at the same time quite different from them—that
must be managed somehow. The song is prolonged, persistent, it must be a tenor, it must be a tenor. It begins softly, tenderly: 'Do you remember, Gretchen, when you were innocent, when you were a child, you came with your mother to this cathedral and lisped your prayers from an old prayer-book?' But the song gets louder and louder, more intense; on higher notes: there's a sound of tears in them, misery unceasing, and hopeless, and finally despair. 'There's no forgiveness, Gretchen, there's no forgiveness for you here!' Gretchen tries to pray, but only cries of misery rise up from her soul—you know when the breast is convulsed with tears—but Satan's song never ceases, and pierces deeper and deeper into the soul like a spear; it gets higher and higher, and suddenly breaks off almost in a shriek: 'The end to all, accursed one!' Gretchen falls on her knees, clasps her hands before her—and then comes her prayer, something very short, semi-recitative, but naïve, entirely without ornament, something mediaeval in the extreme, four lines, only four lines altogether—Stradella has some such notes—and at the last note she swoons! General confusion. She is picked up, carried out, and then the choir thunders forth. It is, as it were, a storm of voices, a hymn of inspiration, of victory, overwhelming, something in the style of our

  'Borne on high by angels'

  —so that everything is shaken to its foundations, and it all passes into the triumphant cry of exaltation 'Hosanna!'—as though it were the cry of the whole universe and it rises and rises, and then the curtain falls! Yes, you know if only I could, I should have done something; only I can never do anything now, I do nothing but dream. I am always dreaming; my whole life has turned into a dream. I dream at night too. Ah, Dolgoruky, have you read Dickens' 'Old Curiosity Shop'?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "Do you remember—wait, I will have another glass—do you remember, there's one passage at the end, when they—that mad old man and that charming girl of thirteen, his grandchild, take refuge after their fantastic flight and wandering in some remote place in England, near a Gothic mediaeval church, and the little girl has received some post there, and shows the church to visitors … then the sun is setting, and the child in the church porch, bathed in the last rays of light, stands and gazes at the sunset, with gentle pensive contemplation in her child soul, a soul full of wonder as though before some mystery, for both alike are mysteries, the sun, the thought of God, and the church, the thought of man, aren't they? Oh, I don't know how to express it, only God loves such first thoughts in children… . While near her, on the step, the crazy old grandfather gazes at her with a fixed look … you know there's nothing special in it, in that picture of Dickens, there's absolutely nothing in it, but yet one will remember it all one's life, and it has survived for all Europe— why? It's splendid! It's the innocence in it! And I don't know what there is in it, but it's fine. I used always to be reading novels when I was at school. Do you know I had a sister in the country only a year older than me… . Oh, now it's all sold, and we have no country-place! I was sitting with her on the terrace under our old lime trees, we were reading that novel, and the sun was setting too, and suddenly we left off reading, and said to one another that we would be kind too, that we would be good—I was then preparing for the university and … Ach, Dolgoruky, you know, every man has his memories! … "

  And he suddenly let his pretty little head fall on my shoulder and burst out crying. I felt very very sorry for him. It is true that he had drunk a great deal of wine, but he had talked to me so sincerely, so like a brother, with such feeling… . Suddenly, at that instant, we heard a shout from the street, and there was a violent tapping at the window (there was a large plate-glass window on the ground floor, so that anyone could tap on the window with his fingers from the street). This was the ejected Andreyev.

  "Ohé Lambert! Où est Lambert? As-tu vu Lambert?" we heard his wild shout in the street.

  "Ah! yes, here he is! So he's not gone away?" cried the boy, jumping up from his place.

  "Our account!" Lambert cried through his clenched teeth to the waiter. His hands shook with anger as he paid the bill, but the pock-marked man did not allow Lambert to pay for him.

  "Why not? Why, I invited you, you accepted my invitation."

  "No, excuse me," the pock-marked man pulled out his purse, and reckoning out his share he paid separately.

  "You'll offend me, Semyon Sidorovitch."

  "That's what I wish," Semyon Sidorovitch snapped out, taking his hat, and without saying good-bye to anybody, he walked alone out of the room. Lambert tossed the money to the waiter and hurriedly ran after him, even forgetting my existence in his confusion. Trishatov and I walked out last of all. Andreyev was standing like a post at the door, waiting for Trishatov.

  "You scoundrel!" cried Lambert, unable to restrain himself.

  "There, there!" Andreyev grunted at him, and with one swing of his arm he knocked off his round hat, which went spinning along the pavement. Lambert flew abjectly to pick it up.

  "Vinq-cinq roubles!" Andreyev showed Trishatov the note, which he had just got from Lambert.

  "That's enough," Trishatov shouted to him. "Why must you always make an uproar? … And why have you wrung twenty-five roubles out of him? You only ought to have had seven."

  "Why did I wring it out of him? He promised us a private dinner with Athenian women, and instead of women he regaled us with the pock-marked man, and what's more, I did not finish my dinner and I've been freezing here in the cold, it's certainly worth eighteen roubles. He owed me seven, so that makes twenty-five."

  "Go to the devil both of you!" yelled Lambert. "I'll send you both packing, I'll pay you out … "

  "Lambert, I'll send you packing. I'll pay you out!" cried Andreyev. "Adieu, mon prince, don't drink any more wine! Petya, marche! Ohé Lambert! Où est Lambert? As-tu vu Lambert?" he roared for the last time as he strode away.

  "So I shall come and see you, may I?" Trishatov murmured hurriedly, and hastened after his friend.

  I was left alone with Lambert.

  "Well … come along!" he brought out, seeming stupefied and breathing with difficulty.

  "Where shall I come along? I'm not coming anywhere with you!" I made haste to reply defiantly.

  "You're not coming," he said, startled and apprehensive. "Why, I have only been waiting for us to be alone!"

  "But where to go?" I must confess I, too, had a slight ringing in my head, from the three glasses of champagne and the two wine- glasses of sherry I had drunk.

  "This way, this way. Do you see?"

  "But this is an oyster bar: you see it is written up. It smells so horrid … "

  "That's only because you have just had dinner. We won't have oysters, but I'll give you some champagne… ."

  "I don't want any! You want to make me drunk."

  "That's what they told you; they've been laughing at you. You believe blackguards like that!"

  "No, Trishatov's not a blackguard. But I know how to take care of myself—that's all!"

  "So you've a will of your own, have you?"

  "Yes, I have a character; more than you have, for you're servile to everybody you meet. You disgraced us, you begged pardon of the Poles like a lackey. I suppose you've often been beaten in restaurants?"

  "But we must have a talk, you fool!" he cried with the same contemptuous impatience, which almost implied, what are you driving at? "Why, you are afraid, aren't you? Are you my friend or not?"

  "I am not your friend and you are a swindler. We'll go along simply to show you I'm not afraid of you. Oh, what a horrid smell, it smells of cheese! How disgusting!"

  Chapter 6

  1.

  I must beg the reader to remember again that I had a slight giddiness in my head; if it had not been for that I should have acted and spoken differently. In the shop, in a back room, one could indeed have eaten oysters, and we sat down to a table covered with a filthy cloth. Lambert ordered champagne; a glass of cold wine of a golden colour was set before me and seemed looking at me invitingly; but I felt annoyed.

  "You
see, Lambert, what annoys me most is that you think you can order me about now as you used to do at Touchard's, while you are cringing upon everybody here."

  "You fool! Aië, let's clink glasses."

  "You don't even deign to keep up appearances with me: you might at least disguise the fact that you want to make me drunk."

  "You are talking rot and you're drunk. You must drink some more, and you'll be more cheerful. Take your glass, take it!"

  "Why do you keep on 'take it'? I am going and that's the end of it."

  And I really did get up. He was awfully vexed:

  "It was Trishatov whispered that to you: I saw you whispering. You are a fool for that. Alphonsine is really disgusted if he goes near her… . He's a dirty beast, I'll tell you what he's like."

  "You've told me already. You can talk of nothing but your Alphonsine, you're frightfully limited."

  "Limited?" he did not understand. "They've gone over now to that pock-marked fellow. That's what it is! That's why I sent them about their business. They're dishonest. That fellow's a blackguard and he's corrupting them. I insisted that they should always behave decently."

  I sat still and as it were mechanically took my glass and drank a draught.

  "I'm ever so far ahead of you in education," I said. But he was only too delighted that I went on sitting there, and at once filled up my glass.

  "And you know you're afraid of them!" I went on taunting him, and no doubt I was even nastier than he was at that moment. "Andreyev knocked your hat off, and you gave him twenty-five roubles for it."