The Eternal Husband and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “And what of this handful?” I screamed, so they say, at the top of my lungs, raised my arms, and hurled myself at him …

  Oh, wild, wild! Incomprehension! Implausibility! Impossibility!

  IV

  I WAS ONLY FIVE MINUTES LATE

  Or not so? Is it plausible? Can you say it’s possible? Why, for what reason, did this woman die?

  Oh, believe me, I understand; but what she died for—is still a question. She got frightened of my love, asked herself seriously: to accept or not to accept, and couldn’t bear the question, and preferred to die. I know, I know, there’s no point racking one’s brain: she made too many promises, got frightened that she couldn’t keep them—it’s clear. Here there are several quite terrible circumstances.

  Because what did she die for? The question still stands. The question throbs, it’s throbbing in my brain. I would even have let her stay like that, if she’d wanted it to stay like that. She didn’t believe it, that’s what! No—no, I’m lying, that’s not it at all. Simply because with me it had to be honest; if it’s love, it must be total love, and not like the love of some merchant. And since she was too chaste, too pure to consent to the kind of love a merchant needs, she didn’t want to deceive me. Didn’t want to deceive me with half love, under the guise of love, or with quarter love. Too honest she was, that’s what, sirs! I wanted to implant breadth of heart in her, remember? A strange thought.

  I’m terribly curious: did she respect me? I don’t know, did she despise me or not? I don’t think she did. It’s terribly strange: why did it never occur to me, during the whole winter, that she despised me? I was in the highest degree certain of the opposite, until that very moment when she looked at me with stern astonishment. Stern, precisely. Then I understood at once that she despised me. Understood irrevocably, for all eternity! Ah, let her, let her despise me, even all her life, but—let her live, live! Just now she still walked, talked. I don’t understand at all how she could throw herself out the window! And how could I have supposed it even five minutes before? I’ve called Lukerya. I won’t let Lukerya go now for anything, not for anything!

  Oh, we could still have come to some agreement. We only got terribly unused to each other over the winter, but couldn’t we have got accustomed again? Why, why couldn’t we have come together and begun a new life again? I’m magnanimous, so is she—there’s the point of connection! A few words more, two days, no longer, and she’d have understood everything.

  Above all, the pity is that it was all chance—simple, barbaric, insensate chance. That’s the pity of it! Five minutes is all, I was only five minutes late! If I’d come five minutes earlier—the moment would have flown over like a cloud, and would never have entered her head afterward. And it would have ended with her understanding everything. And now again empty rooms, again I’m alone. There’s the pendulum ticking, it doesn’t care, it’s not sorry for anything. No one’s here—that’s the trouble!

  I pace, I keep pacing. I know, I know, don’t prompt me: you find it ridiculous that I complain about chance and about five minutes? But it’s obvious here. Consider one thing: she didn’t even leave a note saying something like “blame no one for my death,” as they all do. Couldn’t she have considered that they might even give Lukerya trouble: “You were the only one with her, so it was you who pushed her.” At the least, they’d be pestering her for no reason, if four people in the courtyard hadn’t seen from windows in the wing and from the courtyard how she stood with the icon in her hands and threw herself down. But this, too, is chance, that people were standing there and saw it. No, all this is a moment, just one unaccountable moment. Suddenness and fantasy! So what if she prayed before the icon? That doesn’t mean it was before death. The whole moment lasted maybe only some ten minutes, the whole decision—precisely as she was standing by the wall, her head leaning on her hand, and smiling. The thought flew into her head, whirled around, and—and she couldn’t resist it.

  There’s an obvious misunderstanding here, like it or not. She still could have lived with me. And what if it was anemia? Simply from anemia, from an exhaustion of vital energy? She got tired over the winter, that’s what…

  I was late!!!

  How thin she is in the coffin, how sharp her little nose is! Her eyelashes lie like little points. And how she fell—didn’t crush, didn’t break anything! Only this “handful of blood.” A teaspoon, that is. Internal concussion. A strange thought: if only it were possible not to bury her? Because if she’s taken away, then… oh, no, it’s almost impossible that she’ll be taken away! Oh, I know they must take her away, I’m not crazy and not raving at all, on the contrary, never before has my mind shone so—but how can it be that again there’s no one in the house, again two rooms, and again myself alone with the pledges. Raving, raving, there’s where the raving is! I wore her out—that’s what!

  What are your laws to me now? What do I need your customs, your morals, your life, your state, your faith for? Let your judge judge me, let them take me to court, to your public court, and I’ll say I recognize nothing. The judge will shout: “Silence, officer!” But I’ll shout back at him: “Where did you get such power now that I should obey you? Why did dark insensateness smash what is dearest of all? Why do I need your laws now? I separate myself.” Oh, it makes no difference to me!

  Blind, blind! Dead, she doesn’t hear! You don’t know what paradise I’d have surrounded you with. Paradise was in my soul, I’d have planted it all around you! Well, so you wouldn’t love me—let it be, what of it? Everything would be like that, everything would stay like that. You’d tell me things as you would a friend—and we’d be joyful, and we’d laugh joyfully looking into each other’s eyes. And so we’d live. And even if you came to love someone else—well, let it be, let it be! You’d walk with him and laugh, and I’d watch from the other side of the street… Oh, let it all be, only let her open her eyes at least once! For one moment, only one! she’d look at me as she did just now, when she stood in front of me and swore to be my faithful wife! Oh, in one look she’d understand everything.

  Insensateness! Oh, nature! People are alone on the earth—that’s the trouble! “Is there a living man on the field?” the Russian warrior cries. I, too, though not a warrior, cry out, and no one answers. They say the sun gives life to the universe. Let the sun rise and—look at it, isn’t it dead? Everything is dead, and the dead are everywhere. Only people, and around them silence—that’s the earth! “People, love one another”—who said that? whose testament is it? The pendulum ticks insensibly, disgustingly. It’s two o’clock in the morning. Her little boots are standing by her bed, just as if they were waiting for her… No, seriously, when she’s taken away tomorrow, what about me then?

  THE DREAM OF A RIDICULOUS MAN

  A FANTASTIC STORY

  I

  I AM A ridiculous man. They call me mad now. That would be a step up in rank, if I did not still remain as ridiculous to them as before. But now I’m no longer angry, now they are all dear to me, and even when they laugh at me—then, too, they are even somehow especially dear to me. I would laugh with them—not really at myself, but for love of them—if it weren’t so sad for me to look at them. Sad because they don’t know the truth, and I do know the truth. Ah, how hard it is to be the only one who knows the truth! But they won’t understand that. No, they won’t understand it.

  Before, it caused me great anguish that I seemed ridiculous. Not seemed, but was. I was always ridiculous, and I know it, maybe right from birth. Maybe from the age of seven I already knew I was ridiculous. Then I went to school, then to the university, and what—the more I studied, the more I learned that I was ridiculous. So that for me, all my university education existed ultimately as if only to prove and explain to me, the deeper I went into it, that I was ridiculous. And as with learning, so with life. Every passing year the same consciousness grew and strengthened in me that my appearance was in all respects ridiculous. I was ridiculed by everyone and always. But none of th
em knew or suspected that if there was one man on earth who was more aware than anyone else of my ridiculousness, it was I myself, and this was the most vexing thing for me, that they didn’t know it, but here I myself was to blame: I was always so proud that I would never confess it to anyone for anything. This pride grew in me over the years, and if it had so happened that I allowed myself to confess to anyone at all that I was ridiculous, I think that same evening I’d have blown my head off with a revolver. Oh, how I suffered in my youth over being unable to help myself and suddenly somehow confessing it to my comrades. But once I reached early manhood, I became a bit calmer for some reason, though with every passing year I learned more and more about my terrible quality. Precisely for some reason, because to this day I cannot determine why. Maybe because a dreadful anguish was growing in my soul over one circumstance which was infinitely higher than the whole of me: namely—the conviction was overtaking me that everywhere in the world it made no difference. I had had a presentiment of this for a very long time, but the full conviction came during the last year somehow suddenly. I suddenly felt that it would make no difference to me whether the world existed or there was nothing anywhere. I began to feel and know with my whole being that with me there was nothing. At first I kept thinking that instead there had been a lot before, but then I realized that there had been nothing before either, it only seemed so for some reason. Little by little I became convinced that there would never be anything. Then I suddenly stopped being angry with people and began almost not to notice them. Indeed, this was manifest even in the smallest trifles: it would happen, for instance, that I’d walk down the street and bump into people. It wasn’t really because I was lost in thought: what could I have been thinking about, I had completely ceased to think then: it made no difference to me. And it would have been fine if I had resolved questions—oh, I never resolved a single one, and there were so many! But it began to make no difference to me, and the questions all went away.

  And then, after that, I learned the truth. I learned the truth last November, precisely on the third of November, and since that time I remember my every moment. It was a gloomy evening, as gloomy as could be. I was returning home then, between ten and eleven o’clock, and I remember I precisely thought that there could not be a gloomier time. Even in the physical respect. Rain had poured down all day, and it was the coldest and gloomiest rain, even some sort of menacing rain, I remember that, with an obvious hostility to people, and now, between ten and eleven, it suddenly stopped, and a terrible dampness set in, damper and colder than when it was raining, and a sort of steam rose from everything, from every stone in the street and from every alleyway, if you looked far into its depths from the street. I suddenly imagined that if the gaslights went out everywhere, it would be more cheerful, and that with the gaslights it was sadder for the heart, because they threw light on it all. I’d had almost no dinner that day, and had spent since early evening sitting at some engineer’s, with two more friends sitting there as well. I kept silent, and they seemed to be sick of me. They talked about something provocative and suddenly even grew excited. But it made no difference to them, I could see that, and they got excited just so. I suddenly told them that: “Gentlemen,” I said, “it makes no difference to you.” They weren’t offended, but they all started laughing at me. It was because I said it without any reproach and simply because it made no difference to me. And they could see that it made no difference to me, and found that amusing.

  When I thought in the street about the gaslights, I looked up at the sky. The sky was terribly dark, but one could clearly make out the torn clouds and the bottomless black spots between them. Suddenly in one of these spots I noticed a little star and began gazing at it intently. Because this little star gave me an idea: I resolved to kill myself that night. I had firmly resolved on it two months earlier, and, poor as I was, had bought an excellent revolver and loaded it that same day. But two months had passed and it was still lying in the drawer; but it made so little difference to me that I wished finally to seize a moment when it was less so—why, I didn’t know. And thus, during those two months, returning home each night, I thought I was going to shoot myself. I kept waiting for the moment. And so now this little star gave me the idea, and I resolved that it would be that night without fail. And why the star gave me the idea—I don’t know.

  And so, as I was looking at the sky, this girl suddenly seized me by the elbow. The street was empty, and almost no one was about. Far off a coachman was sleeping in his droshky. The girl was about eight years old, in a kerchief and just a little dress, all wet, but I especially remembered her wet, torn shoes, and remember them now. They especially flashed before my eyes. She suddenly started pulling me by the elbow and calling out. She didn’t cry, but somehow abruptly shouted some words, which she was unable to pronounce properly because she was chilled and shivering all over. She was terrified by something and shouted desperately: “Mama! Mama!” I turned my face to her, but did not say a word and went on walking, but she was running and pulling at me, and in her voice there was the sound which in very frightened children indicates despair. I know that sound. Though she did not speak all the words out, I understood that her mother was dying somewhere, or something had happened with them there, and she had run out to call someone, to find something so as to help her mother. But I did not go with her, and, on the contrary, suddenly had the idea of chasing her away. First I told her to go and find a policeman. But she suddenly pressed her hands together and, sobbing, choking, kept running beside me and wouldn’t leave me. It was then that I stamped my feet at her and shouted. She only cried out: “Mister! Mister!…” but suddenly she dropped me and ran headlong across the street: some other passerby appeared there, and she apparently rushed from me to him.

  I went up to my fifth floor. I live in a rented room, a furnished one. It’s a poor and small room, with a half-round garret window. I have an oilcloth sofa, a table with books on it, two chairs, and an armchair, as old as can be, but a Voltaire one. I sat down, lighted a candle, and began to think. Next door, in another room, behind a partition, there was a bedlam. It had been going on for two days. A retired captain lived there, and he had guests—some six scurvy fellows, drinking vodka and playing blackjack with used cards. The previous night they’d had a fight, and I know that two of them had pulled each other’s hair for a long time. The landlady wanted to lodge a complaint, but she’s terribly afraid of the captain. The only other tenants in our furnished rooms are a small, thin lady, an army wife and out-of-towner, with three small children who had already fallen ill in our rooms. She and her children are afraid of the captain to the point of fainting, and spend whole nights trembling and crossing themselves, and the smallest child had some sort of fit from fear. This captain, I know for certain, sometimes stops passersby on Nevsky Prospect and begs money from them. They won’t take him into any kind of service, yet, strangely (this is what I’ve been driving at), in the whole month that he had been living with us, the captain had never aroused any vexation in me. Of course, I avoided making his acquaintance from the very start, and he himself got bored with me from the first, yet no matter how they shouted behind their partition, and however many they were—it never made any difference to me. I sit the whole night and don’t really hear them—so far do I forget about them. I don’t sleep at night until dawn, and that for a year now. I sit all night at the table in the armchair and do nothing. I read books only during the day. I sit and don’t even think, just so, some thoughts wander about and I let them go. A whole candle burns down overnight. I quietly sat down at the table, took out the revolver, and placed it in front of me. As I placed it there, I remember asking myself: “Is it so?” and answering myself quite affirmatively: “It is.” Meaning I would shoot myself. I knew that I would shoot myself that night for certain, but how long I would stay sitting at the table before then—that I did not know. And of course I would have shot myself if it hadn’t been for that girl.

  II

  You
see: though it made no difference to me, I did still feel pain, for instance. If someone hit me, I would feel pain. The same in the moral respect: if something very pitiful happened, I would feel pity, just as when it still made a difference to me in life. And I felt pity that night: I certainly would have helped a child. Why, then, had I not helped the little girl? From an idea that had come along then: as she was pulling and calling to me, a question suddenly arose before me, and I couldn’t resolve it. The question was an idle one, but I got angry. I got angry owing to the conclusion that, if I had already resolved to kill myself that night, it followed that now more than ever everything in the world should make no difference to me. Why, then, did I suddenly feel that it did make a difference, and that I pitied the girl? I remember that I pitied her very much; even to the point of some strange pain, even quite incredible in my situation. Really, I’m unable to express the fleeting feeling I had then any better, but the feeling continued at home as well, when I had already settled at my table, and I was extremely vexed, as I hadn’t been for a long time. Reasoning flowed from reasoning. It seemed clear that, if I was a man and not yet a zero, then, as long as I did not turn into a zero, I was alive, and consequently could suffer, be angry, and feel shame for my actions. Good. But if I was going to kill myself in two hours, for instance, then what was the girl to me and what did I care then about shame or anything in the world? I turned into a zero, an absolute zero. And could it be that the awareness that I would presently cease to exist altogether, and that therefore nothing would exist, could not have the slightest influence either on my feeling of pity for the girl, or upon the feeling of shame after the meanness I had committed? And I had stamped and shouted at the unfortunate child in a savage voice precisely because, “you see, not only do I feel no pity, but even if I commit some inhuman meanness, I can do so now, because in two hours everything will be extinguished.” Do you believe this was why I shouted? I’m now almost convinced of it. It seemed clear that life and the world were now as if dependent on me. One might even say that the world was now as if made for me alone: I’d shoot myself and there would be no more world, at least for me. Not to mention that maybe there would indeed be nothing for anyone after me, and that as soon as my consciousness was extinguished, the whole world would be extinguished at once, like a phantom, like a mere accessory of my consciousness, it would be done away with, for maybe all this world and all these people were—just myself alone. I remember that, sitting and reasoning, I turned all these new questions, which came crowding one after another, even in quite a different direction and invented something quite new. For instance, there suddenly came to me a strange consideration, that if I had once lived on the moon or on Mars, and had committed some most shameful and dishonorable act there, such as can only be imagined, and had been abused and dishonored for it as one can only perhaps feel and imagine in a dream, a nightmare, and if, ending up later on earth, I continued to preserve an awareness of what I had done on the other planet, and knew at the same time that I would never ever return there, then, looking from the earth to the moon—would it make any difference to me, or not? Would I feel shame for that act, or not? The questions were idle and superfluous, since the revolver was already lying in front of me, and I knew with my whole being that this was certain to be, but they excited me, and I was getting furious. It was as if I couldn’t die now without first resolving something. In short, this girl saved me, because with the questions I postponed the shot. Meanwhile, everything was also quieting down at the captain’s: they had ended their card game and were settling down to sleep, grumbling and lazily finishing their squabbles. It was then that I suddenly fell asleep, something that had never happened to me before, at the table, in the armchair. I fell asleep quite imperceptibly to myself. Dreams, as is known, are extremely strange: one thing is pictured with the most terrible clarity, with a jeweler’s thoroughness in the finish of its details, and over other things you skip as if without noticing them at all—for instance, over space and time. Dreams apparently proceed not from reason but from desire, not from the head but from the heart, and yet what clever things my reason has sometimes performed in sleep! And yet quite inconceivable things happen with it in sleep. My brother, for instance, died five years ago. Sometimes I see him in my dreams: he takes part in my doings, we are both very interested, and yet I remember and am fully aware, throughout the whole dream, that my brother is dead and buried. Why, then, am I not surprised that, though he is dead, he is still here by me and busy with me? Why does my reason fully admit all this? But enough. I’ll get down to my dream. Yes, I had this dream then, my dream of the third of November! They tease me now that it was just a dream. But does it make any difference whether it was a dream or not, if this dream proclaimed the Truth to me? For if you once knew the truth and saw it, then you know that it is the truth and there is and can be no other, whether you’re asleep or alive. So let it be a dream, let it be, but this life, which you extol so much, I wanted to extinguish by suicide, while my dream, my dream—oh, it proclaimed to me a new, great, renewed, strong life! Listen.