White nights, and other stories
Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no
one like me and I was unlike any one else. "I am alone and they are
_every one_," I thought--and pondered.
From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.
The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to go
to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.
But all at once, _à propos_ of nothing, there would come a phase of
scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I
would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would
reproach myself with being _romantic_. At one time I was unwilling to
speak to any one, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to
the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my
fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who
knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been
affected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question even
now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played
preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions.... But here let me make a
digression.
We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish
transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom
nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France
perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not
even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing
their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are
fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what
distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental
natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they
are is due to our "realistic" journalists and critics of that day,
always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and
foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our
romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or
France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our "romantics" are
absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and
no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of
this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much respected word which has
done good service and is familiar to all). The characteristics of our
romantic are to understand everything, _to see everything and to see it
often incomparably more clearly than our most realistic minds see it_;
to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to
despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose
sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the
government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that
object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at
the same time to preserve "the good and the beautiful" inviolate within
them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also,
incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only
for the benefit of "the good and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man
of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure
you.... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if
he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always
intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had
foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the
flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve
their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there--by
preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.
I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly
abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it.
Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather
go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely happens--than
take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is
never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as
"the King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin,
fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable "romantics"
attain later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their
many-sidedness is remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most
contradictory sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those
days, and I am of the same opinion now. That is why there are so many
"broad natures" among us who never lose their ideal even in the depths
of degradation; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal,
though they are arrant thieves and knaves, yet they tearfully cherish
their first ideal and are extraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is
only among us that the most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and
loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I
repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I
use the term "rascals" affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of
reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the
public generally can only ejaculate in amazement.
Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may
develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is
not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful
patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am
joking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary, and you are convinced that I
really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an
honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.
I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and
soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I
even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations.
That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone.
In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to
stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external
impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of
course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But
at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of
everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome
vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting,
from my continual, sickly irritability. I had hysterical impulses, with
tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there
was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted
me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving
for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said
all this to justify myself.... But, no! I am lying. I did want to
justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit,
gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not.
And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy
vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most
loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.
Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully
afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognized. I visited
various obscure haunts.
One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some
gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of
window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted, but I was
in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman thrown
out of window--and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern
and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll have a fight,
too, and they'll throw me out of window."
I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man to
such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not
even equal to being thrown out of window and I went away without having
my fight.
An officer put me in my place from the first moment.
I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up the
way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a
word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was
standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me.
I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me
without noticing me.
Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a more
decent, a more _literary_ one, so to speak. I had been treated like a
fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little
fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I
certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my
mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.
I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the
next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more
furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in
my eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was
cowardice made me slink away from the officer: I never have been a
coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be
in a hurry to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all.
Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to
fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long
extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant
Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would
have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly
procedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as
something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were
quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot.
I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded vanity.
I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and
being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage
enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid
of was that every one present, from the insolent marker down to the
lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at
me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in
literary language. For of the point of honour--not of honour, but of the
point of honour (_point d'honneur_)--one cannot speak among us except in
literary language. You can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary
language. I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all
my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with
laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is,
without insulting me, but would certainly prod me in the back with his
knee, kick me round the billiard table, and only then perhaps have pity
and drop me out of the window.
Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often
met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very
carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognized me, I imagine not;
I judge from certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite and hatred
and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper
with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries about this
officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one
day I heard some one shout his surname in the street as I was following
him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so I learnt his
surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks