Boyhood
Boyhood-3
“Ze sergeant emptiet his glass of Mateira, ant says, ‘Mister Mayer, I loaf
and pity you very much, pot you is one prisoner, ant I one soldat.’ So I
take his hant ant says, ‘Mister Sergeant!’
“Ant ze sergeant says, ‘You is one poor man, ant I will not take your
money, pot I will help you. Ven I go to sleep, puy one pail of pranty for
ze Soldaten, ant zey will sleep. Me will not look after you.’ Sis was one
goot man. I puyet ze pail of pranty, ant ven ze Soldaten was trunken me
tresset in one olt coat, ant gang in silence out of ze doon.
“I go to ze wall, ant will leap down, pot zere is vater pelow, ant I will
not spoil my last tressing, so I go to ze gate.
“Ze sentry go up and town wis one gon, ant look at me. ‘Who goes zere?’
ant I was silent. ‘Who goes zere ze second time?’ ant I was silent. ‘Who
goes zere ze third time?’ ant I ron away, I sprang in ze vater, climp op
to ze oser site, ant walk on.
“Ze entire night I ron on ze vay, pot ven taylight came I was afrait zat
zey woult catch me, ant I hit myself in ze high corn. Zere I kneelet town,
zanket ze Vater in Heaven for my safety, ant fall asleep wis a tranquil
feeling.
“I wakenet op in ze evening, ant gang furser. At once one large German
carriage, wis two raven-black horse, came alongside me. In ze carriage sit
one well-tresset man, smoking pipe, ant look at me. I go slowly, so zat ze
carriage shall have time to pass me, pot I go slowly, ant ze carriage go
slowly, ant ze man look at me. I go quick, ant ze carriage go quick, ant
ze man stop its two horses, ant look at me. ‘Young man,’ says he, ‘where
go you so late?’ I says, ‘I go to Frankfort.’ ‘Sit in ze carriage—zere
is room enough, ant I will trag you,’ he says. ‘Bot why have you nosing
about you? Your boots is dirty, ant your beart not shaven.’ I seated wis
him, ant says, ‘Ich bin one poor man, ant I would like to pusy myself wis
somesing in a manufactory. My tressing is dirty because I fell in ze mud
on ze roat.’
“‘You tell me ontruse, young man,’ says he. ‘Ze roat is kvite dry now.’ I
was silent. ‘Tell me ze whole truse,’ goes on ze goot man—‘who you
are, ant vere you go to? I like your face, ant ven you is one honest man,
so I will help you.’ Ant I tell all.
“‘Goot, young man!’ he says. ‘Come to my manufactory of rope, ant I will
give you work ant tress ant money, ant you can live wis os.’ I says,
‘Goot!’
“I go to ze manufactory of rope, ant ze goot man says to his voman, ‘Here
is one yong man who defented his Vaterland, ant ron away from prisons. He
has not house nor tresses nor preat. He will live wis os. Give him clean
linen, ant norish him.’
“I livet one ant a half year in ze manufactory of rope, ant my lantlort
loaft me so much zat he would not let me loose. Ant I felt very goot.
“I were zen handsome man—yong, of pig stature, with blue eyes and
romische nose—ant Missis L— (I like not to say her name—she
was ze voman of my lantlort) was yong ant handsome laty. Ant she fell in
loaf wis me.”
Here Karl Ivanitch made a long pause, lowered his kindly blue eyes, shook
his head quietly, and smiled as people always do under the influence of a
pleasing recollection.
“Yes,” he resumed as he leant back in his arm-chair and adjusted his
dressing-gown, “I have experiencet many sings in my life, pot zere is my
witness,”—here he pointed to an image of the Saviour, embroidered on
wool, which was hanging over his bed—“zat nopoty in ze worlt can say
zat Karl Ivanitch has been one dishonest man, I would not repay black
ingratitude for ze goot which Mister L— dit me, ant I resoluted to
ron away. So in ze evening, ven all were asleep, I writet one letter to my
lantlort, ant laid it on ze table in his room. Zen I taket my tresses,
tree Thaler of money, ant go mysteriously into ze street. Nopoty have seen
me, ant I go on ze roat.”
X. CONCLUSION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
“I had not seen my Mamma for nine year, ant I know not whether she lived
or whether her bones had long since lain in ze dark grave. Ven I come to
my own country and go to ze town I ask, ‘Where live Kustaf Mayer who was
farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat?’ ant zey answer me, ‘Graf Zomerblat is
deat, ant Kustaf Mayer live now in ze pig street, ant keep a
public-house.’ So I tress in my new waistcoat and one noble coat which ze
manufacturist presented me, arranged my hairs nice, ant go to ze
public-house of my Papa. Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a pench, and she
ask me what I want. I says, ‘Might I trink one glass of pranty?’ ant she
says, ‘Vater, here is a yong man who wish to trink one glass of pranty.’
Ant Papa says, ‘Give him ze glass.’ I set to ze table, trink my glass of
pranty, smoke my pipe, ant look at Papa, Mariechen, ant Johann (who also
come into ze shop). In ze conversation Papa says, ‘You know, perhaps, yong
man, where stants our army?’ and I say, ‘I myself am come from ze army,
ant it stants now at Wien.’ ‘Our son,’ says Papa, ‘is a Soldat, ant now is
it nine years since he wrote never one wort, and we know not whether he is
alive or dead. My voman cry continually for him.’ I still fumigate the
pipe, ant say, ‘What was your son’s name, and where servet he? Perhaps I
may know him.’ ‘His name was Karl Mayer, ant he servet in ze Austrian
Jagers.’ ‘He were of pig stature, ant a handsome man like yourself,’ puts
in Mariechen. I say, ‘I know your Karl.’ ‘Amalia,’ exclaimet my Vater.
‘Come here! Here is yong man which knows our Karl!’—ant my dear
Mutter comes out from a back door. I knew her directly. ‘You know our
Karl?’ says she, ant looks at me, ant, white all over, trembles. ‘Yes, I
haf seen him,’ I says, without ze corage to look at her, for my heart did
almost burst. ‘My Karl is alive?’ she cry. ‘Zen tank Got! Vere is he, my
Karl? I woult die in peace if I coult see him once more—my darling
son! Bot Got will not haf it so.’ Then she cried, and I coult no longer
stant it. ‘Darling Mamma!’ I say, ‘I am your son, I am your Karl!’—and
she fell into my arms.”
Karl Ivanitch covered his eyes, and his lips were quivering.
“‘Mutter,’ sagte ich, ‘ich bin ihr Sohn, ich bin ihr Karl!’—und sie
sturtzte mir in die Arme!’” he repeated, recovering a little and wiping
the tears from his eyes.
“Bot Got did not wish me to finish my tays in my own town. I were pursuet
by fate. I livet in my own town only sree mons. One Suntay I sit in a
coffee-house, ant trinket one pint of Pier, ant fumigated my pipe, ant
speaket wis some frients of Politik, of ze Emperor Franz, of Napoleon, of
ze war—ant anypoty might say his opinion. But next to us sits a
strange chentleman in a grey Uberrock, who trink coffee, fumigate the
pipe, ant says nosing. Ven the night watchman shoutet ten o’clock I taket
my hat, paid ze money, and go home. At ze middle of ze night some one
knock at ze door. I rise ant says, ‘Who is zere?’ ‘Open!’ says someone. I
shout again, ‘First say who is zere, ant I will open.’ ‘Open in the name
of the law!’ say the someone behint the door. I now do so. Two Soldaten
wis gons stant at ze door, ant into ze room steps ze man in ze grey
Uberrock, who had sat with us in ze coffeehouse. He were Spion! ‘Come wis
me,’ says ze Spion, ‘Very goot!’ say I. I dresset myself in boots,
trousers, ant coat, ant go srough ze room. Ven I come to ze wall where my
gon hangs I take it, ant says, ‘You are a Spion, so defent you!’ I give
one stroke left, one right, ant one on ze head. Ze Spion lay precipitated
on ze floor! Zen I taket my cloak-bag ant money, ant jompet out of ze
vintow. I vent to Ems, where I was acquainted wis one General Sasin, who
loaft me, givet me a passport from ze Embassy, ant taket me to Russland to
learn his chiltren. Ven General Sasin tiet, your Mamma callet for me, ant
says, ‘Karl Ivanitch, I gif you my children. Loaf them, ant I will never
leave you, ant will take care for your olt age.’ Now is she teat, ant all
is forgotten! For my twenty year full of service I most now go into ze
street ant seek for a try crust of preat for my olt age! Got sees all sis,
ant knows all sis. His holy will be done! Only-only, I yearn for you, my
children!”—and Karl drew me to him, and kissed me on the forehead.
XI. ONE MARK ONLY
The year of mourning over, Grandmamma recovered a little from her grief,
and once more took to receiving occasional guests, especially children of
the same age as ourselves.
On the 13th of December—Lubotshka’s birthday—the Princess
Kornakoff and her daughters, with Madame Valakhin, Sonetchka, Ilinka Grap,
and the two younger Iwins, arrived at our house before luncheon.
Though we could hear the sounds of talking, laughter, and movements going
on in the drawing-room, we could not join the party until our morning
lessons were finished. The table of studies in the schoolroom said,
“Lundi, de 2 a 3, maitre d’Histoire et de Geographie,” and this infernal
maitre d’Histoire we must await, listen to, and see the back of before we
could gain our liberty. Already it was twenty minutes past two, and
nothing was to be heard of the tutor, nor yet anything to be seen of him
in the street, although I kept looking up and down it with the greatest
impatience and with an emphatic longing never to see the maitre again.
“I believe he is not coming to-day,” said Woloda, looking up for a moment
from his lesson-book.
“I hope he is not, please the Lord!” I answered, but in a despondent tone.
“Yet there he DOES come, I believe, all the same!”
“Not he! Why, that is a GENTLEMAN,” said Woloda, likewise looking out of
the window, “Let us wait till half-past two, and then ask St. Jerome if we
may put away our books.”
“Yes, and wish them au revoir,” I added, stretching my arms, with the book
clasped in my hands, over my head. Having hitherto idled away my time, I
now opened the book at the place where the lesson was to begin, and
started to learn it. It was long and difficult, and, moreover, I was in
the mood when one’s thoughts refuse to be arrested by anything at all.
Consequently I made no progress. After our last lesson in history (which
always seemed to me a peculiarly arduous and wearisome subject) the
history master had complained to St. Jerome of me because only two good
marks stood to my credit in the register—a very small total. St.
Jerome had then told me that if I failed to gain less than THREE marks at
the next lesson I should be severely punished. The next lesson was now
imminent, and I confess that I felt a little nervous.
So absorbed, however, did I become in my reading that the sound of
goloshes being taken off in the ante-room came upon me almost as a shock.
I had just time to look up when there appeared in the doorway the servile
and (to me) very disgusting face and form of the master, clad in a blue
frockcoat with brass buttons.
Slowly he set down his hat and books and adjusted the folds of his coat
(as though such a thing were necessary!), and seated himself in his place.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands, “let us first of all repeat
the general contents of the last lesson: after which I will proceed to
narrate the succeeding events of the middle ages.”
This meant “Say over the last lesson.” While Woloda was answering the
master with the entire ease and confidence which come of knowing a subject
well, I went aimlessly out on to the landing, and, since I was not allowed
to go downstairs, what more natural than that I should involuntarily turn
towards the alcove on the landing? Yet before I had time to establish
myself in my usual coign of vantage behind the door I found myself pounced
upon by Mimi—always the cause of my misfortunes!
“YOU here?” she said, looking severely, first at myself, and then at the
maidservants’ door, and then at myself again.
I felt thoroughly guilty, firstly, because I was not in the schoolroom,
and secondly, because I was in a forbidden place. So I remained silent,
and, dropping my head, assumed a touching expression of contrition.
“Indeed, this is TOO bad!” Mimi went on, “What are you doing here?”
Still I said nothing.
“Well, it shall not rest where it is,” she added, tapping the banister
with her yellow fingers. “I shall inform the Countess.”
It was five minutes to three when I re-entered the schoolroom. The master,
as though oblivious of my presence or absence, was explaining the new
lesson to Woloda. When he had finished doing this, and had put his books
together (while Woloda went into the other room to fetch his ticket), the
comforting idea occurred to me that perhaps the whole thing was over now,
and that the master had forgotten me.
But suddenly he turned in my direction with a malicious smile, and said as
he rubbed his hands anew, “I hope you have learnt your lesson?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Would you be so kind, then, as to tell me something about St. Louis’
Crusade?” he went on, balancing himself on his chair and looking gravely
at his feet. “Firstly, tell me something about the reasons which induced
the French king to assume the cross” (here he raised his eyebrows and
pointed to the inkstand); “then explain to me the general characteristics
of the Crusade” (here he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as though
to seize hold of something with it); “and lastly, expound to me the
influence of this Crusade upon the European states in general” (drawing
the copy books to the left side of the table) “and upon the French state
in particular” (drawing one of them to the right, and inclining his head
in the same direction).
I swallowed a few times, coughed, bent forward, and was silent. Then,
taking a pen from the table, I began to pick it to pieces, yet still said
nothing.
“Allow me the pen—I shall want it,” said the master. “Well?”
“Louis the-er-Saint was-was-a very good and wise king.”
“What?”
“King, He took it into his head to go to Jerusalem, and handed over the
reins of government to his mother.”
“What was her name?
“B-b-b-lanka.”
“What? Belanka?”
I laughed in a rather forced manner.
“Well, is that all you know?” he asked again, smiling.
I had nothing to lose now, so I began chattering the first thing that came
into my head. The master remained silent as he gathered together the
remains of the pen which I had left strewn about the table, looked gravely
past my ear at the wall, and repeated from time to time, “Very well, very
well.” Though I was conscious that I knew nothing whatever and was
expressing myself all wrong, I felt much hurt at the fact that he never
either corrected or interrupted me.
“What made him think of going to Jerusalem?” he asked at last, repeating
some words of my own.
“Because—because—that is to say—”
My confusion was complete, and I relapsed into silence, I felt that, even
if this disgusting history master were to go on putting questions to me,
and gazing inquiringly into my face, for a year, I should never be able to
enunciate another syllable. After staring at me for some three minutes, he
suddenly assumed a mournful cast of countenance, and said in an agitated
voice to Woloda (who was just re-entering the room):
“Allow me the register. I will write my remarks.”
He opened the book thoughtfully, and in his fine caligraphy marked FIVE
for Woloda for diligence, and the same for good behaviour. Then, resting
his pen on the line where my report was to go, he looked at me and
reflected. Suddenly his hand made a decisive movement and, behold, against
my name stood a clearly-marked ONE, with a full stop after it! Another
movement and in the behaviour column there stood another one and another
full stop! Quietly closing the book, the master then rose, and moved
towards the door as though unconscious of my look of entreaty, despair,
and reproach.
“Michael Lavionitch!” I said.
“No!” he replied, as though knowing beforehand what I was about to say.
“It is impossible for you to learn in that way. I am not going to earn my
money for nothing.”
He put on his goloshes and cloak, and then slowly tied a scarf about his
neck. To think that he could care about such trifles after what had just
happened to me! To him it was all a mere stroke of the pen, but to me it
meant the direst misfortune.
“Is the lesson over?” asked St. Jerome, entering.
“Yes.”
“And was the master pleased with you?”
“Yes.”
“How many marks did he give you?”
“Five.”
“And to Nicholas?”
I was silent.
“I think four,” said Woloda. His idea was to save me for at least today.
If punishment there must be, it need not be awarded while we had guests.
“Voyons, Messieurs!” (St. Jerome was forever saying “Voyons!”) “Faites
votre toilette, et descendons.”
XII. THE KEY
We had hardly descended and greeted our guests when luncheon was
announced. Papa was in the highest of spirits since for some time past he
had been winning. He had presented Lubotshka with a silver tea service,
and suddenly remembered, after luncheon, that he had forgotten a box of
bonbons which she was to have too.
“Why send a servant for it? YOU had better go, Koko,” he said to me
jestingly. “The keys are in the tray on the table, you know. Take them,
and with the largest one open the second drawer on the right. There you
will find the box of bonbons. Bring it here.”
“Shall I get you some cigars as well?” said I, knowing that he always
smoked after luncheon.
“Yes, do; but don’t touch anything else.”
I found the keys, and was about to carry out my orders, when I was seized
with a desire to know what the smallest of the keys on the bunch belonged
to.
On the table I saw, among many other things, a padlocked portfolio, and at
once felt curious to see if that was what the key fitted. My experiment
was crowned with success. The portfolio opened and disclosed a number of
papers. Curiosity so strongly urged me also to ascertain what those papers
contained that the voice of conscience was stilled, and I began to read
their contents. . . .
My childish feeling of unlimited respect for my elders, especially for
Papa, was so strong within me that my intellect involuntarily refused to
draw any conclusions from what I had seen. I felt that Papa was living in
a sphere completely apart from, incomprehensible by, and unattainable for,
me, as well as one that was in every way excellent, and that any attempt
on my part to criticise the secrets of his life would constitute something
like sacrilege.
For this reason, the discovery which I made from Papa’s portfolio left no
clear impression upon my mind, but only a dim consciousness that I had
done wrong. I felt ashamed and confused.
The feeling made me eager to shut the portfolio again as quickly as
possible, but it seemed as though on this unlucky day I was destined to
experience every possible kind of adversity. I put the key back into the
padlock and turned it round, but not in the right direction. Thinking that
the portfolio was now locked, I pulled at the key and, oh horror! found my
hand come away with only the top half of the key in it! In vain did I try
to put the two halves together, and to extract the portion that was
sticking in the padlock. At last I had to resign myself to the dreadful
thought that I had committed a new crime—one which would be
discovered to-day as soon as ever Papa returned to his study! First of
all, Mimi’s accusation on the staircase, and then that one mark, and then
this key! Nothing worse could happen now. This very evening I should be
assailed successively by Grandmamma (because of Mimi’s denunciation), by
St. Jerome (because of the solitary mark), and by Papa (because of the
matter of this key)—yes, all in one evening!
“What on earth is to become of me? What have I done?” I exclaimed as I
paced the soft carpet. “Well,” I went on with sudden determination, “what
MUST come, MUST—that’s all;” and, taking up the bonbons and the
cigars, I ran back to the other part of the house.
The fatalistic formula with which I had concluded (and which was one that
I often heard Nicola utter during my childhood) always produced in me, at
the more difficult crises of my life, a momentarily soothing, beneficial
effect. Consequently, when I re-entered the drawing-room, I was in a
rather excited, unnatural mood, yet one that was perfectly cheerful.
XIII. THE TRAITRESS
After luncheon we began to play at round games, in which I took a lively
part. While indulging in “cat and mouse”, I happened to cannon rather
awkwardly against the Kornakoffs’ governess, who was playing with us, and,
stepping on her dress, tore a large hole in it. Seeing that the girls—particularly
Sonetchka—were anything but displeased at the spectacle of the
governess angrily departing to the maidservants’ room to have her dress
mended, I resolved to procure them the satisfaction a second time.
Accordingly, in pursuance of this amiable resolution, I waited until my
victim returned, and then began to gallop madly round her, until a
favourable moment occurred for once more planting my heel upon her dress
and reopening the rent. Sonetchka and the young princesses had much ado to
restrain their laughter, which excited my conceit the more, but St.
Jerome, who had probably divined my tricks, came up to me with the frown
which I could never abide in him, and said that, since I seemed disposed
to mischief, he would have to send me away if I did not moderate my
behaviour.
However, I was in the desperate position of a person who, having staked
more than he has in his pocket, and feeling that he can never make up his
account, continues to plunge on unlucky cards—not because he hopes
to regain his losses, but because it will not do for him to stop and
consider. So, I merely laughed in an impudent fashion and flung away from
my monitor.
After “cat and mouse”, another game followed in which the gentlemen sit on
one row of chairs and the ladies on another, and choose each other for
partners. The youngest princess always chose the younger Iwin, Katenka
either Woloda or Ilinka, and Sonetchka Seriosha—nor, to my extreme
astonishment, did Sonetchka seem at all embarrassed when her cavalier went
and sat down beside her. On the contrary, she only laughed her sweet,
musical laugh, and made a sign with her head that he had chosen right.
Since nobody chose me, I always had the mortification of finding myself
left over, and of hearing them say, “Who has been left out? Oh, Nicolinka.
Well, DO take him, somebody.” Consequently, whenever it came to my turn to
guess who had chosen me, I had to go either to my sister or to one of the
ugly elder princesses. Sonetchka seemed so absorbed in Seriosha that in
her eyes I clearly existed no longer. I do not quite know why I called her
“the traitress” in my thoughts, since she had never promised to choose me
instead of Seriosha, but, for all that, I felt convinced that she was
treating me in a very abominable fashion. After the game was finished, I
actually saw “the traitress” (from whom I nevertheless could not withdraw
my eyes) go with Seriosha and Katenka into a corner, and engage in secret
confabulation. Stealing softly round the piano which masked the conclave,
I beheld the following:
Katenka was holding up a pocket-handkerchief by two of its corners, so as
to form a screen for the heads of her two companions. “No, you have lost!
You must pay the forfeit!” cried Seriosha at that moment, and Sonetchka,
who was standing in front of him, blushed like a criminal as she replied,
“No, I have NOT lost! HAVE I, Mademoiselle Katherine?” “Well, I must speak
the truth,” answered Katenka, “and say that you HAVE lost, my dear.”
Scarcely had she spoken the words when Seriosha embraced Sonetchka, and
kissed her right on her rosy lips! And Sonetchka smiled as though it were
nothing, but merely something very pleasant!
Horrors! The artful “traitress!”
XIV. THE RETRIBUTION
Instantly, I began to feel a strong contempt for the female sex in general
and Sonetchka in particular. I began to think that there was nothing at
all amusing in these games—that they were only fit for girls, and
felt as though I should like to make a great noise, or to do something of
such extraordinary boldness that every one would be forced to admire it.
The opportunity soon arrived. St. Jerome said something to Mimi, and then
left the room, I could hear his footsteps ascending the staircase, and
then passing across the schoolroom, and the idea occurred to me that Mimi
must have told him her story about my being found on the landing, and
thereupon he had gone to look at the register. (In those days, it must be
remembered, I believed that St. Jerome’s whole aim in life was to annoy
me.) Some where I have read that, not infrequently, children of from
twelve to fourteen years of age—that is to say, children just
passing from childhood to adolescence—are addicted to incendiarism,
or even to murder. As I look back upon my childhood, and particularly upon
the mood in which I was on that (for myself) most unlucky day, I can quite
understand the possibility of such terrible crimes being committed by
children without any real aim in view—without any real wish to do
wrong, but merely out of curiosity or under the influence of an
unconscious necessity for action. There are moments when the human being
sees the future in such lurid colours that he shrinks from fixing his
mental eye upon it, puts a check upon all his intellectual activity, and
tries to feel convinced that the future will never be, and that the past
has never been. At such moments—moments when thought does not shrink
from manifestations of will, and the carnal instincts alone constitute the
springs of life—I can understand that want of experience (which is a
particularly predisposing factor in this connection) might very possibly
lead a child, aye, without fear or hesitation, but rather with a smile of
curiosity on its face, to set fire to the house in which its parents and
brothers and sisters (beings whom it tenderly loves) are lying asleep. It
would be under the same influence of momentary absence of thought—almost
absence of mind—that a peasant boy of seventeen might catch sight of
the edge of a newly-sharpened axe reposing near the bench on which his
aged father was lying asleep, face downwards, and suddenly raise the
implement in order to observe with unconscious curiosity how the blood
would come spurting out upon the floor if he made a wound in the sleeper’s
neck. It is under the same influence—the same absence of thought,
the same instinctive curiosity—that a man finds delight in standing
on the brink of an abyss and thinking to himself, “How if I were to throw
myself down?” or in holding to his brow a loaded pistol and wondering,
“What if I were to pull the trigger?” or in feeling, when he catches sight
of some universally respected personage, that he would like to go up to
him, pull his nose hard, and say, “How do you do, old boy?”
Under the spell, then, of this instinctive agitation and lack of
reflection I was moved to put out my tongue, and to say that I would not
move, when St. Jerome came down and told me that I had behaved so badly
that day, as well as done my lessons so ill, that I had no right to be
where I was, and must go upstairs directly.
At first, from astonishment and anger, he could not utter a word.
“C’est bien!” he exclaimed eventually as he darted towards me. “Several
times have I promised to punish you, and you have been saved from it by
your Grandmamma, but now I see that nothing but the cane will teach you
obedience, and you shall therefore taste it.”
This was said loud enough for every one to hear. The blood rushed to my
heart with such vehemence that I could feel that organ beating violently—could
feel the colour rising to my cheeks and my lips trembling. Probably I
looked horrible at that moment, for, avoiding my eye, St. Jerome stepped
forward and caught me by the hand. Hardly feeling his touch, I pulled away
my hand in blind fury, and with all my childish might struck him.
“What are you doing?” said Woloda, who had seen my behaviour, and now
approached me in alarm and astonishment.
“Let me alone!” I exclaimed, the tears flowing fast. “Not a single one of
you loves me or understands how miserable I am! You are all of you odious
and disgusting!” I added bluntly, turning to the company at large.
At this moment St. Jerome—his face pale, but determined—approached
me again, and, with a movement too quick to admit of any defence, seized
my hands as with a pair of tongs, and dragged me away. My head swam with
excitement, and I can only remember that, so long as I had strength to do
it, I fought with head and legs; that my nose several times collided with
a pair of knees; that my teeth tore some one’s coat; that all around me I
could hear the shuffling of feet; and that I could smell dust and the
scent of violets with which St. Jerome used to perfume himself.
Five minutes later the door of the store-room closed behind me.
“Basil,” said a triumphant but detestable voice, “bring me the cane.”
XV. DREAMS
Could I at that moment have supposed that I should ever live to survive
the misfortunes of that day, or that there would ever come a time when I
should be able to look back upon those misfortunes composedly?
As I sat there thinking over what I had done, I could not imagine what the
matter had been with me. I only felt with despair that I was for ever
lost.
At first the most profound stillness reigned around me—at least, so
it appeared to me as compared with the violent internal emotion which I
had been experiencing; but by and by I began to distinguish various
sounds. Basil brought something downstairs which he laid upon a chest
outside. It sounded like a broom-stick. Below me I could hear St. Jerome’s
grumbling voice (probably he was speaking of me), and then children’s
voices and laughter and footsteps; until in a few moments everything
seemed to have regained its normal course in the house, as though nobody
knew or cared to know that here was I sitting alone in the dark
store-room!
I did not cry, but something lay heavy, like a stone, upon my heart. Ideas
and pictures passed with extraordinary rapidity before my troubled
imagination, yet through their fantastic sequence broke continually the
remembrance of the misfortune which had befallen me as I once again
plunged into an interminable labyrinth of conjectures as to the
punishment, the fate, and the despair that were awaiting me. The thought
occurred to me that there must be some reason for the general dislike—even
contempt—which I fancied to be felt for me by others. I was firmly
convinced that every one, from Grandmamma down to the coachman Philip,
despised me, and found pleasure in my sufferings. Next an idea struck me
that perhaps I was not the son of my father and mother at all, nor
Woloda’s brother, but only some unfortunate orphan who had been adopted by
them out of compassion, and this absurd notion not only afforded me a
certain melancholy consolation, but seemed to me quite probable. I found
it comforting to think that I was unhappy, not through my own fault, but
because I was fated to be so from my birth, and conceived that my destiny
was very much like poor Karl Ivanitch’s.
“Why conceal the secret any longer, now that I have discovered it?” I
reflected. “To-morrow I will go to Papa and say to him, ‘It is in vain for
you to try and conceal from me the mystery of my birth. I know it
already.’ And he will answer me, ‘What else could I do, my good fellow?
Sooner or later you would have had to know that you are not my son, but
were adopted as such. Nevertheless, so long as you remain worthy of my
love, I will never cast you out.’ Then I shall say, ‘Papa, though I have
no right to call you by that name, and am now doing so for the last time,
I have always loved you, and shall always retain that love. At the same
time, while I can never forget that you have been my benefactor, I cannot
remain longer in your house. Nobody here loves me, and St. Jerome has
wrought my ruin. Either he or I must go forth, since I cannot answer for
myself. I hate the man so that I could do anything—I could even kill
him.’ Papa will begin to entreat me, but I shall make a gesture, and say,
‘No, no, my friend and benefactor! We cannot live together. Let me go’—and
for the last time I shall embrace him, and say in French, ‘O mon pere, O
mon bienfaiteur, donne moi, pour la derniere fois, ta benediction, et que
la volonte de Dieu soit faite!’”