I
How it has come about that I, who for almost two years have never thought seriously about anything, have suddenly commenced to reflect—I cannot understand. It cannot be that man who has set me thinking, because I so often meet with men of his type that I am accustomed to their sermonizing.
Yes, they almost all, with the exception of the absolutely hardened or really clever ones, invariably talk about matters which are of no use to them or even me. First they ask my name and my age; then in the majority of cases, with an air of concern, they begin to ask, “Is it impossible for you to give up such a life?” At first this kind of thing used to upset me, but now I am accustomed to it. One becomes accustomed to a lot.
However, for the last fortnight, whenever I am quite alone and am not feeling gay—that is, not drunk (because can I really be merry except when drunk?)—I begin to think. And, however much I do not wish to think, I cannot help it. I cannot get away from depressing thoughts. There is only one way of forgetting—to go out somewhere where there are plenty of people, where there is drunkenness and indecency. Then I too begin to drink and misbehave. My brain gets muddled, and I remember nothing. … Then it is—easier. But why is it that this never happened before?—not from the very first day I bid goodbye to everything? For more than two years I have lived here in this beastly room, always spending the time in the same way, frequenting the various restaurants and dancing-saloons, and all the time, if it has not really been gay, I at least have not thought so. But now—it is quite, quite different.
How dull and stupid it all is! It is not because I go nowhere; I go nowhere simply because I don’t want to. I entangled myself in this life, I know my own road. In a copy of an illustrated paper which one of my “friends” brings me whenever there is something “spicy” in it, I once saw a picture. In the centre there was a pretty little girl with a doll, and around her there were two rows of figures. On the one side above they went from the child to the little schoolgirl, then the modest young girl, afterwards the mother of a family, and finally an honoured, respected old woman. On the other side, below—was a shopgirl carrying a box, then me, me, and again me. First me—like I am now, second me—sweeping the streets with a broom, and third—the same—as an absolutely repulsive, loathsome old hag. However, I shall not let myself get to that stage. Another two or three years, if I can stand this life as long, and then into the canal. I can do this, I am not afraid.
But what a strange chap the man must be who drew this picture! Why does he take it for granted that a schoolgirl becomes a modest young lady, an honoured mother and grandmother? And I? I too can show off my French and German in the street! And I don’t think I have forgotten how to paint or draw flowers, and I remember “Calipso ne pouvait se consoler du départe d’Ulysse.” I remember Pushkin and Lermontoff, and all—all. And the examinations and that momentous, awful time when I became a fool, a silly fool, and listened to all the passionate, silly speeches of that conceited fop, and how stupidly I enjoyed it, and all the lies and filth in the “best society” from which I came into this, where I now make an idiot of myself with vodka. … Yes, now I have begun even to drink vodka. “Horreur!” my cousin, Olga Nicolaievna, would say.
Yes, and is it not in reality “horreur”? But am I to blame in this matter? If I—a seventeen-year-old girl, who for eight years had sat within four walls and had seen only other girls like myself and their different mammas—had not met my “friend,” with his hair à la Capoul, but some other and good man—then it would all have been different.
But what an absurd idea! Are there really any good people? Have I ever met any since or before my downfall? Can I believe that there are good people when of the scores I know there is not one whom I could not hate! Can I believe that they exist when amongst those I meet are husbands of young wives, children (almost children—fourteen and fifteen years old) of “good family”! old men, bald, paralytic, half dead?
And finally, can I help hating and despising them, although I am myself a despicable and despised being, when amongst them are such persons as a certain young German with a monogram tattooed on his arm above the elbow? He explained to me that it was the initials of his fiancée. “Jetzt aber bist du meine liebe, allerliebste Liebchen,” said he, looking at me with oily eyes, and then read me verses from Heine, and unctuously explained that Heine was a great German poet, but that they had even greater poets in Germany—Goethe and Schiller—and that only such a great and gifted nation like the Germans could produce such poets.
How I longed to scratch his disgusting greasy face, with its white eyebrows and lashes! But instead I gulped down the glass of port wine he had poured out for me and forgot all.
Why should I think of the future when I know it so well? Why think of the past when there was nothing in it which could replace my present life? Yes, it is true. If I were asked today to return to those luxurious surroundings, to mingle amongst people with their beautifully dressed hair and elegant phrases, I would not! I should stay and die at my post. …
Yes, I have my post! I, too, am wanted, am necessary. Not long ago a young man came to me who talked everlastingly, and recited me a whole page he had learnt by heart out of some book, “That is what our philosopher—a Russian philosopher—says,” he explained. The philosopher said something very obscure but flattering for me to the effect that we are “the safety valves of public passions.” … Disgusting words! The philosopher himself is no doubt a beast, but worst of all this boy who repeated it.
However, not long ago, this same idea came into my mind. I was up before a magistrate, who fined me fifteen roubles for obscenity in a public place.
As he read his decision whilst all stood, I thought to myself: “Why do all this public look at me with such contempt? Granted that I carry on an unclean, loathsome trade, a most contemptible calling—still, it is a calling! This judge also has a calling. And I think that we both …”
I don’t think of anything, I am conscious only that I drink, that I remember nothing, and get muddled. Everything gets mixed up in my head—the disgusting saloon where I shall dance shamelessly tonight and this horrible room in which I can only live when I am drunk. My temples are throbbing, there is a ringing in my ears, everything is swimming in my head, and I am being carried away. I want to stop, to take hold of something, if only a straw, but there is nothing, not even a straw.
I lie! There is one! And not a straw, but something perhaps more hopeful. But I have sunk so low that I do not wish to stretch out my hand to seize this support.
It happened, I think, about the end of August. I remember it was a glorious autumn evening. I was strolling in the Summer Garden, and there became acquainted with this “support.” He did not appear to be anything extraordinary, excepting perhaps a certain good-natured talkativeness. He told me about almost all his affairs and friends. He was twenty-five, and his name was Ivan Ivanovich. As for the man himself, he was neither bad nor good. He chatted away with me as if I had been an old acquaintance, told me stories of his Chief, and pointed out to me any of those in his Department who happened to be in sight.
He left me, and I forgot all about him. About a month afterwards, however, he reappeared. He had grown thinner, and was moody and depressed. When he came in I was even a little frightened at the strange, forbidding-looking face.
“You don’t remember me?”
At that moment I remembered him, and said so.
He blushed.
“I thought perhaps you did not remember me, because you see so many …”
The conversation stopped abruptly. We sat on the sofa, I in one corner and he in the other, as if he had come for the first time to pay a call, sitting bolt upright, holding his tall hat in his hand. We sat like this for quite a time. Then he got up and bowed.
“Goodbye, Nadejda Nicolaievna,” he said with a sigh.
“How did you find out my name?” I exclaimed, flaring up. The name I went under was not Nadejda Nicolaievna, but Evgenia.
I shouted at Ivan Ivanovich so angrily that he became quite frightened.
“But I didn’t mean any harm, Nadejda Nicolaievna. … I have never wished or done harm to anyone. … But I know Peter Vassilovich of the police, who told me all about you. I meant to call you Evgenia, but my tongue slipped, and I called you by your real name.”
“And tell me why you have come here?”
He said nothing, and looked sorrowfully into my eyes.
“Why?” I repeated, getting more and more angry. “What interest do I possess for you? No, better not to come here. I will not start an acquaintanceship with you because I have no acquaintances. I know why you came! The policeman’s story interested you. You thought—here is a rarity, an educated lady who has fallen into this kind of life. … You had visions of rescuing me? Clear out! I want nothing! Better to leave me to perish alone than …”
I chanced to glance at his face—and stopped. I saw that every word was striking him like a blow. He said nothing, but his look alone made me stop.
“Goodbye, Nadejda Nicolaievna,” he said. “I am very sorry that I have hurt you and myself too. Goodbye.”
He put out his hand (I could not but take it), and slowly went out of the room. I heard him go down the staircase, and saw through the window how, with bowed head, he went across the courtyard with the same slow and tottering gait. At the gate of the yard he turned round, glanced up at my window, and disappeared.
And it is this man who can be my “support.” I have only to make a sign, and I can become a lawful wife. The lawful wife of a poor but wellborn man, and can even become a poor but wellborn mother, if only the Lord in His anger will yet send me a child.