I’ll take it to The Citizen;¹⁷ they also exhibited the portrait of some editor. Maybe they’ll print it.

THE MEEK ONE

A FANTASTIC STORY

From the Author

I BEG MY readers’ pardon for giving them this time, instead of the Diary in its usual form, simply a long story. But I have in fact been occupied with this story for the better part of the month. In any case, I beg the readers’ indulgence.

Now about the story itself. I have termed it “fantastic,” though I myself consider it realistic in the highest degree. But there is indeed a fantastic side to it, and namely in the very form of the story, which I find it necessary to clarify beforehand.

The thing is that this is not a story and not notes. Imagine to yourself a husband whose wife is lying on the table,¹ a suicide, who a few hours earlier threw herself out the window. He is in bewilderment and has not yet had time to collect his thoughts. He paces his rooms and tries to make sense of what has happened, “to collect his thoughts to a point.” Besides, he is an inveterate hypochondriac, of the sort that talks to himself. Here he is, then, talking to himself, telling the matter over, figuring it out for himself. Despite the seeming consistency of his speech, he contradicts himself several times, both in logic and in feelings. He justifies himself, and accuses her, and launches into extraneous explanations: there is coarseness of thought and heart here; there is also deep feeling. Little by little he actually figures out the matter and collects his “thoughts to a point.” A series of memories he calls up brings him irresistibly to the truth; the truth irresistibly elevates his mind and heart. Toward the end even the tone of the story changes, as compared with its disorderly beginning. The truth is disclosed to the unfortunate man quite clearly and definitely, at least for himself.

That is the theme. Of course, the process of telling goes on for several hours, in bits and snatches, and in incoherent form: now he talks to himself, now it is as if he addresses an invisible listener, some judge. But so it always happens in reality. If a stenographer could eavesdrop and write it all down after him, it would come out a bit rougher, less polished than I have presented it, but, for all I can see, the psychological order would perhaps remain the same. Now, this supposition of a stenographer who could write it all down (after which I would polish what was written) is what I call fantastic in this story. But a somewhat similar thing has been allowed in art more than once: Victor Hugo, for instance, in his masterpiece The Last Day of a Man Condemned to Death, employed almost the same method, and though he introduced no stenographer, he allowed for still greater implausibility, supposing that a man condemned to death is able (and has time) to write notes not only on his last day, but even in his last hour and literally his last minute. But had he not allowed this fantasy, the work itself would not exist—the most realistic and truthful of all he wrote.

CHAPTER ONE

I

WHO I WAS AND WHO SHE WAS

…SO LONG as she’s here—everything is still all right: I go over and look every moment; but tomorrow she’ll be taken away and—how am I to stay alone? She’s in the big room now, on a table, we put two card tables together, and the coffin will come tomorrow, a white one, white gros de Naples, but, anyhow, it’s not that… I keep pacing and want to figure it out for myself. It’s already six hours now that I’ve been wanting to figure it out and I simply can’t collect my thoughts to a point. The thing is that I keep pacing, pacing, pacing… Here is how it was. I’ll simply tell it in order (order!). Gentlemen, I’m far from being a writer, and you can see that, and let it be so, but I’ll tell it as I understand it. There’s my whole horror—that I understand everything!

This, if you want to know, that is, if we take it from the very beginning, quite simply that she used to come to me then to pawn things in order to pay for an advertisement in The Voice,² saying here, thus and so, a governess, agrees to relocate, and give lessons at home, and so on and so forth. This was at the very beginning, and I, of course, didn’t distinguish her from the others: she comes like everybody else, well, and so forth. But later I began to distinguish. She was so slender, fair-haired, medium tall; with me she was always awkward, as if abashed (I think she was the same with all strangers, and, naturally, I was the same for her as any other, that is, taken not as a pawnbroker but as a human being). As soon as she got the money, she would turn and leave at once. And all silently. Others, they argue, beg, bargain in order to get more; this one no, just what’s given… It seems to me I keep getting confused… Yes; first of all I was struck by her things: gilt silver earrings, a trashy little locket—things worth two bits. She knew herself they were only a bit’s worth, yet I saw by her face that they were treasures for her—and in fact it was all she had left from her papa and mama, I found out later. Once only did I allow myself to smile at her things. That is, you see, I never allow myself that, I keep a gentlemanly tone with the public: a few words, polite and stern. “Stern, stern, stern.” But she suddenly allowed herself to bring the remnants (I mean, literally) of an old rabbitskin jacket—and I couldn’t help myself and suddenly said something to her, as if a witticism. Goodness, how she flushed! Her eyes are light blue, big, pensive, but—how they lit up! But she didn’t let out a word, she took her “remnants” and—left. It was then that I took particular notice of her for the first time and thought something of that sort about her, that is, precisely of that particular sort. Yes: I also remember the impression, that is, if you like, the main impression, the synthesis of everything: namely, that she was terribly young, so young, as if she were just fourteen years old. And yet she was three months short of sixteen then. But anyway that’s not what I wanted to say, the synthesis wasn’t in that at all. Next day she came again. I found out later that she had gone with the jacket to Dobronravov and to Moser, but they take nothing but gold and wouldn’t even speak to her. But I once took a cameo from her (a trashy one)—and, on reflection, was surprised afterward: I, too, take nothing but gold and silver, yet I accepted a cameo from her. That was my second thought about her then, I remember it.

This time, that is, after Moser, she brought an amber cigar holder—a so-so little thing, for an amateur, but once again worth nothing with us, because we take only gold. Since she came after the previous day’s rebellion, I met her sternly. Sternness with me is dryness. However, as I handed her the two roubles, I couldn’t help myself and said as if with a certain irritation: “I’m doing it only for you, Moser wouldn’t take such a thing from you.” I especially emphasized the words for you, and precisely in a certain sense. I was angry. She flushed again on hearing this for you, but held her peace, didn’t drop the money, took it—that’s poverty! But how she flushed! I realized that I’d stung her. And after she left, I suddenly asked myself: can it really be that this triumph over her cost two roubles? Heh, heh, heh! I remember twice asking precisely this question: “Is it worth it? Is it worth it?” And, laughing, I resolved it for myself in the affirmative. I got quite merry then. But this wasn’t a bad feeling: I had a design, an intention: I wanted to test her, because I suddenly had some thoughts fermenting in me concerning her. This was my third particular thought about her.