The house of the dead : $b or, Prison life in SiberiaDostoyevsky, Fyodor
General
The house of the dead : $b or, Prison life in Siberia
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor
Exiles -- Fiction; Siberia (Russia) -- Fiction
at me with such assurance that I gave up scolding him. He bore my
reproaches because he thought I could not do otherwise than I was doing.
He knew that he ought to be punished for such an action, and
consequently thought I ought to abuse him for my own satisfaction, and
to console myself for my loss. But in his inner heart he considered
that it was all nonsense, to which a serious man ought to be ashamed to
descend. I believe even that he looked upon me as a child, an infant,
who does not yet understand the simplest things in the world. If I spoke
to him of anything, except books and matters of knowledge, he would
answer me, but only from politeness, and in laconic phrases. I wondered
what made him question me so much on the subject of books. I looked at
him carefully during our conversation to assure myself that he was not
laughing at me; but no, he listened seriously, and with an attention
which was genuine, though not always maintained. This latter
circumstance irritated me sometimes. The questions he put to me were
clear and precise, and he always seemed prepared for the answer. He had
made up his mind once for all that it was no use speaking to me as to
other matters, and that, apart from books, I understood nothing. I am
certain that he was attached to me, and much that fact astonished me;
but he looked upon me as a child, or as an imperfect man. He felt for me
that sort of compassion which every stronger being feels for a weaker;
he took me for--I do not know what he took me for. Although this
compassion did not prevent him from robbing me, I am sure that in doing
so he pitied me.
“What a strange person!” he must have said to himself, as he lay hands
on my property; “he does not even know how to take care of what he
possesses.” That, I think, is why he liked me. One day he said to me as
if involuntarily:
“You are too good-natured, you are so simple, so simple that one cannot
help pitying you. Do not be offended at what I was saying to you,
Alexander Petrovitch,” he added a minute afterwards, “it is not
ill-meant.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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