White nights, and other storiesDostoyevsky, Fyodor
General
White nights, and other stories
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 1821-1881 -- Translations into English; Russian fiction -- Translations into English
At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps
and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak,
particularly in my legs and my knees. The door was opened quickly as
though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that
perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which
one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions. It was one of
those "millinery establishments" which were abolished by the police a
good time ago. By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had an
introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.
I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room,
where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement:
there was no one there. "Where are they?" I asked somebody. But by now,
of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a
stupid smile, the "madam" herself, who had seen me before. A minute
later a door opened and another person came in.
Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I
talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was
conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I
should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here
and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not
realize my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come
in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with
straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that
attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I
began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had
not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and
good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that
this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her.
She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall,
strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something
loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her.
I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as
revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair.
"No matter, I am glad of it," I thought; "I am glad that I shall seem
repulsive to her; I like that."
VI
... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though
oppressed by something, as though some one were strangling it. After an
unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it
were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though some one were suddenly jumping
forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep
but lying half conscious.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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