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
mankind, and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of
that flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away.
To be two or three days behind with his wages, for instance, was
impossible. He would have made such a fuss, I should not have known
where to hide my head. But I was so exasperated with every one during
those days, that I made up my mind for some reason and with some object
to _punish_ Apollon and not to pay him for a fortnight the wages that
were owing him. I had for a long time--for the last two years--been
intending to do this, simply in order to teach him not to give himself
airs with me, and to show him that if I liked I could withhold his
wages. I purposed to say nothing to him about it, and was purposely
silent indeed, in order to score off his pride and force him to be the
first to speak of his wages. Then I would take the seven roubles out of
a drawer, show him I have the money put aside on purpose, but that I
won't, I won't, I simply won't pay him his wages, I won't just because
that is "what I wish," because "I am master, and it is for me to
decide," because he has been disrespectful, because he has been rude;
but if he were to ask respectfully I might be softened and give it to
him, otherwise he might wait another fortnight, another three weeks, a
whole month....
But angry as I was, yet he got the better of me. I could not hold out
for four days. He began as he always did begin in such cases, for there
had been such cases already, there had been attempts (and it may be
observed I knew all this beforehand, I knew his nasty tactics by heart).
He would begin by fixing upon me an exceedingly severe stare, keeping it
up for several minutes at a time, particularly on meeting me or seeing
me out of the house. If I held out and pretended not to notice these
stares, he would, still in silence, proceed to further tortures. All at
once, _à propos_ of nothing, he would walk softly and smoothly into my
room, when I was pacing up and down or reading, stand at the door, one
hand behind his back and one foot behind the other, and fix upon me a
stare more than severe, utterly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him
what he wanted, he would make me no answer, but continue staring at me
persistently for some seconds, then, with a peculiar compression of his
lips and a most significant air, deliberately turn round and
deliberately go back to his room. Two hours later he would come out
again and again present himself before me in the same way. It had
happened that in my fury I did not even ask him what he wanted, but
simply raised my head sharply and imperiously and began staring back at
him. So we stared at one another for two minutes; at last he turned with
deliberation and dignity and went back again for two hours.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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