I would profit by their wise and patriotic councils did not the thought of who would “mobilise” my Peter and Jena have a deterring effect. As for the latter suggestion, I am sorry that I don’t know where to find the beneficent breasts into which to dig my teeth.
I’m stupid and unadaptable; I can only do work I’m used to. God! how I envy the rich! With what despair and avarice do I look at their big houses with the plate-glass windows, and their motorcars and carriages, and showy, loathsome clothes; their gold and diamonds! I hate to think that I can’t do what they do! Since all are plundering, why must I starve for some empty word like honour, which people only laugh at, if they think of it at all?
8th September.
I’d die sooner than tell Sashenka that I’ve lost my work and can’t keep the family. If only I hadn’t been so overbearing in days gone by! If only I hadn’t been so exacting and presumptuous! To think of the way I used to come out with, “You might be more careful about my food! What would happen to you all if I were to fall ill?” or, “Do keep the place quiet! I must get a little rest!” or, “Why is the tea cold? Why isn’t my coat brushed? Look at the fluff on the sleeve!” The presumptuousness of it!
I try to economise by going without food as much as I can. I never take any supper at all now, easily excusing myself on account of my precious digestion; however, I very rarely feel hungry. I was overcome by the alarming thought yesterday that, running about as much as I do, I should wear out my boots, and I promptly went into the Rumiantsev Garden, where I sat for a couple of hours, to spare them. It will come to going about naked soon, to spare my clothes!
How long shall I be able to endure it? My misery knows no bounds. Every sensitive spot in me has been pierced by the thorn. When I try to picture my heart it seems like a lump of stringy sausage made of dog flesh, rather than the keeper of lofty feelings and desires. What have I done to deserve it all? Why must I bear this inhuman pain?
To make sport of a man like this? How long will my patience last? Why must I cringe and scrape? Am I a coward?
As I wandered through the square yesterday, gazing at the dusty pavement, bestrewn with cigarette ends, at the trembling leaves on the trees, at the houses on the other side of the river, the thought suddenly occurred to me that, did I but choose, I could join my darling Lidotchka in a few moments, my dear, eternally beloved child. Happiness smiled to me at the thought, a heavenly light seemed to descend upon my unfortunate head. I was, for the moment, rich and free, the richest and freest being in the whole world.
Why do I go on struggling against odds? Why am I careful of my boots, like a respectable pauper, when freedom and happiness are so close at hand in the deep, fastly-flowing river?
9th September.
There’s nothing to say.
10th September.
On the advice of a former fellow-clerk, who had managed to get himself a job with an army contractor, I set out to a certain café on the Nevsky, where business men were known to gather. Luck would depend entirely on an easygoing self-confident manner. I should have to tell a few lively stories, introduce myself to people, and then worm my way in.
It turned out quite differently, though. I told no stories, nor could I put on a self-confident manner. I merely smiled, in the hope of attracting some sympathetic eye. I ordered some tea and a meat pie in an offhand way, and when they were brought to me, I lapsed into a stony silence; I seemed to lose the power of speech. I was stunned by the voices around me, by the alertness of the men to whom they belonged. It was a sight to see them walk in and roll their eyes about till they settled on the individual approaching them. They would be seated together in a moment, smoking and chatting like veritable old cronies, abusing each other one moment, and ready to fall on each other’s necks the next. Though their talk was sufficiently loud and communicative at times, it was difficult to gather what they were driving at. One thing, however, seemed clear—something was being bought and sold, someone was being robbed, ruined, or betrayed. That was the way the money was made.
They hadn’t an air of money about them to look at. Most of them were shabby; only two wore real diamonds in scarf-pins, studs and rings, the rest wore imitation ones. Their pocketbooks, however, which most took out now and again, were all fat, and stuffed not with common paper, but with banknotes. The sordidness may have been a matter of form, the livery essential to these men’s service. Disgusting crowd!
I will say frankly that I set out to the café with my mind fully made up, and without any moral scruples. Had one of them said to me, “Look here, Ilya Petrovitch, we want to break open a safe tonight,” or, “We want to counterfeit money, will you join us for good pay?” I should have accepted the commission without the smallest hesitation. At any rate, that is what I thought, but when I had been sitting there for an hour in stony silence, looking at their ties and faces, their dirty finger nails and diamond rings, I was filled with a loathing
