I do not possess the slightest sign of an artistic talent. My skill in using good language is small, but that is not of the least consequence. Read! my dear public; not without profit shalt thou read. Truth is a good thing; truth compensates for the faults of that author who serves her. And therefore I will tell thee, that if I had not warned thee, thou wouldst probably have the idea my story was written artistically, that the author possessed a great poetic talent. But I have warned thee that I have no talent, and thou shalt now know that all the good qualities of this story lie in its truthfulness.
In the first place, my kind public, as I am hitting thee under the ribs, I must speak out to the end; although thou art fond of guessing, thou hast no skill to unriddle what has been begun and now ended. When I say that I have not a sign of an artistic talent, and that my story has very little style, don’t make up thy mind that I am very much worse than all thy novelists, whom thou callest great, and that my novel is worse than theirs. I do not say that. I say that my story has less style than the works of other people who are endowed with talent. But, as far as merit goes, thou canst boldly place my story in the same rank as the famous writings of thy favorite authors; thou wilt not be mistaken if thou place it still higher. There is more art in it than in theirs; thou mayest rest assured of it.
Thank me now; thou art obsequious to those who despise thee: bow also to me.
But there is in thee, O public, a certain class of people—and at the present time a considerable number—whom I esteem. To thee as a whole; to the majority I am impertinent, and it is only about the majority that I have been speaking. As regards those whom I have just mentioned I should have spoken humbly to them, even with some fear, but I had no need of making explanations to them. I prize their opinions, but I know beforehand that they are on my side. The good and the strong, the honest, the wise, ye have begun to arise among us; ye are not few in number, and ye are growing more and more. If ye were the public, I should not have to write any more; if ye did not exist, it would be impossible for me to write. But ye are not yet the public, but ye are a part of the public; therefore, I must and I can write.
Part I
The Life of Viéra Pavlovna in Her Parents’ Family
I
Viéra Pavlovna’s training was very ordinary. Her life, up to the time when she made the acquaintance of the medical student Lopukhóf, was rather remarkable, although it was not singular. But in her actions even then could be seen something singular.
Viéra Pavlovna grew up in a many-storied house on Gorokhovaïa Street, between Sadovïa Street and the Semyonovsky bridge. At the present day this house is marked with its appropriate number, but in 1852, when as yet the streets were not numbered, it bore the inscription, “The house of the Actual State Counsellor,3 Ivan Zakharuitch Storeshnikof.”
Such was the inscription; but Ivan Zakharuitch Storeshnikof had died as long ago as 1837, and since that time the proprietor (khozyáïn) of the house was his son Mikhaïl Ivanovitch (thus said the documents); but the tenants knew that Mikhaïl Ivanovitch was merely the son of his father, and that the real proprietor was Anna Petrovna.
The house was at that time just as it is now, large, with two gates and four entrances on the streets, and with three yards (dvors) in the rear. At the principal entrance on the street, on the belétage, there were living in 1852, just the same as at the present time (1860), the khozyáïka and her son. Anna Petrovna is now, and she was then, a lady of distinction. Mikhaïl Ivanovitch is now an army officer of distinction, as he was then a distinguished and handsome officer.
I do not know who is now living on the fourth floor apartment, on the right hand, as you enter from one of the innumerable dirty back entrances of the first dvor; but in 1852 there were living there the manager of the house, Pavel Konstantinuitch Rozalsky, a hardy and representative man, his wife Marya Alekséyevna, a lean, strong, tall woman, with their daughter, a grown-up girl, the very same Viéra Pavlovna, and their little nine-year-old son Feódor.
Pavel Konstantinuitch, beside having the management of the house, held the office of assistant (stolonatchalnik) in a government department. His office gave him no salary, but at home he had a small income; anyone else would have had much more, but Pavel Konstantinuitch, as he himself said, had a conscience. Consequently the khozyáïka of the house was very well satisfied with him, and during the fourteen years of his management he had accumulated a capital of about ten thousand rubles. Of this money only three thousand, and no more, came out of the khozyáïka’s pocket; the balance was gained by being turned over and over, and not to the detriment of the khozyáïka. Pavel Konstantinuitch was in the habit of loaning money on pawn of personal property.
Marya Alekséyevna had also a little capital; about five thousand, as she told her kumashki (gossipy friends), but in reality
