A Bad Business

Essential Stories

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nicolas Pasternak Slater, Maya Slater

• Publisher: Pushkin Press
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781782276746
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Classici

The perfect introduction to the many talents of this iconic Russian writer: six short stories ranging from satire to tragedy

Dostevsky was a writer of unparalleld psychological intensity, capable of evoking startling absurdity and scorching social satire. In this collection of newly translated stories, scenes from the turbulent underbelly of St Petersburg are shot through with an acerbic, unforgiving humour, only to soften into moments of tragedy and unexpected tenderness.

An arrogant nobleman disgraces himself, and betrays his ideals, at an aide's wedding. A struggling writer stumbles upon a cemetery where the dead talk to each other. A civil servant finds unexpected clarity from inside the belly of a crocodile. These stories, by turns both wickedly sharp and unexpectedly charming, illuminate Dostoevsky's dazzling versatility as a writer.

7

A BAD BUSINESS

A Story

This bad business occurred at the very time when our beloved Fatherland, driven on with such irresistible force, and filled with such touchingly naïve enthusiasm, was just embarking on its regeneration, bearing with it all its valiant sons intent on their eager pursuit of new destinies and aspirations. It so happened, on a clear frosty winter evening—after eleven at night, in fact—that three extremely respectable gentlemen were seated in a comfortable, luxuriously appointed room in a splendid two-storey mansion on the Petersburg Side, engaged in an admirable and serious-minded conversation on a highly intriguing subject. All three gentlemen had the rank of general. They were sitting in three splendid cushioned armchairs round a little table, and as they talked they took quiet, luxurious sips of champagne. The bottle, 8in a silver ice bucket, stood on the table in front of them. They were there because their host, Privy Councillor Stepan Nikiforovich Nikiforov, an old bachelor of about sixty-five, was celebrating his house-warming in the house he had just bought; and this event happened to coincide with his birthday, which he never used to celebrate. Not that this celebration was all that splendid: as we have seen, there were only two guests, both of them former colleagues and subordinates of his in the service. One was Active State Councillor Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, and the other, also an active state councillor, was Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky. They had arrived about nine, had their tea, then moved on to the wine, and knew that at precisely eleven thirty they would have to set off for home. Their host had been a stickler for regularity all his life.

A word about the host. He had begun his career as a petty clerk with no backing, quietly carried on his daily grind for a full forty-five years, well aware how high he could rise in his job; he hated reaching for the stars, although he had already earned two of them, and particularly loathed expressing his personal opinion on any subject at all. He was honest—that is to say, he had never had occasion to do anything particularly dishonest; he was unmarried, because he was selfish; was far from stupid, but hated showing his intelligence; 9particularly disliked shoddiness, and also fervour, which he regarded as moral shoddiness; and towards the end of his life he had totally sunk into a kind of delicious, indolent self-indulgence and systematic reclusiveness. He did sometimes go out to visit people of the better class, but ever since he was a young man he had always hated entertaining guests; and lately, when not playing patience, he would make do with the company of his dining-room clock, spending whole evenings placidly dozing in his armchair and listening to it ticking away under its glass dome on the mantelpiece. He looked extremely respectable and was well shaven, so that he seemed younger than his years and very well preserved, with the promise of living many years more; his manners were impeccably gentlemanly. His post was a pretty comfortable one, sitting on some committee and signing things. In short, he was thought to be a splendid fellow. He used to have only one passion, or rather one fervent longing, which was to have a house of his own, and one built as a gentleman’s home rather than a capital investment. And now his wish had come true: he had found and bought himself a house on the Petersburg Side—true, it was quite a way out, but it had a garden, and the house was elegant. The new owner reasoned that it was all the better for being far out: he disliked 10entertaining, and if he himself had to drive out on a visit or to his office, he had a smart chocolate-coloured two-seater carriage, and his coachman Mikhey, and a pair of small but tough and handsome horses. All this he had acquired honestly by forty years of meticulous frugality, and it gladdened his heart.

That was why, once he had bought and moved into his new home, Stepan Nikiforovich’s phlegmatic soul was filled with such joy that he actually invited guests to celebrate his birthday, which he had hitherto carefully kept secret from even his closest friends. In fact he had particular designs on one of his two guests. He himself had moved into the upper floor of his new house, but the lower floor, constructed and laid out in exactly the same way, was in want of a tenant. Stepan Nikiforovich was counting on Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, and in the course of this evening he had already twice alluded to the matter. But Semyon Ivanovich had not risen to the bait. He, too, was a man who had spent long years making his way in the service. He had black hair and side whiskers and a permanently bilious tinge to his face. He was a married man, a morose stay-at-home who terrorized his household. He performed his work with confidence, and he too knew exactly how high he would rise, and more importantly, the heights he would never reach. He had 11a good position, and was sitting tight. He viewed the latest reforms with a certain distaste, but was not particularly alarmed by them; he was very sure of himself, and when Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky held forth on these modern topics, he listened to him with malicious derision. But all three of them were a little tipsy by now, so even Stepan Nikiforovich condescended to engage in a mild argument with Pralinsky concerning the reforms. But a few words here about his Excellency Councillor Pralinsky, particularly as he is the principal hero of the story that follows.

Active State Councillor Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky had only been his Excellency for four months. In other words, he was a young general. Young in years, too—not more than forty-three, and he looked (and liked to look) younger still. He was a tall, handsome man, who dressed elegantly and prided himself on the refinement and respectability of his costume. He had an important decoration round his neck, which he wore with consummate style. Even as a child he had had the knack of acquiring the airs and graces of the beau monde, and now, still a bachelor, he dreamt of a wealthy bride from those circles. And he dreamt of many other things too, though he was far from stupid. At times he was a great talker, and even liked to pose as a parliamentarian. He came from a good family: 12the son of a general, he had been brought up in the lap of luxury, dressed in velvet and fine linen even as a little boy. Educated at an aristocratic school, he had left it not much the wiser. Still, he had had a successful career and had risen to the rank of general. The authorities regarded him as a capable person, and had high hopes of him. Stepan Nikiforovich, under whom he had served from the start of his career and almost up to his promotion to general, had never regarded him as much of a practical man, and had no expectations of him whatsoever. But he liked the fact that Ivan Ilyich came from a good family, possessed a fortune (that is, a large block of rental properties with a manager), was related to influential people, and furthermore had a dignified air about him. Privately, Stepan Nikiforovich looked down on him as being too imaginative and frivolous. Ivan Ilyich himself sometimes felt that he was too vain and perhaps too touchy. Strangely enough, he was occasionally troubled by a morbidly tender conscience, and even a slight sense of remorse. From time to time he would acknowledge bitterly and with an aching heart that he was not really flying as high as he imagined. At such moments he would become depressed, particularly if his piles were troubling him, and say that his life was une existence manquée. He would—privately of course—lose 13faith in his parliamentary skills, calling himself a parleur and a phraseur. All this, of course, did him great credit, but it didn’t stop him from holding his head high again half an hour later, reassuring himself more obstinately and conceitedly than ever, and resolving that he would make a name for himself yet, and become not only a great official but a statesman whom Russia would long remember. Sometimes he even dreamt of monuments. All this shows that Ivan Ilyich aimed high, though he kept his vague dreams and hopes hidden deep in his heart—and they actually rather scared him. In a word, he was a kind-hearted man, with the soul of a poet. In recent years his moments of morbid disillusionment had become more frequent. He had grown particularly irritable and touchy, always ready to take offence at anyone who disagreed with him. But the new Russian reforms had aroused great hopes in him. His promotion to general had done the rest. He livened up, and held his head high. He had begun to speak volubly and eloquently, discussing the very latest topics, which he had unexpectedly assimilated with amazing alacrity and now espoused with vigour. He looked out for opportunities to speak, drove around town, and in many places had already earned the reputation of an out-and-out liberal, which he found very flattering. 14On this particular evening, after four glasses, he had let himself go more than ever. Having not seen Stepan Nikiforovich for some time, he was now keen to change his chief’s mind on every subject, though he had hitherto always respected him and even obeyed him. For some reason he regarded him as a reactionary, and attacked him very fiercely. Stepan Nikiforovich scarcely replied, but just listened sardonically, although the topic interested him. Ivan Ilyich was becoming worked up, and in the heat of this imaginary dispute he sipped from his glass more often than he should. When this happened, Stepan Nikiforovich would take the bottle and top up his glass at once, which for some reason annoyed Ivan Ilyich, particularly as Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, whom he particularly despised and also feared as a spiteful cynic, was sitting to one side of him, maintaining a treacherous silence and smiling more often than he should. ‘They seem to be taking me for a schoolboy’—the thought flashed through his head.

‘No, sir, it was time, high time,’ he went on vehemently, ‘we’ve left it far too long, and to my mind a humane approach is the most important thing, a humane attitude towards our subordinates, remembering that they’re human beings too. A humane attitude will rescue everything, it will carry everything …’15

‘He-he-he!’ came from Semyon Ivanovich’s direction.

‘But why are you laying into us like this?’ Stepan Nikiforovich finally protested, with a friendly smile. ‘I must confess, Ivan Ilyich, I still can’t make out what you’re being good enough to explain to us. You talk about being humane. That means loving one’s fellow man, does it?’

‘Yes, loving one’s fellow man, if you like. I—’

‘Allow me. As far as I can see, that isn’t the only thing. It’s always been right to love one’s fellow men. But the reforms go beyond that. There are questions that arise relating to the peasantry, the courts, the economy, government contracts, morality, and … and … and there’s no end to them, these questions, and if you adopt them all at once, that could cause great … instability, so to speak. That’s what’s been worrying us, not just the question of being humane.’

‘Yes, it all goes deeper,’ remarked Semyon Ivanovich.

‘I understand that perfectly well, and allow me to point out, Semyon Ivanovich, that I will certainly not accept that your understanding is superior to mine,’ said Ivan Ilyich caustically and with unnecessary sharpness. ‘Nevertheless, I shall make bold to point 16out to you too, Stepan Nikiforovich, that you haven’t understood me either.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘And yet I maintain, and everywhere promote the idea, that a humane attitude, specifically towards one’s subordinates, from official to clerk, from clerk to domestic servant, from servant to peasant—a humane attitude, I say, can serve, as it were, as the cornerstone of the coming reforms, and of the reformation of things in general. Why? Because. Take this syllogism: I am humane, therefore I am loved. I am loved, therefore people feel confidence in me. They feel confidence, therefore they believe. They believe, therefore they love … or no, I mean to say, if they believe, then they will believe in the reforms, they’ll grasp, as it were, the very nub of the matter, they will, as it were, embrace each other, in the moral sense, and settle the whole thing completely in a friendly way. Why are you laughing, Semyon Ivanovich? Don’t you understand?’

Stepan Nikiforovich said nothing, but raised his eyebrows; he was surprised.

‘I’m afraid I must have had a little too much to drink,’ said Semyon Ivanovich venomously, ‘so I’m slow on the uptake. Haven’t got all my wits about me.’

Ivan Ilyich flinched. 17

‘We won’t hold out,’ Stepan Nikiforovich suddenly pronounced after some brief reflection.

‘What do you mean, we won’t hold out?’ demanded Ivan Ilyich, taken aback by Stepan Nikiforovich’s unexpected and abrupt remark.

‘Just that—we won’t hold out.’ Stepan Nikiforovich evidently did not want to expand further.

‘You’re not alluding to new wine in new wineskins, are you?’ returned Ivan Ilyich ironically. ‘Because no, I can certainly answer for myself.’

At that point the clock struck half past eleven.

‘People sit on and on, but eventually they leave,’ said Semyon Ivanovich, preparing to get up. But Ivan Ilyich forestalled him, got up from the table himself, and picked up his sable cap from the mantelpiece. He seemed offended.

‘So, Semyon Ivanich, will you think it over?’ asked Stepan Nikiforovich, seeing his guests to the door.

‘About the little apartment, you mean? Yes, yes, I’ll think about it.’

‘Well, when you’ve made up your mind, let me know as soon as you can.’

‘More business?’ asked Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky, in an affable but rather ingratiating voice, twisting his cap in his hands. He felt ignored.18

Stepan Nikiforovich raised his eyebrows and said nothing, making it clear that he was not detaining his guests. Semyon Ivanovich hastily took his leave.

‘But … well … just as you like, then … if you can’t understand a simple piece of courtesy,’ Pralinsky thought, holding out his hand to Stepan Nikiforovich in a decidedly non-committal way.

In the hallway Ivan Ilyich wrapped himself up in his expensive lightweight fur coat, trying for some reason not to notice Semyon Ivanovich’s shabby raccoon, and they set off down the stairs.

‘The old man seemed offended,’ said Ivan Ilyich to Semyon Ivanovich, who was saying nothing.

‘No, why should he be?’ replied the other, cool and composed.

‘Servile creep!’ thought Ivan Ilyich.

They went out to the front steps, and Semyon Ivanich’s sleigh drew up, drawn by an unimpressive-looking colt.

‘What on earth! Where the devil has Trifon got to with my carriage?’ yelled Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky, not seeing his conveyance.

They looked this way and that, but there was no carriage. Stepan Nikiforovich’s man had no idea. They asked Varlam, Semyon Ivanovich’s driver, who 19told them that he’d been waiting there the whole time, and the carriage had been there too, but now it wasn’t.

‘A bad business!’ said Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘Damned scoundrel!’ yelled Pralinsky in a rage. ‘That bastard was asking me to let him go to a wedding, over here on the Petersburg Side; apparently some woman friend of his was getting married, blast her eyes. I strictly forbade him to leave. And I bet you anything that’s where he’s gone!’

‘That’s exactly where he’s gone, sir,’ Varlam confirmed, ‘and he promised he’d be back in a minute, I mean, he’d be here in time.’

‘There you are! I could see it coming! Now he’ll catch it!’

‘Give him a proper thrashing or two at the police station, that’ll teach him to obey orders,’ remarked Semyon Ivanovich, wrapping himself in his rug.

‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Semyon Ivanich!’

‘No, really, wouldn’t you like a lift?’

‘Merci, bon voyage.’

Semyon Ivanovich drove off, and Ivan Ilyich set off home along the wooden pavement in a state of intense irritation.

*

20‘Now you’ll catch it, you villain! Just you wait! I’ll walk home, just to make you feel it and take fright! He’ll come back and find his master gone home on foot … bastard!’

Ivan Ilyich had never sworn that way before, but he was in a towering rage; besides which he was hearing noises in his head. He wasn’t normally a drinker, so the five or six glasses in a row had quickly gone to his head. But the night was delightful. There was a frost, but the air was unusually quiet and still. The clear sky was filled with stars. The full moon flooded the earth with its soft silvery light. Ever...