A Little Hero

"A Little Hero" is a short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky that explores themes of innocence, bravery, and the complexities of human nature. The narrative follows a young boy who observes the interactions of the adults around him, particularly in a tense situation involving kindness and moral courage. Through the boy’s perspective, Dostoevsky delves into the struggles between good and evil, the impact of social dynamics, and the innate heroism that can emerge even in the smallest of characters. The story highlights the innocence of childhood while reflecting on the often harsh realities of adult life.

• Novel

								
A STORY

At that time I was nearly eleven, I had been sent in July to spend the
holiday in a village near Moscow with a relation of mine called T.,
whose house was full of guests, fifty, or perhaps more.... I don't
remember, I didn't count. The house was full of noise and gaiety. It
seemed as though it were a continual holiday, which would never end. It
seemed as though our host had taken a vow to squander all his vast
fortune as rapidly as possible, and he did indeed succeed, not long ago,
in justifying this surmise, that is, in making a clean sweep of it all
to the last stick.

Fresh visitors used to drive up every minute. Moscow was close by, in
sight, so that those who drove away only made room for others, and the
everlasting holiday went on its course. Festivities succeeded one
another, and there was no end in sight to the entertainments. There were
riding parties about the environs; excursions to the forest or the
river; picnics, dinners in the open air; suppers on the great terrace of
the house, bordered with three rows of gorgeous flowers that flooded
with their fragrance the fresh night air, and illuminated the brilliant
lights which made our ladies, who were almost every one of them pretty
at all times, seem still more charming, with their faces excited by the
impressions of the day, with their sparkling eyes, with their
interchange of spritely conversation, their peals of ringing laughter;
dancing, music, singing; if the sky were overcast tableaux vivants,
charades, proverbs were arranged, private theatricals were got up. There
were good talkers, story-tellers, wits.

Certain persons were prominent in the foreground. Of course backbiting
and slander ran their course, as without them the world could not get
on, and millions of persons would perish of boredom, like flies. But as
I was at that time eleven I was absorbed by very different interests,
and either failed to observe these people, or if I noticed anything, did
not see it all. It was only afterwards that some things came back to my
mind. My childish eyes could only see the brilliant side of the picture,
and the general animation, splendour, and bustle--all that, seen and
heard for the first time, made such an impression upon me that for the
first few days, I was completely bewildered and my little head was in a
whirl.

I keep speaking of my age, and of course I was a child, nothing more
than a child. Many of these lovely ladies petted me without dreaming of
considering my age. But strange to say, a sensation which I did not
myself understand already had possession of me; something was already
whispering in my heart, of which till then it had had no knowledge, no
conception, and for some reason it began all at once to burn and throb,
and often my face glowed with a sudden flush. At times I felt as it were
abashed, and even resentful of the various privileges of my childish
years. At other times a sort of wonder overwhelmed me, and I would go
off into some corner where I could sit unseen, as though to take breath
and remember something--something which it seemed to me I had remembered
perfectly till then, and now had suddenly forgotten, something without
which I could not show myself anywhere, and could not exist at all.

At last it seemed to me as though I were hiding something from every
one. But nothing would have induced me to speak of it to any one,
because, small boy that I was, I was ready to weep with shame. Soon in
the midst of the vortex around me I was conscious of a certain
loneliness. There were other children, but all were either much older or
younger than I; besides, I was in no mood for them. Of course nothing
would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional position.
In the eyes of those charming ladies I was still the little unformed
creature whom they at once liked to pet, and with whom they could play
as though he were a little doll. One of them particularly, a
fascinating, fair woman, with very thick luxuriant hair, such as I had
never seen before and probably shall never see again, seemed to have
taken a vow never to leave me in peace. I was confused, while she was
amused by the laughter which she continually provoked from all around us
by her wild, giddy pranks with me, and this apparently gave her immense
enjoyment. At school among her schoolfellows she was probably nicknamed
the Tease. She was wonderfully good-looking, and there was something in
her beauty which drew one's eyes from the first moment. And certainly
she had nothing in common with the ordinary modest little fair girls,
white as down and soft as white mice, or pastors' daughters. She was not
very tall, and was rather plump, but had soft, delicate, exquisitely cut
features. There was something quick as lightning in her face, and indeed
she was like fire all over, light, swift, alive. Her big open eyes
seemed to flash sparks; they glittered like diamonds, and I would never
exchange such blue sparkling eyes for any black ones, were they blacker
than any Andalusian orb. And, indeed, my blonde was fully a match for
the famous brunette whose praises were sung by a great and well-known
poet, who, in a superb poem, vowed by all Castille that he was ready to
break his bones to be permitted only to touch the mantle of his divinity
with the tip of his finger. Add to that, that my charmer was the
merriest in the world, the wildest giggler, playful as a child, although
she had been married for the last five years. There was a continual
laugh upon her lips, fresh as the morning rose that, with the first ray
of sunshine, opens its fragrant crimson bud with the cool dewdrops still
hanging heavy upon it.

I remember that the day after my arrival private theatricals were being
got up. The drawing-room was, as they say, packed to overflowing; there
was not a seat empty, and as I was somehow late I had to enjoy the
performance standing. But the amusing play attracted me to move
forwarder and forwarder, and unconsciously I made my way to the first
row, where I stood at last leaning my elbows on the back of an armchair,
in which a lady was sitting. It was my blonde divinity, but we had not
yet made acquaintance. And I gazed, as it happened, at her marvellous,
fascinating shoulders, plump and white as milk, though it did not matter
to me in the least whether I stared at a woman's exquisite shoulders or
at the cap with flaming ribbons that covered the grey locks of a
venerable lady in the front row. Near my blonde divinity sat a spinster
lady not in her first youth, one of those who, as I chanced to observe
later, always take refuge in the immediate neighbourhood of young and
pretty women, selecting such as are not fond of cold-shouldering young
men. But that is not the point, only this lady, noting my fixed gaze,
bent down to her neighbour and with a simper whispered something in her
ear. The blonde lady turned at once, and I remember that her glowing
eyes so flashed upon me in the half dark, that, not prepared to meet
them, I started as though I were scalded. The beauty smiled.

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