Mr. Prohartchin Page #8

"Mr. Prohartchin" is a short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky, written in 1862. The narrative centers around the character of Mr. Prohartchin, a middle-class clerk who embodies the absurdities and struggles of ordinary life. Through the lens of Prohartchin's experiences, Dostoevsky explores themes of social alienation, the nature of identity, and the often poignant contrasts between societal expectations and personal aspirations. The story reflects Dostoevsky's characteristic psychological insight and social commentary, highlighting the complexities of human nature and the often bleak realities of existence in 19th-century Russia.

• Novel

								


"I may be a dandy," shouted Mark Ivanovitch, not listening; "I may be a
regular dandy, but I have not to pass an examination to get married--to
learn dancing; the ground is firm under me, sir. Why, my good man,
haven't you room enough? Is the floor giving way under your feet, or
what?"

"Well, they won't ask you, will they? They'll shut one up and that will
be the end of it?"

"The end of it? That's what's up? What's your idea now, eh?"

"Why, they kicked out the drunken cadger."

"Yes; but you see that was a drunkard, and you are a man, and so am I."

"Yes, I am a man. It's there all right one day and then it's gone."

"Gone! But what do you mean by it?"

"Why, the office! The off--off--ice!"

"Yes, you blessed man, but of course the office is wanted and
necessary."

"It is wanted, I tell you; it's wanted to-day and it's wanted to-morrow,
but the day after to-morrow it will not be wanted. You have heard what
happened?"

"Why, but they'll pay you your salary for the year, you doubting Thomas,
you man of little faith. They'll put you into another job on account of
your age."

"Salary? But what if I have spent my salary, if thieves come and take my
money? And I have a sister-in-law, do you hear? A sister-in-law! You
battering-ram...."

"A sister-in-law! You are a man...."

"Yes, I am; I am a man. But you are a well-read gentleman and a fool, do
you hear?--you battering-ram--you regular battering-ram! That's what you
are! I am not talking about your jokes; but there are jobs such that all
of a sudden they are done away with. And Demid--do you hear?--Demid
Vassilyevitch says that the post will be done away with...."

"Ah, bless you, with your Demid! You sinner, why, you know...."

"In a twinkling of an eye you'll be left without a post, then you'll
just have to make the best of it."

"Why, you are simply raving, or clean off your head! Tell us plainly,
what have you done? Own up if you have done something wrong! It's no use
being ashamed! Are you off your head, my good man, eh?"

"He's off his head! He's gone off his head!" they all cried, and wrung
their hands in despair, while the landlady threw both her arms round
Mark Ivanovitch for fear he should tear Semyon Ivanovitch to pieces.

"You heathen, you heathenish soul, you wise man!" Zimoveykin besought
him. "Senka, you are not a man to take offence, you are a polite,
prepossessing man. You are simple, you are good ... do you hear? It all
comes from your goodness. Here I am a ruffian and a fool, I am a beggar;
but good people haven't abandoned me, no fear; you see they treat me
with respect, I thank them and the landlady. Here, you see, I bow down
to the ground to them; here, see, see, I am paying what is due to you,
landlady!" At this point Zimoveykin swung off with pedantic dignity a
low bow right down to the ground.

After that Semyon Ivanovitch would have gone on talking; but this time
they would not let him, they all intervened, began entreating him,
assuring him, comforting him, and succeeded in making Semyon Ivanovitch
thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last, in a faint voice, he asked
leave to explain himself.

"Very well, then," he said, "I am prepossessing, I am quiet, I am good,
faithful and devoted; to the last drop of my blood you know ... do you
hear, you puppy, you swell? ... granted the job is going on, but you see
I am poor. And what if they take it? do you hear, you swell? Hold your
tongue and try to understand! They'll take it and that's all about it
... it's going on, brother, and then not going on ... do you understand?
And I shall go begging my bread, do you hear?"

"Senka," Zimoveykin bawled frantically, drowning the general hubbub with
his voice. "You are seditious! I'll inform against you! What are you
saying? Who are you? Are you a rebel, you sheep's head? A rowdy, stupid
man they would turn off without a character. But what are you?"

"Well, that's just it."

"What?"

"Well, there it is."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, I am free, he's free, and here one lies and thinks...."

"What?"

"What if they say I'm seditious?"

"Se--di--tious? Senka, you seditious!"

"Stay," cried Mr. Prohartchin, waving his hand and interrupting the
rising uproar, "that's not what I mean. Try to understand, only try to
understand, you sheep. I am law-abiding. I am law-abiding to-day, I am
law-abiding to-morrow, and then all of a sudden they kick me out and
call me seditious."

"What are you saying?" Mark Ivanovitch thundered at last, jumping up
from the chair on which he had sat down to rest, running up to the bed
and in a frenzy shaking with vexation and fury. "What do you mean? You
sheep! You've nothing to call your own. Why, are you the only person in
the world? Was the world made for you, do you suppose? Are you a
Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Tell me,
are you a Napoleon?"

But Mr. Prohartchin did not answer this question. Not because he was
overcome with shame at being a Napoleon, and was afraid of taking upon
himself such a responsibility--no, he was incapable of disputing
further, or saying anything.... His illness had reached a crisis. Tiny
teardrops gushed suddenly from his glittering, feverish, grey eyes. He
hid his burning head in his bony hands that were wasted by illness, sat
up in bed, and sobbing, began to say that he was quite poor, that he was
a simple, unlucky man, that he was foolish and unlearned, he begged kind
folks to forgive him, to take care of him, to protect him, to give him
food and drink, not to leave him in want, and goodness knows what else
Semyon Ivanovitch said. As he uttered this appeal he looked about him in
wild terror, as though he were expecting the ceiling to fall or the
floor to give way. Every one felt his heart soften and move to pity as
he looked at the poor fellow. The landlady, sobbing and wailing like a
peasant woman at her forlorn condition, laid the invalid back in bed
with her own hands. Mark Ivanovitch, seeing the uselessness of touching
upon the memory of Napoleon, instantly relapsed into kindliness and came
to her assistance. The others, in order to do something, suggested
raspberry tea, saying that it always did good at once and that the
invalid would like it very much; but Zimoveykin contradicted them all,
saying there was nothing better than a good dose of camomile or
something of the sort. As for Zinovy Prokofyevitch, having a good heart,
he sobbed and shed tears in his remorse, for having frightened Semyon
Ivanovitch with all sorts of absurdities, and gathering from the
invalid's last words that he was quite poor and needing assistance, he
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes