I. A Fool

II. The First Consequence of a Foolish Deed

III. Foreword

Chapter One. Vera Pavlovna’s Life in Her Parents’ Family

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

Chapter Two. First Love and Legal Marriage

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII. Hamlet’s Test

IX

X

XI

XII. Verochka’s First Dream

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV. In Praise of Marya Alexevna

Chapter Three. Marriage and Second Love

I

II

III. Vera Pavlovna’s Second Dream

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV. Kryukova’s Story

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX. Vera Pavlovna’s Third Dream

XX

XXI

XXII. A Theoretical Conversation

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX. A Special Man

XXX

XXXI. Conversation with a Perceptive Reader and His Expulsion

Chapter Four. Second Marriage

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII. Digression on Blue Stockings

XIV

XV

XVI. Vera Pavlovna’s Fourth Dream

XVII

XVIII. Katerina Vasilievna Polozova’s Letter

Chapter Five. New Faces and the Dénouement

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

Chapter Six. Change of Scenery

The most important thing is to be honest.

The principle of reasonable egoism—that is the highest morality.

A decent person will never live by the labour of others.

Let the future generation be happy; let it be free and great, and let it use our names only for remembrance.

A single drop of sweat from a worker is worth more than all the eloquent words and brilliant theories of thinkers who do not work.

I

A Fool

On the morning of July 11, 1856, the staff of one of the large St. Petersburg hotels near the Moscow railway station was puzzled, even somewhat alarmed. The previous day, around nine in the evening, a gentleman arrived with a suitcase, took a room, handed over his passport for registration, ordered tea and a cutlet, said he did not wish to be disturbed in the evening because he was tired and wanted to sleep, but insisted on being woken at eight o’clock the next morning because he had urgent business. He locked his room door, made a little noise with a knife and fork, a little noise with the tea set, and soon quieted down—he was evidently asleep.

Morning came; at eight o’clock, the servant knocked on the door of the previous evening’s arrival—the guest gave no sign of life; the servant knocked harder, very hard—still, the guest did not answer. He must have been very tired. The servant waited a quarter of an hour, tried to wake him again, and again failed. He began consulting with the other servants and the buffet manager. “Could something have happened to him?” — “We should break down the door.” — “No, that won’t do: you must break down the door with the police.” They decided to try waking him one last time, more loudly; if he still didn’t wake up, they would send for the police. They made the final attempt; they failed to rouse him; they sent for the police and were now waiting to see what they would find.

Around ten o’clock in the morning, a police official arrived, knocked himself, ordered the servants to knock—the result was the same as before. “Nothing for it, break down the door, lads.”

The door was broken down. The room was empty. “Take a look under the bed”—the traveller wasn’t under the bed either. The police official approached the table—a sheet of paper lay on the table, and on it was written in large letters:

“I leave at 11 o’clock this evening and will not return. They will hear me on the Liteyny Bridge, between 2 and 3 o’clock at night. Suspect no one.”

“So that’s it, the trick is clear now, but we couldn’t figure it out before,” said the police official. “What is it, Ivan Afanasyevich?” asked the buffet manager. “Give me some tea, and I’ll tell you.”

The police official’s story long served as a subject of lively retelling and discussion in the hotel. The history was of this kind.

At half-past two in the morning—and the night was cloudy and dark—a flash of fire shone on the middle of the Liteyny Bridge, and a pistol shot was heard. The sentries rushed to the sound of the shot, and the few passers-by ran up—there was no one and nothing at the spot where the shot rang out. This meant he didn’t shoot someone else, but himself. Volunteers came forward to dive, grappling hooks were brought after a while, even some kind of fishing net was brought, they dived, felt around, searched, caught half a hundred large wood chips, but they did not find or catch the body. And how could they find it?—the night was dark. By this time it would be in the estuary—go look for it there.

Therefore, the progressives arose, rejecting the former assumption: “But maybe there was no body at all? Maybe he was drunk or simply a prankster—played a fool, fired a shot, and ran off—or perhaps he’s standing right here in the bustling crowd and laughing at the commotion he caused.”

But the majority, as always, when judging sensibly, turned out to be conservative and defended the old view: “What playing the fool—he put a bullet in his head, and that’s all there is to it.” The progressives were defeated.

But the victorious party, as always, split immediately after the victory. He shot himself, yes; but why? “Drunk,” was the opinion of some conservatives; “he squandered his fortune,” others asserted. “Simply a fool,” someone said. They all agreed on this “simply a fool,” even those who rejected that he shot himself. Indeed, whether a drunkard, or a bankrupt, shot himself, or whether a prankster did not shoot himself at all, but only pulled a trick—it was foolish, a fool’s trick all the same.

The matter rested there on the bridge that night. In the morning, at the hotel near the Moscow railway station, it became clear that the fool had not played a trick but had shot himself. But an element remained in the result of the story with which even the defeated agreed, namely, that even if he hadn’t pranked but shot himself, he was still a fool. This satisfactory result for everyone was particularly strong precisely because the conservatives triumphed: indeed, if he had merely pranked with a shot on the bridge, it would, in essence, still be debatable whether he was a fool or just a prankster. But he shot himself on the bridge—who shoots himself on a bridge? How could it be on a bridge? Why on a bridge? It’s stupid to do it on a bridge!—and therefore, undoubtedly, a fool.

Again, doubt arose in some: he shot himself on the bridge; people don’t shoot themselves on a bridge—therefore, he didn’t shoot himself. But towards evening, the hotel staff was called to the police station to look at a bullet-ridden cap pulled out of the water—everyone recognized that the cap was the very one the traveller wore. Thus, it was undoubtedly a suicide, and the spirit of denial and progress was utterly defeated.

Everyone agreed that he was “a fool”—and suddenly everyone started saying: on the bridge—what a clever trick! That is, so he wouldn’t suffer long if the shot didn’t succeed well—he reasoned smartly! From any wound, he would fall into the water and drown before he knew what hit him—yes, on the bridge… clever!

Now it was impossible to discern anything clearly—it was both a fool and clever.