What Is to Be Done?

On the morning of the 23rd of July, 1856, the servants of one of the largest hotels of Petersburg, near the Moscow railroad station, were in perplexity, and even partly in fear. On the previous evening, about nine o’clock, a gentleman arrived with a valise, took a room, gave his passport to be registered, asked for tea and a small cutlet, gave orders that they should not disturb him during the evening, because he was tired and wanted to sleep, but that they should wake him without fail at eight o’clock in the morning, because he had important business. Then he locked the door; and, after rattling his knife and fork, and jingling the tea-things for a time, nothing more was heard of him. He was apparently asleep. Morning came; at eight o’clock a servant knocked at the stranger’s door; the stranger did not answer. The servant knocked louder, very loud; still the stranger did not reply. Apparently he was very tired. The servant waited a quarter of an hour, again tried to arouse him, again was unsuccessful. He consulted with the other servants, with the butler.

“Can anything have happened to him?”

“We must break in the door.”

“No, that won’t do! If we break in the door, we must have a policeman.”

It was decided to try once more, still louder; if it failed this time, to send for the police.

They made their last endeavor; they could not arouse him. They sent for the police, and now they are waiting to see what the result will be.

On that very same morning, about twelve o’clock, a young woman was sitting in one of the three rooms of a small dacha on the Kamennoï Ostrof (Stone Island); she was sewing, and singing in an undertone a little French song full of spirit and courage. “We are poor,” said the song, “but we are working people; we have strong hands. We are obscure, but we are not dull, and we want light. Let us learn; knowledge will give us freedom. Let us be industrious; industry will give us wealth. This will go on; if we live, we shall see it.

Ça ira, Qui vivra verra.

We are rough, but from our roughness ’tis only we ourselves who are the losers. We are full of prejudices, but we ourselves suffer from them; this we feel. Let us look for happiness, let us find humanity, we shall be good; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.

“Industry without knowledge is fruitless; our own happiness is impossible without the happiness of others. As soon as we become enlightened we shall become rich; we shall be happy; we shall form one brotherhood and sisterhood; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.

“Let us learn and be industrious; let us sing and love; we shall have a heaven on earth! Let us be happy while we live; this will go on; it will soon come to pass; we shall all see it.

Donc, vivons, Ça bien vite ira, Ça viendra, Nous tous le verrons!”

Courageous, spirited, was the song, and its melody was joyous.

She spoke much; Viérotchka spoke much; they both got excited. Viérotchka finally became pathetic.

“You call me fanciful, you ask me what I want from life. I want neither to reign nor to be subjected; I do not want to deceive or to make pretence; I do not want to regard the opinions of others, to strive for what other people recommend to me, without I feel the need of it. I am not used to riches⁠—for myself they are not necessary; why, then, should I seek them only because others think that they are pleasant for all people, and consequently must be pleasant for me? I have never gone into society, I have not known what it was to shine, and as yet I have no desire to do so; why, then, should I sacrifice anything for a brilliant situation, only because according to the ideas of others it is pleasant? For what I do not feel the slightest need of, I am not going to sacrifice, I do not say myself, but even my slightest caprice. I want to be independent and live in my own way; I am prepared for whatever is needful for myself; whatever is not needful I do not want. What will be necessary for me I do not know; you say, ‘I am young and inexperienced, that I shall change as time goes on,’⁠—well, so be

“Do we need pity so much as all that?”

“Yes; aren’t you a woman? I have only to repeat to you your dearest wish, and you will agree with me. It is the universal desire of all women.”

“Do tell me, tell me!”

“It is this: ‘Akh! how I should like to be a man!’ I never met a woman who did not secretly wish this with all her heart. And in the majority of cases, it is not necessary to search for it; it is expressed spontaneously without any need of drawing it out. If a woman has any trouble whatsoever, you will soon hear something like this: ‘We are poor miserable creatures, we women!’ or, ‘Men are so different from women!’ or even without any circumlocution, ‘Akh! why was I not a man?’ ”

Viérotchka smiled. “True; every woman has said that.”

“And now you see how women are to be pitied; for if their dearest wish were to be fulfilled, there would not be any women in the world!”

“Yes, it seems as if it were so,” said Viérotchka.

“It is exactly the same way; if the eager desires of every poor man were fulfilled, there would not be a single poor man in the world. Don’t you see how pitiable women are? They are just as much to be pitied as the poor are. Who likes to see poor people? Just the same way, it is painful for me to see women since I have learned their secret. And it was revealed to me by my jealous bride on the very day of our engagement. Till that time I was very fond of being in the society of women. After that, it was snatched away from me.

I will select these histories from those told by Kirsánof.

About a year before he left Petersburg for the second, and probably the last, time, Rakhmétof said to Kirsánof, “Give me a good quantity of plaster for curing wounds from sharp weapons.” Kirsánof gave him a big jar, supposing that Rakhmétof wanted to take this medicament to some society of carpenters or other laborers, who are frequently subjected to cuts. On the next morning, Rakhmétof’s landlady came in great alarm to Kirsánof: “Bátiushka! doctor, I don’t know what has happened to my tenant; he has not been out of his room for a long time; he has locked the door; I peeked through the crack; he was lying all in blood. I began to scream, and he says to me, says he, ‘It’s nothing, Agrafyéna Antonovna.’ What does he mean by nothing? Save him bátiushka, doctor; I’m afraid it’s suicide: he is so unmerciful to himself!”

Kirsánof ran in all haste. Rakhmétof opened the door with a melancholy broad smile; the caller saw the thing from which not Agrafyéna Antonovna alone might have been frightened; the back and shoulders of his underclothes (he was dressed only in his underclothes) were soaked with blood; there was blood on the bed; the straw bed on which he slept was also covered with blood; in the straw were thousands of little nails with heads down and points up; they penetrated out from the bag almost an inch: Rakhmétof had been lying on them all night long.