XVII. HATRED
Yes, it was the real feeling of hatred that was mine now--not the
hatred of which one reads in novels, and in the existence of
which I do not believe--the hatred which finds satisfaction in
doing harm to a fellow-creature, but the hatred which consists of
an unconquerable aversion to a person who may be wholly deserving
of your esteem, yet whose very hair, neck, walk, voice, limbs,
movements, and everything else are disgusting to you, while all
the while an incomprehensible force attracts you towards him, and
compels you to follow his slightest acts with anxious attention.
This was the feeling which I cherished for St. Jerome, who had
lived with us now for a year and a half.
Judging coolly of the man at this time of day, I find that he was
a true Frenchman, but a Frenchman in the better acceptation of
the term. He was fairly well educated, and fulfilled his duties
to us conscientiously, but he had the peculiar features of fickle
egotism, boastfulness, impertinence, and ignorant self-assurance
which are common to all his countrymen, as well as entirely
opposed to the Russian character,
All this set me against him, Grandmamma had signified to him her
dislike for corporal punishment, and therefore he dared not beat
us, but he frequently THREATENED us, particularly myself, with
the cane, and would utter the word fouetter as though it were
fouatter in an expressive and detestable way which always gave me
the idea that to whip me would afford him the greatest possible
satisfaction.
I was not in the least afraid of the bodily pain, for I had never
experienced it. It was the mere idea that he could beat me that
threw me into such paroxysms of wrath and despair.
True, Karl Ivanitch sometimes (in moments of exasperation) had
recourse to a ruler or to his braces, but that I can look back
upon without anger. Even if he had struck me at the time of which
I am now speaking (namely, when I was fourteen years old), I
should have submitted quietly to the correction, for I loved him,
and had known him all my life, and looked upon him as a member of
our family, but St. Jerome was a conceited, opinionated fellow
for whom I felt merely the unwilling respect which I entertained
for all persons older than myself. Karl Ivanitch was a comical
old "Uncle" whom I loved with my whole heart, but who, according
to my childish conception of social distinctions, ranked below
us, whereas St. Jerome was a well-educated, handsome young dandy
who was for showing himself the equal of any one.
Karl Ivanitch had always scolded and punished us coolly, as
though he thought it a necessary, but extremely disagreeable,
duty. St. Jerome, on the contrary, always liked to emphasise his
part as JUDGE when correcting us, and clearly did it as much for
his own satisfaction as for our good. He loved authority.
Nevertheless, I always found his grandiloquent French phrases
(which he pronounced with a strong emphasis on all the final
syllables) inexpressibly disgusting, whereas Karl, when angry,
had never said anything beyond, "What a foolish puppet-comedy it
is!" or "You boys are as irritating as Spanish fly!" (which he
always called "Spaniard" fly). St. Jerome, however, had names for
us like "mauvais sujet," "villain," "garnement," and so forth--
epithets which greatly offended my self-respect. When Karl
Ivanitch ordered us to kneel in the corner with our faces to the
wall, the punishment consisted merely in the bodily discomfort of
the position, whereas St. Jerome, in such cases, always assumed a
haughty air, made a grandiose gesture with his hand, and
exclaiming in a pseudo-tragic tone, "A genoux, mauvais sujet!"
ordered us to kneel with our faces towards him, and to crave his
pardon. His punishment consisted in humiliation.
However, on the present occasion the punishment never came, nor
was the matter ever referred to again. Yet, I could not forget
all that I had gone through--the shame, the fear, and the hatred
of those two days. From that time forth, St. Jerome appeared to
give me up in despair, and took no further trouble with me, yet I
could not bring myself to treat him with indifference. Every time
that our eyes met I felt that my look expressed only too plainly
my dislike, and, though I tried hard to assume a careless air, he
seemed to divine my hypocrisy, until I was forced to blush and
turn away.
In short, it was a terrible trial to me to have anything to do
with him.
