Pavel Ilitch Rashevitch marched up and down the room, stepping softly
on the Little Russian parquet, and casting a long shadow on the walls
and ceiling; and his visitor, Monsieur Meyer, Examining Magistrate, sat
on a Turkish divan, with one leg bent under him, smoked, and listened.
It was eleven o'clock, and from the next room came the sound of
preparations for supper.
"I don't dispute it for a moment!" said Rashevitch. "From the point of
view of fraternity, equality, and all that sort of thing the swineherd
Mitka is as good a man as Goethe or Frederick the Great. But look
at it from the point of view of science; have the courage to look
actuality straight in the face, and you cannot possibly deny that the
white bone[1] is not a prejudice, not a silly woman's invention. The
white bone, my friend, has a natural-historical justification, and to
deny it, in my mind, is as absurd as to deny the antlers of a stag.
Look at it as a question of fact! You are a jurist, and never studied
anything except the humanities, so you may well deceive yourself with
illusions as to equality, fraternity, and that sort of thing. But, on
my side, I am an incorrigible Darwinian, and for me such words as race,
aristocracy, noble blood are no empty sounds."
Rashevitch was aroused, and spoke with feeling. His eyes glittered, his
pince-nez jumped off his nose, he twitched his shoulders nervously,
and at the word "Darwinian" glanced defiantly at the mirror, and with
his two hands divided his grey beard. He wore a short, well-worn
jacket, and narrow trousers; but the rapidity of his movements and
the smartness of the short jacket did not suit him at all, and his
big, longhaired, handsome head, which reminded one of a bishop or a
venerable poet, seemed to be set on the body of a tall, thin, and
affected youth. When he opened his legs widely, his long shadow
resembled a pair of scissors.
As a rule he loved the sound of his own voice; and it always seemed
to him that he was saying something new and original. In the presence
of Meyer he felt an unusual elevation of spirits and flow of thought.
He liked the magistrate, who enlivened him by his youthful ways, his
health, his fine manners, his solidity, and, even more, by the kindly
relations which he had established with the family. Speaking generally,
Rashevitch was not a favourite with his acquaintances. They avoided
him, and he knew it. They declared that he had driven his wife into
the grave with his perpetual talk, and called him, almost to his face,
a beast and a toad. Meyer alone, being an unprejudiced new-corner,
visited him often and willingly, and had even been heard to say that
Rashevitch and his daughters were the only persons in the district
with whom he felt at home. And Rashevitch reciprocated his esteem--all
the more sincerely because Meyer was a young man, and an excellent
match for his elder daughter, Zhenya. And now, enjoying his thoughts
and the sound of his own voice, and looking with satisfaction at the
stout, well-groomed, respectable figure of his visitor, Rashevitch
reflected how he would settle Zhenya for life as the wife of a good
man, and, in addition, transfer all the work of managing the estate to
his son-in-law's shoulders. It was not particularly agreeable work.
The interest had not been paid into the bank for more than two terms,
and the various arrears and penalties amounted to over twenty thousand
roubles.
"There can hardly be a shadow of doubt," continued Rashevitch, becoming
more and more possessed by his subject, "that if some Richard the
Lion-hearted or Frederick Barbarossa, for instance, a man courageous
and magnanimous, has a son, his good qualities will be inherited by
the son, together with his bumps; and if this courage and magnanimity
are fostered in the son by education and exercise, and he marries a
princess also courageous and magnanimous, then these qualities will be
transmitted to the grandson, and so on, until they become peculiarities
of the species, and descend organically, so to speak, in flesh and
blood. Thanks to severe sexual selection, thanks to the fact that noble
families instinctively preserve themselves from base alliances, and
that young people of position do not marry the devil knows whom, their
high spiritual qualities have reproduced themselves from generation
to generation, they have been perpetuated, and in the course of ages
have become even more perfect and loftier. For all that is good in
humanity we are indebted to Nature, to the regular, natural-historical,
expedient course of things, strenuously in the course of centuries
separating the white bone from the black. Yes, my friend! It is not
the potboy's child, the cookmaid's brat who has given us literature,
science, art, justice, the ideas of honour and of duty.... For all
these, humanity is indebted exclusively to the white bone; and in
this sense, from the point of view of natural history, worthless
Sobakevitch,[2] merely because he is a white bone, is a million times
higher and more useful than the best tradesman, let him endow fifty
museums! You may say what you like, but if I refuse to give my hand to
the potboy's or the cookmaid's son, by that refusal I preserve from
stain the best that is on the earth, and subserve one of the highest
destinies of mother Nature, leading us to perfection...."
Rashevitch stood still, and smoothed down his beard with both hands.
His scissors-like shadow stood still also.
"Take our dear Mother Russia!" he continued, thrusting his hands into
his pockets, and balancing himself alternately on toes and heels.
"Who are our best people? Take our first-class artists, authors,
composers.... Who are they? All these, my dear sir, are representatives
of the white bone. Pushkin, Gogol, Lermontoff, Turgenieff, Tolstoy....
Were these cook-maids' children?"
"Gontcharoff was a tradesman," said Meyer.
"What does that prove? The exception, my friend, proves the rule. And
as to the genius of Gontcharoff there can be two opinions. But let us
leave names and return to facts. Tell me how you can reply, sir, to
the eloquent fact that when the potboy climbs to a higher place than
he was born in--when he reaches eminence in literature, in science,
in local government, in law--what have you to say to the fact that
Nature herself intervenes on behalf of the most sacred human rights,
and declares war against him? As a matter of fact, hardly has the
potboy succeeded in stepping into other people's shoes when he begins
to languish, wither, go out of his mind, and degenerate; and nowhere
will you meet so many dwarfs, psychical cripples, consumptives, and
starvelings as among these gentry. They die away like flies in autumn.
And it is a good thing. If it were not for this salutary degeneration,
not one stone of our civilisation would remain upon another--the potboy
would destroy it all.... Be so good as to tell me, please, what this
invasion has given us up to the present time? What has the potboy
brought with him?"
Rashevitch made a mysterious, frightened face, and continued:
"Never before did our science and literature find themselves at such
a low ebb as now. The present generation, sir, has neither ideas nor
ideals, and all its activity is restricted to an attempt to tear the
last shirt off someone else's back. All your present-day men who give
themselves out as progressive and incorruptible may be bought for a
silver rouble; and modern intelligent society is distinguished by only
one thing, that is, that if you mix in it you must keep your hand on
your pocket, else it will steal your purse." Rashevitch blinked and
smiled. "Steal your purse!" he repeated, with a happy laugh. "And
morals? What morals have we?" Rashevitch glanced at the door. "You can
no longer be surprised if your wife robs you and abandons you--that is
a mere trifle. At the present day, my friend, every twelve-year-old
girl looks out for a lover; and all these amateur theatricals and
literary evenings are invented only for the purpose of catching rich
parvenus as sweethearts. Mothers sell their daughters, husbands are
asked openly at what price they will sell their wives, and you may even
trade, my friend,..."
Up to this Meyer had said nothing, and sat motionless. Now he rose from
the sofa, and looked at the clock.
"Excuse me, Pavel Ilitch," he said, "but it's time for me to go."
But Rashevitch, who had not finished, took him by the arm, set him down
forcibly upon the sofa, and swore he should not leave the house without
supper. Meyer again sat motionless and listened; but soon began to look
at Rashevitch with an expression of doubt and alarm, as if he were
only just beginning to understand his character. When at last the maid
entered, saying that the young ladies had sent her to say that supper
was ready, he sighed faintly, and went out of the study first.
In the dining-room, already at table, sat Rashevitch's daughters,
Zhenya and Iraida, respectively aged twenty-four and twenty-two. They
were of equal stature, and both black-eyed and very pale. Zhenya had
her hair down, but Iraida's was twisted into a high top-knot. Before
eating anything each drank a glass of spirits, with an expression meant
to imply that they were drinking accidentally, and for the first time
in their lives. After this they looked confused, and tittered.
"Don't be silly, girls!" said Rashevitch.
Zhenya and Iraida spoke French to one another and Russian to their
father and the visitor.... Interrupting one another, and mixing French
and Russian, they began to remark that just at this time of the year,
that is in August, they used to leave home for the Institute. How jolly
that was! But now there was no place to go to for a change, and they
lived at the manor-house winter and summer. How tiresome!
"Don't be silly, girls!" repeated Rashevitch.
"In short, that is exactly how things stand," he said, looking
affectionately at the magistrate. "We, in the goodness and simplicity
of our hearts, and from fear of being suspected of retrograde
tendencies, fraternise--excuse the expression--with all kinds of human
trash, and preach equality and fraternity with upstarts and _nouveaux
riches_! Yet if we paused to reflect for a single minute we should see
how criminal is our kindness. For all that our ancestors attained to in
the course of centuries will be derided and destroyed in a single day
by these modern Huns."
After supper all went into the drawing-room. Zhenya and Iraida lighted
the piano candles and got ready their music.... But their parent
continued to hold forth, and there was no knowing when he would end.
Bored and irritated, they looked at their egoist father, for whom, they
concluded, the satisfaction of chattering and showing off his brains,
was dearer than the future happiness of his daughters. Here was Meyer,
the only young man who frequented the house--for the sake, they knew,
of tender feminine society--yet the unwearying old man kept possession
of him, and never let him escape for a moment.
"Just as western chivalry repelled the onslaught of the Mongols, so
must we, before it is too late, combine and strike together at the
enemy." Rashevitch spoke apostolically, and lifted his right hand
on high. "Let me appear before the potboy no longer as plain Pavel
Ilitch, but as a strong and menacing Richard the Lion-Heart! Fling your
scruples behind you--enough! Let us swear a sacred compact that when
the potboy approaches we will fling him words of contempt straight
in the face! Hands off! Back to your pots! Straight in the face!"
In ecstacy, Rashevitch thrust out a bent forefinger, and repeated:
"Straight in the face! In the face! In the face!"
Meyer averted his eyes. "I cannot tolerate this any longer!" he said.
"And may I ask why?" asked Rashevitch, scenting the beginnings of a
prolonged and interesting argument.
"Because I myself am the son of an artisan." And having so spoken,
Meyer reddened, his neck seemed to swell, and tears sparkled in his
eyes..
"My father was a plain working man," he said in an abrupt, broken
voice. "But I can see nothing bad in that."
Rashevitch was thunderstruck. In his confusion he looked as if he had
been detected in a serious crime; he looked at Meyer with a dumfounded
face, and said not a word. Zhenya and Iraida blushed, and bent over
their music. They were thoroughly ashamed of their tactless father. A
minute passed in silence, and the situation was becoming unbearable
when suddenly a sickly, strained voice--it seemed utterly mal à
propos--stammered forth the words:
"Yes, I am a tradesman's son, and I am proud of it." And Meyer,
awkwardly stumbling over the furniture, said good-bye, and walked
quickly into the hall, although the trap had not been ordered.
"You will have a dark drive," stammered Rashevitch, going after him.
"The moon rises late to-night." They stood on the steps in the darkness
and waited for the horses. It was cold.
"Did you see the falling star?" asked Meyer, buttoning his overcoat.
"In August falling stars are very plentiful."
When at last the trap drove round to the door, Rashevitch looked
attentively at the heavens, and said, with a sigh:
"A phenomenon worthy of the pen of Flammarion...."
Having parted from his guest, he walked up and down the garden, and
tried to persuade himself that such a stupid misunderstanding had not
really taken place. He was angry, and ashamed of himself. In the
first place, he knew that it was extremely tactless and incautious to
raise this accursed conversation about the white bone without knowing
anything of the origin of his guest. He told himself, with perfect
justice, that for him there was no excuse, for he had had a lesson
before, having once in a railway carriage set about abusing Germans to
fellow-passengers who, it turned out, were themselves Germans.... And
in the second place he was convinced that Meyer would come no more.
These intellectuels who have sprung from the people are sensitive,
vain, obstinate, and revengeful.
"It is a bad business ... bad ... bad!" he muttered, spitting; he felt
awkward and disgusted, as if he had just eaten soap. "It is a bad
business!"
Through the open window he could see into the drawing-room where
Zhenya with her hair down, pale and frightened, spoke excitedly to her
sister.... Iraida walked from corner to corner, apparently lost in
thought; and then began to speak, also excitedly and with an indignant
face. Then both spoke together. Rashevitch could not distinguish a
word, but he knew too well the subject of their conversation. Zhenya
was grumbling that her father with his eternal chattering drove every
decent man from the house, and had to-day robbed them of their last
acquaintance, it might have been husband; and now the poor young man
could not find a place in the whole district wherein to rest his soul.
And Iraida, if judged correctly from the despairing way in which she
raised her arms, lamented bitterly their wearisome life at home and
their ruined youth.
Going up to his bedroom, Rashevitch sat on the bed and undressed
himself slowly. He felt that he was a persecuted man, and was tormented
by the same feeling as though he had eaten soap. He was thoroughly
ashamed of himself. When he had undressed he gazed sadly at his long,
veined, old-man's legs, and remembered that in the country round he
was nicknamed "the toad," and that never a conversation passed without
making him ashamed of himself. By some extraordinary fatality every
discussion ended badly. He began softly, kindly, with good intentions,
and called himself genially an "old student," an "idealist," a "Don
Quixote." But gradually, and unnoticed by himself, he passed on to
abuse and calumny, and, what is more surprising, delivered himself
of sincere criticisms of science, art, and morals, although it was
twenty years since he had read a book, been farther than the government
town, or had any channel for learning what was going on in the world
around him. Even when he sat down to write a congratulatory letter he
invariably ended by abusing something or somebody. And as he reflected
upon this, it seemed all the more strange, since he knew himself in
reality to be a sensitive, lachrymose old man. It seemed almost as if
he were possessed by an unclean spirit which filled him against his
will with hatred and grumbling.
"A bad business!" he sighed, getting into bed. "A bad business!"
His daughters also could not sleep. Laughter and lamentation resounded
through the house. Zhenya was in hysterics. Shortly afterwards Iraida
also began to cry. More than once the barefooted housemaid ran up and
down the corridor.
"What a scandal!" muttered Rashevitch, sighing, and turning uneasily
from side to side. "A bad business!"
He slept, but nightmare gave him no peace. He thought that he was
standing in the middle of the room, naked, and tall as a giraffe,
thrusting out his forefinger, and saying:
"In the face! In the face! In the face!"
He awoke in terror, and the first thing he remembered was, that last
evening a serious misunderstanding had occurred, and that Meyer would
never visit him again. He remembered then that the interest had to
be lodged in the bonk, that he must find husbands for his daughters,
and that he must eat and drink. He remembered sickness, old age, and
unpleasantness; that winter would soon be upon him, and that there was
no wood....
At nine o'clock he dressed slowly, then drank some tea and ate two
large slices of bread and butter.... His daughters did not come down
to breakfast, they did not wish to see his face; and this offended
him. For a time he lay upon the study sofa, and then sat at his
writing-table and began to write a letter to his daughters. His hand
trembled and his eyes itched. He wrote that he was now old, that nobody
wanted him, and that nobody loved him; so he begged his children to
forget him, and when he died, to bury him in a plain, deal coffin,
without ceremony, or to send his body to Kharkoff for dissection in
the Anatomical Theatre. He felt that every line breathed malice and
affectation ... but he could not stop himself, and wrote on and on and
on....
"The toad!" rang a voice from the next room; it was the voice of his
elder daughter, an indignant, hissing voice. "The toad!"
"The toad!" repeated the younger in echo. "The toad!"
[Footnote 1: Blue blood.]
[Footnote 2: Sobakevitch, a stupid, coarse country gentleman, is one of
the heroes of Gogol's celebrated novel _Dead Souls_.]