I
VIRGINSKY LIVED IN HIS OWN house, or rather his wife's, in Muravyin
Street. It was a wooden house of one story, and there were no lodgers in
it. On the pretext of Virginsky's-name-day party, about fifteen guests
were assembled; but the entertainment was not in the least like an
ordinary provincial name-day party. From the very beginning of their
married life the husband and wife had agreed once for all that it was
utterly stupid to invite friends to celebrate name-days, and that "there
is nothing to rejoice about in fact." In a few years they had succeeded
in completely cutting themselves off from all society. Though he was
a man of some ability, and by no means very poor, he somehow seemed
to every one an eccentric fellow who was fond of solitude, and, what's
more, "stuck up in conversation." Madame Virginsky was a midwife by
profession--and by that very fact was on the lowest rung of the social
ladder, lower even than the priest's wife in spite of her husband's
rank as an officer. But she was conspicuously lacking in the humility
befitting her position. And after her very stupid and unpardonably open
liaison on principle with Captain Lebyadkin, a notorious rogue, even the
most indulgent of our ladies turned away from her with marked contempt.
But Madame Virginsky accepted all this as though it were what she
wanted. It is remarkable that those very ladies applied to Arina
Prohorovna (that is, Madame Virginsky) when they were in an interesting
condition, rather than to any one of the other three _accoucheuses_ of
the town. She was sent for even by country families living in the
neighbourhood, so great was the belief in her knowledge, luck, and skill
in critical cases. It ended in her practising only among the wealthiest
ladies; she was greedy of money. Feeling her power to the full, she
ended by not putting herself out for anyone. Possibly on purpose,
indeed, in her practice in the best houses she used to scare nervous
patients by the most incredible and nihilistic disregard of good
manners, or by jeering at "everything holy," at the very time when
"everything holy" might have come in most useful. Our town doctor,
Rozanov--he too was an _accoucheur_--asserted most positively that on one
occasion when a patient in labour was crying out and calling on the name
of the Almighty, a free-thinking sally from Arina Prohorovna, fired off
like a pistol-shot, had so terrifying an effect on the patient that it
greatly accelerated her delivery.
But though she was a nihilist, Madame Virginsky did not, when occasion
arose, disdain social or even old-fashioned superstitions and customs
if they could be of any advantage to herself. She would never, for
instance, have stayed away from a baby's christening, and always put on
a green silk dress with a train and adorned her chignon with curls and
ringlets for such events, though at other times she positively revelled
in slovenliness. And though during the ceremony she always maintained
"the most insolent air," so that she put the clergy to confusion, yet
when it was over she invariably handed champagne to the guests (it was
for that that she came and dressed up), and it was no use trying to take
the glass without a contribution to her "porridge bowl."
The guests who assembled that evening at Virginsky's (mostly men) had a
casual and exceptional air. There was no supper nor cards. In the middle
of the large drawing-room, which was papered with extremely old blue
paper, two tables had been put together and covered with a large though
not quite clean table-cloth, and on them two samovars were boiling. The
end of the table was taken up by a huge tray with twenty-five glasses on
it and a basket with ordinary French bread cut into a number of slices,
as one sees it in genteel boarding-schools for boys or girls. The tea
was poured out by a maiden lady of thirty, Arina Prohorovna's sister,
a silent and malevolent creature, with flaxen hair and no eyebrows, who
shared her sister's progressive ideas and was an object of terror to
Virginsky himself in domestic life. There were only three ladies in the
room: the lady of the house, her eyebrowless sister, and Virginsky's
sister, a girl who had just arrived from Petersburg. Arina Prohorovna, a
good-looking and buxom woman of seven-and-twenty, rather dishevelled, in
an everyday greenish woollen dress, was sitting scanning the guests with
her bold eyes, and her look seemed in haste to say, "You see I am not
in the least afraid of anything." Miss Virginsky, a rosy-cheeked student
and a nihilist, who was also good-looking, short, plump and round as a
little ball, had settled herself beside Arina Prohorovna, almost in
her travelling clothes. She held a roll of paper in her hand, and
scrutinised the guests with impatient and roving eyes. Virginsky himself
was rather unwell that evening, but he came in and sat in an easy chair
by the tea-table. All the guests were sitting down too, and the orderly
way in which they were ranged on chairs suggested a meeting. Evidently
all were expecting something and were filling up the interval with loud
but irrelevant conversation. When Stavrogin and Verhovensky appeared
there was a sudden hush.
But I must be allowed to give a few explanations to make things clear.
I believe that all these people had come together in the agreeable
expectation of hearing something particularly interesting, and had
notice of it beforehand. They were the flower of the reddest Radicalism
of our ancient town, and had been carefully picked out by Virginsky for
this "meeting." I may remark, too, that some of them (though not very
many) had never visited him before. Of course most of the guests had no
clear idea why they had been summoned. It was true that at that time
all took Pyotr Stepanovitch for a fully authorised emissary from abroad;
this idea had somehow taken root among them at once and naturally
flattered them. And yet among the citizens assembled ostensibly to
keep a name-day, there were some who had been approached with definite
proposals. Pyotr Verhovensky had succeeded in getting together a
"quintet" amongst us like the one he had already formed in Moscow and,
as appeared later, in our province among the officers. It was said that
he had another in X province. This quintet of the elect were sitting now
at the general table, and very skilfully succeeded in giving themselves
the air of being quite ordinary people, so that no one could have known
them. They were--since it is no longer a secret--first Liputin, then
Virginsky himself, then Shigalov (a gentleman with long ears, the
brother of Madame Virginsky), Lyamshin, and lastly a strange person
called Tolkatchenko, a man of forty, who was famed for his vast
knowledge of the people, especially of thieves and robbers. He used
to frequent the taverns on purpose (though not only with the object of
studying the people), and plumed himself on his shabby clothes, tarred
boots, and crafty wink and a flourish of peasant phrases. Lyamshin had
once or twice brought him to Stepan Trofimovitch's gatherings, where,
however, he did not make a great sensation. He used to make his
appearance in the town from time to time, chiefly when he was out of a
job; he was employed on the railway.
Every one of these fine champions had formed this first group in the
fervent conviction that their quintet was only one of hundreds and
thousands of similar groups scattered all over Russia, and that they all
depended on some immense central but secret power, which in its turn was
intimately connected with the revolutionary movement all over Europe.
But I regret to say that even at that time there was beginning to
be dissension among them. Though they had ever since the spring been
expecting Pyotr Verhovensky, whose coming had been heralded first
by Tolkatchenko and then by the arrival of Shigalov, though they had
expected extraordinary miracles from him, and though they had responded
to his first summons without the slightest criticism, yet they had no
sooner formed the quintet than they all somehow seemed to feel insulted;
and I really believe it was owing to the promptitude with which they
consented to join. They had joined, of course, from a not ignoble
feeling of shame, for fear people might say afterwards that they had
not dared to join; still they felt Pyotr Verhovensky ought to have
appreciated their heroism and have rewarded it by telling them some
really important bits of news at least. But Verhovensky was not at all
inclined to satisfy their legitimate curiosity, and told them nothing
but what was necessary; he treated them in general with great sternness
and even rather casually. This was positively irritating, and Comrade
Shigalov was already egging the others on to insist on his "explaining
himself," though, of course, not at Virginsky's, where so many outsiders
were present.
I have an idea that the above-mentioned members of the first quintet
were disposed to suspect that among the guests of Virginsky's that
evening some were members of other groups, unknown to them, belonging
to the same secret organisation and founded in the town by the same
Verhovensky; so that in fact all present were suspecting one another,
and posed in various ways to one another, which gave the whole party a
very perplexing and even romantic air. Yet there were persons present
who were beyond all suspicion. For instance, a major in the service, a
near relation of Virginsky, a perfectly innocent person who had not been
invited but had come of himself for the name-day celebration, so that it
was impossible not to receive him. But Virginsky was quite unperturbed,
as the major was "incapable of betraying them"; for in spite of his
stupidity he had all his life been fond of dropping in wherever extreme
Radicals met; he did not sympathise with their ideas himself, but
was very fond of listening to them. What's more, he had even been
compromised indeed. It had happened in his youth that whole bundles of
manifestoes and of numbers of _The Bell_ had passed through his hands,
and although he had been afraid even to open them, yet he would have
considered it absolutely contemptible to refuse to distribute them--and
there are such people in Russia even to this day.
The rest of the guests were either types of honourable amour-propre
crushed and embittered, or types of the generous impulsiveness of ardent
youth. There were two or three teachers, of whom one, a lame man of
forty-five, a master in the high school, was a very malicious and
strikingly vain person; and two or three officers. Of the latter, one
very young artillery officer who had only just come from a military
training school, a silent lad who had not yet made friends with anyone,
turned up now at Virginsky's with a pencil in his hand, and, scarcely
taking any part in the conversation, continually made notes in his
notebook. Everybody saw this, but every one pretended not to. There was,
too, an idle divinity student who had helped Lyamshin to put indecent
photographs into the gospel-woman's pack. He was a solid youth with a
free-and-easy though mistrustful manner, with an unchangeably satirical
smile, together with a calm air of triumphant faith in his own
perfection. There was also present, I don't know why, the mayor's son,
that unpleasant and prematurely exhausted youth to whom I have referred
already in telling the story of the lieutenant's little wife. He was
silent the whole evening. Finally there was a very enthusiastic and
tousle-headed schoolboy of eighteen, who sat with the gloomy air of a
young man whose dignity has been wounded, evidently distressed by his
eighteen years. This infant was already the head of an independent
group of conspirators which had been formed in the highest class of the
gymnasium, as it came out afterwards to the surprise of every one.
I haven't mentioned Shatov. He was there at the farthest corner of the
table, his chair pushed back a little out of the row. He gazed at the
ground, was gloomily silent, refused tea and bread, and did not for one
instant let his cap go out of his hand, as though to show that he was
not a visitor, but had come on business, and when he liked would get up
and go away. Kirillov was not far from him. He, too, was very silent,
but he did not look at the ground; on the contrary, he scrutinised
intently every speaker with his fixed, lustreless eyes, and listened
to everything without the slightest emotion or surprise. Some of the
visitors who had never seen him before stole thoughtful glances at him.
I can't say whether Madame Virginsky knew anything about the existence
of the quintet. I imagine she knew everything and from her husband.
The girl-student, of course, took no part in anything; but she had an
anxiety of her own: she intended to stay only a day or two and then to
go on farther and farther from one university town to another "to show
active sympathy with the sufferings of poor students and to rouse
them to protest." She was taking with her some hundreds of copies of a
lithographed appeal, I believe of her own composition. It is remarkable
that the schoolboy conceived an almost murderous hatred for her from the
first moment, though he saw her for the first time in his life; and she
felt the same for him. The major was her uncle, and met her to-day for
the first time after ten years. When Stavrogin and Verhovensky came in,
her cheeks were as red as cranberries: she had just quarrelled with her
uncle over his views on the woman question.
II
With conspicuous nonchalance Verhovensky lounged in the chair at the
upper end of the table, almost without greeting anyone. His expression
was disdainful and even haughty. Stavrogin bowed politely, but in spite
of the fact that they were all only waiting for them, everybody, as
though acting on instruction, appeared scarcely to notice them. The lady
of the house turned severely to Stavrogin as soon as he was seated.
"Stavrogin, will you have tea?"
"Please," he answered.
"Tea for Stavrogin," she commanded her sister at the samovar. "And you,
will you?" (This was to Verhovensky.)
"Of course. What a question to ask a visitor! And give me cream too;
you always give one such filthy stuff by way of tea, and with a name-day
party in the house!"
"What, you believe in keeping name-days too!" the girl-student laughed
suddenly. "We were just talking of that."
"That's stale," muttered the schoolboy at the other end of the table.
"What's stale? To disregard conventions, even the most innocent is not
stale; on the contrary, to the disgrace of every one, so far it's a
novelty," the girl-student answered instantly, darting forward on her
chair. "Besides, there are no innocent conventions," she added with
intensity.
"I only meant," cried the schoolboy with tremendous excitement, "to say
that though conventions of course are stale and must be eradicated, yet
about name-days everybody knows that they are stupid and very stale to
waste precious time upon, which has been wasted already all over the
world, so that it would be as well to sharpen one's wits on something
more useful...."
"You drag it out so, one can't understand what you mean," shouted the
girl.
"I think that every one has a right to express an opinion as well as
every one else, and if I want to express my opinion like anybody
else..."
"No one is attacking your right to give an opinion," the lady of the
house herself cut in sharply. "You were only asked not to ramble because
no one can make out what you mean."
"But allow me to remark that you are not treating me with respect. If
I couldn't fully express my thought, it's not from want of thought
but from too much thought," the schoolboy muttered, almost in despair,
losing his thread completely.
"If you don't know how to talk, you'd better keep quiet," blurted out
the girl.
The schoolboy positively jumped from his chair.
"I only wanted to state," he shouted, crimson with shame and afraid
to look about him, "that you only wanted to show off your cleverness
because Mr. Stavrogin came in--so there!"
"That's a nasty and immoral idea and shows the worthlessness of your
development. I beg you not to address me again," the girl rattled off.
"Stavrogin," began the lady of the house, "they've been discussing the
rights of the family before you came--this officer here"--she nodded
towards her relation, the major--"and, of course, I am not going to
worry you with such stale nonsense, which has been dealt with long
ago. But how have the rights and duties of the family come about in the
superstitious form in which they exist at present? That's the question.
What's your opinion?"
"What do you mean by 'come about'?" Stavrogin asked in his turn.
"We know, for instance, that the superstition about God came from
thunder and lightning." The girl-student rushed into the fray again,
staring at Stavrogin with her eyes almost jumping out of her head. "It's
well known that primitive man, scared by thunder and lightning, made a
god of the unseen enemy, feeling their weakness before it. But how did
the superstition of the family arise? How did the family itself arise?"
"That's not quite the same thing...." Madame Virginsky tried to check
her.
"I think the answer to this question wouldn't be quite discreet,"
answered Stavrogin.
"How so?" said the girl-student, craning forward suddenly. But there was
an audible titter in the group of teachers, which was at once caught up
at the other end by Lyamshin and the schoolboy and followed by a hoarse
chuckle from the major.
"You ought to write vaudevilles," Madame Virginsky observed to
Stavrogin.
"It does you no credit, I don't know what your name is," the girl rapped
out with positive indignation.
"And don't you be too forward," boomed the major. "You are a young lady
and you ought to behave modestly, and you keep jumping about as though
you were sitting on a needle."
"Kindly hold your tongue and don't address me familiarly with your
nasty comparisons. I've never seen you before and I don't recognise the
relationship."
"But I am your uncle; I used to carry you about when you were a baby!"
"I don't care what babies you used to carry about. I didn't ask you
to carry me. It must have been a pleasure to you to do so, you
rude officer. And allow me to observe, don't dare to address me so
familiarly, unless it's as a fellow-citizen. I forbid you to do it, once
for all."
"There, they are all like that!" cried the major, banging the table with
his fist and addressing Stavrogin, who was sitting opposite. "But, allow
me, I am fond of Liberalism and modern ideas, and I am fond of listening
to clever conversation; masculine conversation, though, I warn you. But
to listen to these women, these nightly windmills--no, that makes me
ache all over! Don't wriggle about!" he shouted to the girl, who
was leaping up from her chair. "No, it's my turn to speak, I've been
insulted."
"You can't say anything yourself, and only hinder other people talking,"
the lady of the house grumbled indignantly.
"No, I will have my say," said the major hotly, addressing Stavrogin. "I
reckon on you, Mr. Stavrogin, as a fresh person who has only just come
on the scene, though I haven't the honour of knowing you. Without men
they'll perish like flies--that's what I think. All their woman question
is only lack of originality. I assure you that all this woman question
has been invented for them by men in foolishness and to their own hurt.
I only thank God I am not married. There's not the slightest variety in
them, they can't even invent a simple pattern; they have to get men to
invent them for them! Here I used to carry her in my arms, used to dance
the mazurka with her when she was ten years old; to-day she's come,
naturally I fly to embrace her, and at the second word she tells me
there's no God. She might have waited a little, she was in too great a
hurry! Clever people don't believe, I dare say; but that's from their
cleverness. But you, chicken, what do you know about God, I said to
her. 'Some student taught you, and if he'd taught you to light the lamp
before the ikons you would have lighted it.'"
"You keep telling lies, you are a very spiteful person. I proved to
you just now the untenability of your position," the girl answered
contemptuously, as though disdaining further explanations with such a
man. "I told you just now that we've all been taught in the Catechism
if you honour your father and your parents you will live long and have
wealth. That's in the Ten Commandments. If God thought it necessary to
offer rewards for love, your God must be immoral. That's how I proved it
to you. It wasn't the second word, and it was because you asserted your
rights. It's not my fault if you are stupid and don't understand even
now. You are offended and you are spiteful--and that's what explains all
your generation."
"You're a goose!" said the major.
"And you are a fool!"
"You can call me names!"
"Excuse me, Kapiton Maximitch, you told me yourself you don't believe in
God," Liputin piped from the other end of the table.
"What if I did say so--that's a different matter. I believe, perhaps,
only not altogether. Even if I don't believe altogether, still I don't
say God ought to be shot. I used to think about God before I left the
hussars. From all the poems you would think that hussars do nothing but
carouse and drink. Yes, I did drink, maybe, but would you believe it,
I used to jump out of bed at night and stood crossing myself before the
images with nothing but my socks on, praying to God to give me faith;
for even then I couldn't be at peace as to whether there was a God or
not. It used to fret me so! In the morning, of course, one would amuse
oneself and one's faith would seem to be lost again; and in fact I've
noticed that faith always seems to be less in the daytime."
"Haven't you any cards?" asked Verhovensky, with a mighty yawn,
addressing Madame Virginsky.
"I sympathise with your question, I sympathise entirely," the
girl-student broke in hotly, flushed with indignation at the major's
words.
"We are wasting precious time listening to silly talk," snapped out the
lady of the house, and she looked reprovingly at her husband.
The girl pulled herself together.
"I wanted to make a statement to the meeting concerning the sufferings
of the students and their protest, but as time is being wasted in
immoral conversation..."
"There's no such thing as moral or immoral," the schoolboy brought out,
unable to restrain himself as soon as the girl began.
"I knew that, Mr. Schoolboy, long before you were taught it."
"And I maintain," he answered savagely, "that you are a child come
from Petersburg to enlighten us all, though we know for ourselves the
commandment 'honour thy father and thy mother,' which you could not
repeat correctly; and the fact that it's immoral every one in Russia
knows from Byelinsky."
"Are we ever to have an end of this?" Madame Virginsky said resolutely
to her husband. As the hostess, she blushed for the ineptitude of the
conversation, especially as she noticed smiles and even astonishment
among the guests who had been invited for the first time.
"Gentlemen," said Virginsky, suddenly lifting up his voice, "if anyone
wishes to say anything more nearly connected with our business, or has
any statement to make, I call upon him to do so without wasting time."
"I'll venture to ask one question," said the lame teacher suavely. He
had been sitting particularly decorously and had not spoken till then.
"I should like to know, are we some sort of meeting, or are we simply a
gathering of ordinary mortals paying a visit? I ask simply for the sake
of order and so as not to remain in ignorance."
This "sly" question made an impression. People looked at each other,
every one expecting someone else to answer, and suddenly all, as though
at a word of command, turned their eyes to Verhovensky and Stavrogin.
"I suggest our voting on the answer to the question whether we are a
meeting or not," said Madame Virginsky.
"I entirely agree with the suggestion," Liputin chimed in, "though the
question is rather vague."
"I agree too."
"And so do I," cried voices. "I too think it would make our proceedings
more in order," confirmed Virginsky.
"To the vote then," said his wife. "Lyamshin, please sit down to the
piano; you can give your vote from there when the voting begins."
"Again!" cried Lyamshin. "I've strummed enough for you."
"I beg you most particularly, sit down and play. Don't you care to do
anything for the cause?"
"But I assure you, Arina Prohorovna, nobody is eavesdropping. It's
only your fancy. Besides, the windows are high, and people would not
understand if they did hear."
"We don't understand ourselves," someone muttered. "But I tell you one
must always be on one's guard. I mean in case there should be spies,"
she explained to Verhovensky. "Let them hear from the street that we
have music and a name-day party."
"Hang it all!" Lyamshin swore, and sitting down to the piano, began
strumming a valse, banging on the keys almost with his fists, at random.
"I propose that those who want it to be a meeting should put up their
right hands," Madame Virginsky proposed.
Some put them up, others did not. Some held them up and then put them
down again and then held them up again. "Foo! I don't understand it at
all," one officer shouted. "I don't either," cried the other.
"Oh, I understand," cried a third. "If it's yes, you hold your hand up."
"But what does 'yes' mean?"
"Means a meeting."
"No, it means not a meeting."
"I voted for a meeting," cried the schoolboy to Madame Virginsky.
"Then why didn't you hold up your hand?"
"I was looking at you. You didn't hold up yours, so I didn't hold up
mine."
"How stupid! I didn't hold up my hand because I proposed it. Gentlemen,
now I propose the contrary. Those who want a meeting, sit still and do
nothing; those who don't, hold up their right hands."
"Those who don't want it?" inquired the schoolboy. "Are you doing it on
purpose?" cried Madame Virginsky wrathfully.
"No. Excuse me, those who want it, or those who don't want it? For one
must know that definitely," cried two or three voices.
"Those who don't want it--those who _don't_ want it."
"Yes, but what is one to do, hold up one's hand or not hold it up if one
doesn't want it?" cried an officer.
"Ech, we are not accustomed to constitutional methods yet!" remarked the
major.
"Mr. Lyamshin, excuse me, but you are thumping so that no one can hear
anything," observed the lame teacher.
"But, upon my word, Arina Prohorovna, nobody is listening, really!"
cried Lyamshin, jumping up. "I won't play! I've come to you as a
visitor, not as a drummer!"
"Gentlemen," Virginsky went on, "answer verbally, are we a meeting or
not?"
"We are! We are!" was heard on all sides. "If so, there's no need to
vote, that's enough. Are you satisfied, gentlemen? Is there any need to
put it to the vote?"
"No need--no need, we understand."
"Perhaps someone doesn't want it to be a meeting?"
"No, no; we all want it."
"But what does 'meeting' mean?" cried a voice. No one answered.
"We must choose a chairman," people cried from different parts of the
room.
"Our host, of course, our host!"
"Gentlemen, if so," Virginsky, the chosen chairman, began, "I propose
my original motion. If anyone wants to say anything more relevant to the
subject, or has some statement to make, let him bring it forward without
loss of time."
There was a general silence. The eyes of all were turned again on
Verhovensky and Stavrogin.
"Verhovensky, have you no statement to make?" Madame Virginsky asked him
directly.
"Nothing whatever," he answered, yawning and stretching on his chair.
"But I should like a glass of brandy."
"Stavrogin, don't you want to?"
"Thank you, I don't drink."
"I mean don't you want to speak, not don't you want brandy."
"To speak, what about? No, I don't want to."
"They'll bring you some brandy," she answered Verhovensky.
The girl-student got up. She had darted up several times already.
"I have come to make a statement about the sufferings of poor students
and the means of rousing them to protest."
But she broke off. At the other end of the table a rival had risen, and
all eyes turned to him. Shigalov, the man with the long ears, slowly
rose from his seat with a gloomy and sullen air and mournfully laid on
the table a thick notebook filled with extremely small handwriting.
He remained standing in silence. Many people looked at the notebook
in consternation, but Liputin, Virginsky, and the lame teacher seemed
pleased.
"I ask leave to address the meeting," Shigalov pronounced sullenly but
resolutely.
"You have leave." Virginsky gave his sanction.
The orator sat down, was silent for half a minute, and pronounced in a
solemn voice,
"Gentlemen!"
"Here's the brandy," the sister who had been pouring out tea and had
gone to fetch brandy rapped out, contemptuously and disdainfully putting
the bottle before Verhovensky, together with the wineglass which she
brought in her fingers without a tray or a plate.
The interrupted orator made a dignified pause.
"Never mind, go on, I am not listening," cried Verhovensky, pouring
himself out a glass.
"Gentlemen, asking your attention and, as you will see later, soliciting
your aid in a matter of the first importance," Shigalov began again, "I
must make some prefatory remarks."
"Arina Prohorovna, haven't you some scissors?" Pyotr Stepanovitch asked
suddenly.
"What do you want scissors for?" she asked, with wide-open eyes.
"I've forgotten to cut my nails; I've been meaning to for the last three
days," he observed, scrutinising his long and dirty nails with unruffled
composure.
Arina Prohorovna crimsoned, but Miss Virginsky seemed pleased.
"I believe I saw them just now on the window." She got up from the
table, went and found the scissors, and at once brought them. Pyotr
Stepanovitch did not even look at her, took the scissors, and set to
work with them. Arina Prohorovna grasped that these were realistic
manners, and was ashamed of her sensitiveness. People looked at one
another in silence. The lame teacher looked vindictively and enviously
at Verhovensky. Shigalov went on.
"Dedicating my energies to the study of the social organisation which is
in the future to replace the present condition of things, I've come to
the conviction that all makers of social systems from ancient times up
to the present year, 187-, have been dreamers, tellers of fairy-tales,
fools who contradicted themselves, who understood nothing of natural
science and the strange animal called man. Plato, Rousseau, Fourier,
columns of aluminium, are only fit for sparrows and not for human
society. But, now that we are all at last preparing to act, a new
form of social organisation is essential. In order to avoid further
uncertainty, I propose my own system of world-organisation. Here it is."
He tapped the notebook. "I wanted to expound my views to the meeting in
the most concise form possible, but I see that I should need to add a
great many verbal explanations, and so the whole exposition would occupy
at least ten evenings, one for each of my chapters." (There was the
sound of laughter.) "I must add, besides, that my system is not yet
complete." (Laughter again.) "I am perplexed by my own data and my
conclusion is a direct contradiction of the original idea with which I
start. Starting from unlimited freedom, I arrive at unlimited despotism.
I will add, however, that there can be no solution of the social problem
but mine."
The laughter grew louder and louder, but it came chiefly from the
younger and less initiated visitors. There was an expression of some
annoyance on the faces of Madame Virginsky, Liputin, and the lame
teacher.
"If you've been unsuccessful in making your system consistent, and have
been reduced to despair yourself, what could we do with it?" one officer
observed warily.
"You are right, Mr. Officer"--Shigalov turned sharply to
him--"especially in using the word despair. Yes, I am reduced to despair.
Nevertheless, nothing can take the place of the system set forth in my
book, and there is no other way out of it; no one can invent anything
else. And so I hasten without loss of time to invite the whole society
to listen for ten evenings to my book and then give their opinions of
it. If the members are unwilling to listen to me, let us break up from
the start--the men to take up service under government, the women to
their cooking; for if you reject my solution you'll find no other, none
whatever! If they let the opportunity slip, it will simply be their
loss, for they will be bound to come back to it again."
There was a stir in the company. "Is he mad, or what?" voices asked.
"So the whole point lies in Shigalov's despair," Lyamshin commented,
"and the essential question is whether he must despair or not?"
"Shigalov's being on the brink of despair is a personal question,"
declared the schoolboy.
"I propose we put it to the vote how far Shigalov's despair affects the
common cause, and at the same time whether it's worth while listening to
him or not," an officer suggested gaily.
"That's not right." The lame teacher put in his spoke at last. As a rule
he spoke with a rather mocking smile, so that it was difficult to make
out whether he was in earnest or joking. "That's not right, gentlemen.
Mr. Shigalov is too much devoted to his task and is also too modest.
I know his book. He suggests as a final solution of the question the
division of mankind into two unequal parts. One-tenth enjoys absolute
liberty and unbounded power over the other nine-tenths. The others
have to give up all individuality and become, so to speak, a herd, and,
through boundless submission, will by a series of regenerations attain
primæval innocence, something like the Garden of Eden. They'll have
to work, however. The measures proposed by the author for depriving
nine-tenths of mankind of their freedom and transforming them into a
herd through the education of whole generations are very remarkable,
founded on the facts of nature and highly logical. One may not agree
with some of the deductions, but it would be difficult to doubt the
intelligence and knowledge of the author. It's a pity that the time
required--ten evenings--is impossible to arrange for, or we might hear a
great deal that's interesting."
"Can you be in earnest?" Madame Virginsky addressed the lame gentleman
with a shade of positive uneasiness in her voice, "when that man doesn't
know what to do with people and so turns nine-tenths of them into
slaves? I've suspected him for a long time."
"You say that of your own brother?" asked the lame man.
"Relationship? Are you laughing at me?"
"And besides, to work for aristocrats and to obey them as though they
were gods is contemptible!" observed the girl-student fiercely.
"What I propose is not contemptible; it's paradise, an earthly
paradise, and there can be no other on earth," Shigalov pronounced
authoritatively.
"For my part," said Lyamshin, "if I didn't know what to do with
nine-tenths of mankind, I'd take them and blow them up into the air
instead of putting them in paradise. I'd only leave a handful of
educated people, who would live happily ever afterwards on scientific
principles."
"No one but a buffoon can talk like that!" cried the girl, flaring up.
"He is a buffoon, but he is of use," Madame Virginsky whispered to her.
"And possibly that would be the best solution of the problem," said
Shigalov, turning hotly to Lyamshin. "You certainly don't know what a
profound thing you've succeeded in saying, my merry friend. But as it's
hardly possible to carry out your idea, we must confine ourselves to an
earthly paradise, since that's what they call it."
"This is pretty thorough rot," broke, as though involuntarily, from
Verhovensky. Without even raising his eyes, however, he went on cutting
his nails with perfect nonchalance.
"Why is it rot?" The lame man took it up instantly, as though he had
been lying in wait for his first words to catch at them. "Why is it
rot? Mr. Shigalov is somewhat fanatical in his love for humanity, but
remember that Fourier, still more Cabet and even Proudhon himself,
advocated a number of the most despotic and even fantastic measures. Mr.
Shigalov is perhaps far more sober in his suggestions than they are. I
assure you that when one reads his book it's almost impossible not to
agree with some things. He is perhaps less far from realism than anyone
and his earthly paradise is almost the real one--if it ever existed--for
the loss of which man is always sighing."
"I knew I was in for something," Verhovensky muttered again.
"Allow me," said the lame man, getting more and more excited.
"Conversations and arguments about the future organisation of society
are almost an actual necessity for all thinking people nowadays. Herzen
was occupied with nothing else all his life. Byelinsky, as I know on
very good authority, used to spend whole evenings with his friends
debating and settling beforehand even the minutest, so to speak,
domestic, details of the social organisation of the future."
"Some people go crazy over it," the major observed suddenly.
"We are more likely to arrive at something by talking, anyway, than by
sitting silent and posing as dictators," Liputin hissed, as though at
last venturing to begin the attack.
"I didn't mean Shigalov when I said it was rot," Verhovensky mumbled.
"You see, gentlemen,"--he raised his eyes a trifle--"to my mind all
these books, Fourier, Cabet, all this talk about the right to work,
and Shigalov's theories--are all like novels of which one can write a
hundred thousand--an æsthetic entertainment. I can understand that in
this little town you are bored, so you rush to ink and paper."
"Excuse me," said the lame man, wriggling on his chair, "though we are
provincials and of course objects of commiseration on that ground, yet
we know that so far nothing has happened in the world new enough to be
worth our weeping at having missed it. It is suggested to us in various
pamphlets made abroad and secretly distributed that we should unite
and form groups with the sole object of bringing about universal
destruction. It's urged that, however much you tinker with the world,
you can't make a good job of it, but that by cutting off a hundred
million heads and so lightening one's burden, one can jump over the
ditch more safely. A fine idea, no doubt, but quite as impracticable as
Shigalov's theories, which you referred to just now so contemptuously."
"Well, but I haven't come here for discussion." Verhovensky let drop
this significant phrase, and, as though quite unaware of his blunder,
drew the candle nearer to him that he might see better.
"It's a pity, a great pity, that you haven't come for discussion, and
it's a great pity that you are so taken up just now with your toilet."
"What's my toilet to you?"
"To remove a hundred million heads is as difficult as to transform the
world by propaganda. Possibly more difficult, especially in Russia,"
Liputin ventured again.
"It's Russia they rest their hopes on now," said an officer.
"We've heard they are resting their hopes on it," interposed the lame
man. "We know that a mysterious finger is pointing to our delightful
country as the land most fitted to accomplish the great task. But
there's this: by the gradual solution of the problem by propaganda I
shall gain something, anyway--I shall have some pleasant talk, at least,
and shall even get some recognition from government for my services
to the cause of society. But in the second way, by the rapid method
of cutting off a hundred million heads, what benefit shall I get
personally? If you began advocating that, your tongue might be cut out."
"Yours certainly would be," observed Verhovensky.
"You see. And as under the most favourable circumstances you would not
get through such a massacre in less than fifty or at the best thirty
years--for they are not sheep, you know, and perhaps they would not let
themselves be slaughtered--wouldn't it be better to pack one's bundle
and migrate to some quiet island beyond calm seas and there close one's
eyes tranquilly? Believe me"--he tapped the table significantly with his
finger--"you will only promote emigration by such propaganda and nothing
else!"
He finished evidently triumphant. He was one of the intellects of the
province. Liputin smiled slyly, Virginsky listened rather dejectedly,
the others followed the discussion with great attention, especially the
ladies and officers. They all realised that the advocate of the hundred
million heads theory had been driven into a corner, and waited to see
what would come of it.
"That was a good saying of yours, though," Verhovensky mumbled
more carelessly than ever, in fact with an air of positive boredom.
"Emigration is a good idea. But all the same, if in spite of all the
obvious disadvantages you foresee, more and more come forward every day
ready to fight for the common cause, it will be able to do without you.
It's a new religion, my good friend, coming to take the place of the old
one. That's why so many fighters come forward, and it's a big movement.
You'd better emigrate! And, you know, I should advise Dresden, not 'the
calm islands.' To begin with, it's a town that has never been visited by
an epidemic, and as you are a man of culture, no doubt you are afraid
of death. Another thing, it's near the Russian frontier, so you can more
easily receive your income from your beloved Fatherland. Thirdly,
it contains what are called treasures of art, and you are a man of
æsthetic tastes, formerly a teacher of literature, I believe. And,
finally, it has a miniature Switzerland of its own--to provide you
with poetic inspiration, for no doubt you write verse. In fact it's a
treasure in a nutshell!" There was a general movement, especially among
the officers. In another instant they would have all begun talking at
once. But the lame man rose irritably to the bait.
"No, perhaps I am not going to give up the common cause. You must
understand that..."
"What, would you join the quintet if I proposed it to you?" Verhovensky
boomed suddenly, and he laid down the scissors.
Every one seemed startled. The mysterious man had revealed himself too
freely. He had even spoken openly of the "quintet."
"Every one feels himself to be an honest man and will not shirk his part
in the common cause"--the lame man tried to wriggle out of it--"but..."
"No, this is not a question which allows of a _but_," Verhovensky
interrupted harshly and peremptorily. "I tell you, gentlemen, I must
have a direct answer. I quite understand that, having come here and
having called you together myself, I am bound to give you explanations"
(again an unexpected revelation), "but I can give you none till I know
what is your attitude to the subject. To cut the matter short--for we
can't go on talking for another thirty years as people have done for the
last thirty--I ask you which you prefer: the slow way, which consists in
the composition of socialistic romances and the academic ordering of
the destinies of humanity a thousand years hence, while despotism will
swallow the savoury morsels which would almost fly into your mouths of
themselves if you'd take a little trouble; or do you, whatever it may
imply, prefer a quicker way which will at last untie your hands, and
will let humanity make its own social organisation in freedom and in
action, not on paper? They shout 'a hundred million heads'; that may be
only a metaphor; but why be afraid of it if, with the slow day-dream on
paper, despotism in the course of some hundred years will devour not a
hundred but five hundred million heads? Take note too that an incurable
invalid will not be cured whatever prescriptions are written for him on
paper. On the contrary, if there is delay, he will grow so corrupt that
he will infect us too and contaminate all the fresh forces which one
might still reckon upon now, so that we shall all at last come to grief
together. I thoroughly agree that it's extremely agreeable to chatter
liberally and eloquently, but action is a little trying.... However, I
am no hand at talking; I came here with communications, and so I beg
all the honourable company not to vote, but simply and directly to state
which you prefer: walking at a snail's pace in the marsh, or putting on
full steam to get across it?"
"I am certainly for crossing at full steam!" cried the schoolboy in an
ecstasy.
"So am I," Lyamshin chimed in.
"There can be no doubt about the choice," muttered an officer, followed
by another, then by someone else. What struck them all most was that
Verhovensky had come "with communications" and had himself just promised
to speak.
"Gentlemen, I see that almost all decide for the policy of the
manifestoes," he said, looking round at the company.
"All, all!" cried the majority of voices.
"I confess I am rather in favour of a more humane policy," said the
major, "but as all are on the other side, I go with all the rest."
"It appears, then, that even you are not opposed to it," said
Verhovensky, addressing the lame man.
"I am not exactly..." said the latter, turning rather red, "but if I do
agree with the rest now, it's simply not to break up--"
"You are all like that! Ready to argue for six months to practise
your Liberal eloquence and in the end you vote the same as the rest!
Gentlemen, consider though, is it true that you are all ready?"
(Ready for what? The question was vague, but very alluring.)
"All are, of course!" voices were heard. But all were looking at one
another.
"But afterwards perhaps you will resent having agreed so quickly? That's
almost always the way with you."
The company was excited in various ways, greatly excited. The lame man
flew at him.
"Allow me to observe, however, that answers to such questions are
conditional. Even if we have given our decision, you must note that
questions put in such a strange way..."
"In what strange way?"
"In a way such questions are not asked."
"Teach me how, please. But do you know, I felt sure you'd be the first
to take offence."
"You've extracted from us an answer as to our readiness for immediate
action; but what right had you to do so? By what authority do you ask
such questions?"
"You should have thought of asking that question sooner! Why did you
answer? You agree and then you go back on it!"
"But to my mind the irresponsibility of your principal question suggests
to me that you have no authority, no right, and only asked from personal
curiosity."
"What do you mean? What do you mean?" cried Verhovensky, apparently
beginning to be much alarmed.
"Why, that the initiation of new members into anything you like is done,
anyway, _tête-à-tête_ and not in the company of twenty people one doesn't
know!" blurted out the lame man. He had said all that was in his mind
because he was too irritated to restrain himself. Verhovensky turned to
the general company with a capitally simulated look of alarm.
"Gentlemen, I deem it my duty to declare that all this is folly, and
that our conversation has gone too far. I have so far initiated no one,
and no one has the right to say of me that I initiate members. We were
simply discussing our opinions. That's so, isn't it? But whether that's
so or not, you alarm me very much." He turned to the lame man again.
"I had no idea that it was unsafe here to speak of such practically
innocent matters except _tête-à-tête_. Are you afraid of informers? Can
there possibly be an informer among us here?"
The excitement became tremendous; all began talking.
"Gentlemen, if that is so," Verhovensky went on, "I have compromised
myself more than anyone, and so I will ask you to answer one question,
if you care to, of course. You are all perfectly free."
"What question? What question?" every one clamoured.
"A question that will make it clear whether we are to remain together,
or take up our hats and go our several ways without speaking."
"The question! The question!"
"If any one of us knew of a proposed political murder, would he, in view
of all the consequences, go to give information, or would he stay at
home and await events? Opinions may differ on this point. The answer
to the question will tell us clearly whether we are to separate, or to
remain together and for far longer than this one evening. Let me appeal
to you first." He turned to the lame man.
"Why to me first?"
"Because you began it all. Be so good as not to prevaricate; it won't
help you to be cunning. But please yourself, it's for you to decide."
"Excuse me, but such a question is positively insulting."
"No, can't you be more exact than that?"
"I've never been an agent of the Secret Police," replied the latter,
wriggling more than ever.
"Be so good as to be more definite, don't keep us waiting."
The lame man was so furious that he left off answering. Without a word
he glared wrathfully from under his spectacles at his tormentor.
"Yes or no? Would you inform or not?" cried Verhovensky.
"Of course I wouldn't," the lame man shouted twice as loudly.
"And no one would, of course not!" cried many voices.
"Allow me to appeal to you, Mr. Major. Would you inform or not?"
Verhovensky went on. "And note that I appeal to you on purpose."
"I won't inform."
"But if you knew that someone meant to rob and murder someone else, an
ordinary mortal, then you would inform and give warning?"
"Yes, of course; but that's a private affair, while the other would be a
political treachery. I've never been an agent of the Secret Police."
"And no one here has," voices cried again. "It's an unnecessary
question. Every one will make the same answer. There are no informers
here."
"What is that gentleman getting up for?" cried the girl-student.
"That's Shatov. What are you getting up for?" cried the lady of the
house.
Shatov did, in fact, stand up. He was holding his cap in his hand and
looking at Verhovensky. Apparently he wanted to say something to him,
but was hesitating. His face was pale and wrathful, but he controlled
himself. He did not say one word, but in silence walked towards the
door.
"Shatov, this won't make things better for you!" Verhovensky called
after him enigmatically.
"But it will for you, since you are a spy and a scoundrel!" Shatov
shouted to him from the door, and he went out.
Shouts and exclamations again.
"That's what comes of a test," cried a voice.
"It's been of use," cried another.
"Hasn't it been of use too late?" observed a third.
"Who invited him? Who let him in? Who is he? Who is Shatov? Will he
inform, or won't he?" There was a shower of questions.
"If he were an informer he would have kept up appearances instead of
cursing it all and going away," observed someone.
"See, Stavrogin is getting up too. Stavrogin has not answered the
question either," cried the girl-student.
Stavrogin did actually stand up, and at the other end of the table
Kirillov rose at the same time.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stavrogin," Madame Virginsky addressed him sharply, "we
all answered the question, while you are going away without a word."
"I see no necessity to answer the question which interests you,"
muttered Stavrogin.
"But we've compromised ourselves and you won't," shouted several voices.
"What business is it of mine if you have compromised yourselves?"
laughed Stavrogin, but his eyes flashed.
"What business? What business?" voices exclaimed.
Many people got up from their chairs.
"Allow me, gentlemen, allow me," cried the lame man. "Mr. Verhovensky
hasn't answered the question either; he has only asked it."
The remark produced a striking effect. All looked at one another.
Stavrogin laughed aloud in the lame man's face and went out; Kirillov
followed him; Verhovensky ran after them into the passage.
"What are you doing?" he faltered, seizing Stavrogin's hand and gripping
it with all his might in his. Stavrogin pulled away his hand without a
word.
"Be at Kirillov's directly, I'll come.... It's absolutely necessary
for me to see you!..."
"It isn't necessary for me," Stavrogin cut him short.
"Stavrogin will be there," Kirillov said finally. "Stavrogin, it is
necessary for you. I will show you that there."
They went out.