‘Grigory Litvinov, a brick, a true Russian heart. I commend him to you,’
cried Bambaev, conducting Litvinov up to a short man of the figure of a
country gentleman, with an unbuttoned collar, in a short jacket, grey
morning trousers and slippers, standing in the middle of a light, and
very well-furnished room; ‘and this,’ he added, addressing himself to
Litvinov, ‘is he, the man himself, do you understand? Gubaryov, then, in
a word.’
Litvinov stared with curiosity at ‘the man himself.’ He did not at first
sight find in him anything out of the common. He saw before him a
gentleman of respectable, somewhat dull exterior, with a broad forehead,
large eyes, full lips, a big beard, and a thick neck, with a fixed gaze,
bent sidelong and downwards. This gentleman simpered, and said, ‘Mmm ...
ah ... very pleased,...’ raised his hand to his own face, and at once
turning his back on Litvinov, took a few paces upon the carpet, with a
slow and peculiar shuffle, as though he were trying to slink along
unseen. Gubaryov had the habit of continually walking up and down, and
constantly plucking and combing his beard with the tips of his long hard
nails. Besides Gubaryov, there was also in the room a lady of about
fifty, in a shabby silk dress, with an excessively mobile face almost as
yellow as a lemon, a little black moustache on her upper lip, and eyes
which moved so quickly that they seemed as though they were jumping out
of her head; there was too a broad-shouldered man sitting bent up in a
corner.
‘Well, honoured Matrona Semyonovna,’ began Gubaryov, turning to the
lady, and apparently not considering it necessary to introduce Litvinov
to her, ‘what was it you were beginning to tell us?’
The lady (her name was Matrona Semyonovna Suhantchikov--she was a widow,
childless, and not rich, and had been travelling from country to country
for two years past) began with peculiar exasperated vehemence:
‘Well, so he appears before the prince and says to him: “Your
Excellency,” he says, “in such an office and such a position as yours,
what will it cost you to alleviate my lot? You,” he says, “cannot but
respect the purity of my ideas! And is it possible,” he says, “in these
days to persecute a man for his ideas?” And what do you suppose the
prince did, that cultivated dignitary in that exalted position?’
‘Why, what did he do?’ observed Gubaryov, lighting a cigarette with a
meditative air.
The lady drew herself up and held out her bony right hand, with the
first finger separated from the rest.
‘He called his groom and said to him, “Take off that man’s coat at once,
and keep it yourself. I make you a present of that coat!”’
‘And did the groom take it?’ asked Bambaev, throwing up his arms.
‘He took it and kept it. And that was done by Prince Barnaulov, the
well-known rich grandee, invested with special powers, the
representative of the government. What is one to expect after that!’
The whole frail person of Madame Suhantchikov was shaking with
indignation, spasms passed over her face, her withered bosom was heaving
convulsively under her flat corset; of her eyes it is needless to speak,
they were fairly leaping out of her head. But then they were always
leaping, whatever she might be talking about.
‘A crying shame, a crying shame!’ cried Bambaev. ‘No punishment could be
bad enough!’
‘Mmm.... Mmm.... From top to bottom it’s all rotten,’ observed Gubaryov,
without raising his voice, however. ‘In that case punishment is not ...
that needs ... other measures.’
‘But is it really true?’ commented Litvinov.
‘Is it true?’ broke in Madame Suhantchikov. ‘Why, that one can’t even
dream of doubting ... can’t even d-d-d-ream of it.’ She pronounced these
words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with the effort. ‘I
was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch,
know him--Elistratov, Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewitnesses,
spectators of this disgraceful scene.’
‘What Elistratov?’ inquired Gubaryov. ‘The one who was in Kazan?’
‘Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumour was spread about him that he
took bribes there from some contractors or distillers. But then who is
it says so? Pelikanov! And how can one believe Pelikanov, when every one
knows he is simply--a spy!’
‘No, with your permission, Matrona Semyonovna,’ interposed Bambaev, ‘I
am friends with Pelikanov, he is not a spy at all.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s just what he is, a spy!’
‘But wait a minute, kindly----’
‘A spy, a spy!’ shrieked Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no, one minute, I tell you what,’ shrieked Bambaev in his turn.
‘A spy, a spy,’ persisted Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no! There’s Tentelyev now, that’s a different matter,’ roared
Bambaev with all the force of his lungs.
Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment.
‘I know for a fact about that gentleman,’ he continued in his ordinary
voice, ‘that when he was summoned before the secret police, he grovelled
at the feet of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, “Save me,
intercede for me!” But Pelikanov never demeaned himself to baseness like
that.’
‘Mm ... Tentelyev ...’ muttered Gubaryov, ‘that ... that ought to be
noted.’
Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
‘They’re one worse than another,’ she said, ‘but I know a still better
story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible
despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator.
Well, he was once at some friend’s house in Paris, and suddenly in comes
Madame Beecher Stowe--you know, _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. Tentelyev, who’s an
awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him; but
directly she heard his name. “What?” she said, “he presumes to be
introduced to the author of _Uncle Tom_?” And she gave him a slap on the
cheek! “Go away!” she says, “at once!” And what do you think? Tentelyev
took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.’
[Illustration: _Mrs. Beecher Stowe._]
‘Come, I think that’s exaggerated,’ observed Bambaev. ‘“Go away” she
certainly did say, that’s a fact, but she didn’t give him a smack!’
‘She did, she did!’ repeated Madam Suhantchikov with convulsive
intensity: ‘I am not talking idle gossip. And you are friends with men
like that!’
‘Excuse me, excuse me, Matrona Semyonovna, I never spoke of Tentelyev as
a friend of mine; I was speaking of Pelikanov.’
‘Well, if it’s not Tentelyev, it’s another. Mihnyov, for example.’
‘What did he do then?’ asked Bambaev, already showing signs of alarm.
‘What? Is it possible you don’t know? He exclaimed on the Poznesensky
Prospect in the hearing of all the world that all the liberals ought to
be in prison; and what’s more, an old schoolfellow came to him, a poor
man of course, and said, “Can I come to dinner with you?” And this was
his answer. “No, impossible; I have two counts dining with me to-day ...
get along with you!”’
‘But that’s slander, upon my word!’ vociferated Bambaev.
‘Slander? ... slander? In the first place, Prince Vahrushkin, who was
also dining at your Mihnyov’s----’
‘Prince Vahrushkin,’ Gubaryov interpolated severely, ‘is my cousin; but
I don’t allow him to enter my house.... So there is no need to mention
him even.’
‘In the second place,’ continued Madame Suhantchikov, with a submissive
nod in Gubaryov’s direction, ‘Praskovya Yakovlovna told me so herself.’
‘You have hit on a fine authority to quote! Why, she and Sarkizov are
the greatest scandal-mongers going.’
‘I beg your pardon, Sarkizov is a liar, certainly. He filched the very
pall of brocade off his dead father’s coffin. I will never dispute that;
but Praskovya Yakovlovna--there’s no comparison! Remember how
magnanimously she parted from her husband! But you, I know, are always
ready----’
‘Come, enough, enough, Matrona Semyonovna,’ said Bambaev, interrupting
her, ‘let us give up this tittle-tattle, and take a loftier flight. I am
not new to the work, you know. Have you read _Mlle. de la Quintinie_?
That’s something charming now! And quite in accord with your principles
at the same time!’
‘I never read novels now,’ was Madame Suhantchikov’s dry and sharp
reply.
‘Why?’
‘Because I have not the time now; I have no thoughts now but for one
thing, sewing machines.’
‘What machines?’ inquired Litvinov.
‘Sewing, sewing; all women ought to provide themselves with
sewing-machines, and form societies; in that way they will all be
enabled to earn their living, and will become independent at once. In no
other way can they ever be emancipated. That is an important, most
important social question. I had such an argument about it with Boleslav
Stadnitsky. Boleslav Stadnitsky is a marvellous nature, but he looks at
these things in an awfully frivolous spirit. He does nothing but laugh.
Idiot!’
‘All will in their due time be called to account, from all it will be
exacted,’ pronounced Gubaryov deliberately, in a tone half-professorial,
half-prophetic.
‘Yes, yes,’ repeated Bambaev, ‘it will be exacted, precisely so, it will
be exacted. But, Stepan Nikolaitch,’ he added, dropping his voice, ‘how
goes the great work?’
‘I am collecting materials,’ replied Gubaryov, knitting his brows; and,
turning to Litvinov, whose head began to swim from the medley of
unfamiliar names, and the frenzy of backbiting, he asked him what
subjects he was interested in.
Litvinov satisfied his curiosity.
‘Ah! to be sure, the natural sciences. That is useful, as training; as
training, not as an end in itself. The end at present should be ... mm
... should be ... different. Allow me to ask what views do you hold?’
‘What views?’
‘Yes, that is, more accurately speaking, what are your political views?’
Litvinov smiled.
‘Strictly speaking, I have no political views.’
The broad-shouldered man sitting in the corner raised his head quickly
at these words and looked attentively at Litvinov.
‘How is that?’ observed Gubaryov with peculiar gentleness. ‘Have you not
yet reflected on the subject, or have you grown weary of it?’
‘How shall I say? It seems to me that for us Russians, it is too early
yet to have political views or to imagine that we have them. Observe
that I attribute to the word “political” the meaning which belongs to it
by right, and that----’
‘Aha! he belongs to the undeveloped,’ Gubaryov interrupted him, with the
same gentleness, and going up to Voroshilov, he asked him: ‘Had he read
the pamphlet he had given him?’
Voroshilov, to Litvinov’s astonishment, had not uttered a word ever
since his entrance, but had only knitted his brows and rolled his eyes
(as a rule he was either speechifying or else perfectly dumb). He now
expanded his chest in soldierly fashion, and with a tap of his heels,
nodded assent.
‘Well, and how was it? Did you like it?’
‘As regards the fundamental principles, I liked it; but I did not agree
with the inferences.’
‘Mmm ... Andrei Ivanitch praised that pamphlet, however. You must expand
your doubts to me later.’
‘You desire it in writing?’
Gubaryov was obviously surprised; he had not expected this; however,
after a moment’s thought, he replied:
‘Yes, in writing. By the way, I will ask you to explain to me your views
also ... in regard to ... in regard to associations.’
‘Associations on Lassalle’s system, do you desire, or on the system of
Schulze-Delitzsch?’
‘Mmm ... on both. For us Russians, you understand, the financial aspect
of the matter is specially important. Yes, and the _artel_ ... as the
germ.... All that, one must take note of. One must go deeply into it.
And the question, too, of the land to be apportioned to the
peasants....’
‘And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, what is your view as to the number of acres
suitable?’ inquired Voroshilov, with reverential delicacy in his voice.
‘Mmm ... and the commune?’ articulated Gubaryov, deep in thought, and
biting a tuft of his beard he stared at the table-leg. ‘The commune!...
Do you understand. That is a grand word! Then what is the significance
of these conflagrations? these ... these government measures against
Sunday-schools, reading-rooms, journals? And the refusal of the peasants
to sign the charters regulating their position in the future? And
finally, what of what is happening in Poland? Don’t you see that ... mmm
... that we ... we have to unite with the people ... find out ... find
out their views----’ Suddenly a heavy, almost a wrathful emotion seemed
to take possession of Gubaryov; he even grew black in the face and
breathed heavily, but still did not raise his eyes, and continued to
gnaw at his beard. ‘Can’t you see----’
‘Yevseyev is a wretch!’ Madame Suhantchikov burst out noisily all of a
sudden. Bambaev had been relating something to her in a voice lowered
out of respect for their host. Gubaryov turned round swiftly on his
heels, and again began limping about the room.
Fresh guests began to arrive; towards the end of the evening a good many
people were assembled. Among them came, too, Mr. Yevseyev whom Madame
Suhantchikov had vilified so cruelly. She entered into conversation with
him very cordially, and asked him to escort her home; there arrived too
a certain Pishtchalkin, an ideal mediator, one of those men of precisely
whom perhaps Russia stands in need--a man, that is, narrow, of little
information, and no great gifts, but conscientious, patient, and honest;
the peasants of his district almost worshipped him, and he regarded
himself very respectfully as a creature genuinely deserving of esteem. A
few officers, too, were there, escaped for a brief furlough to Europe,
and rejoicing--though of course warily, and ever mindful of their
colonel in the background of their brains--in the opportunity of
dallying a little with intellectual--even rather dangerous--people; two
lanky students from Heidelberg came hurrying in, one looked about him
very contemptuously, the other giggled spasmodically ... both were very
ill at ease; after them a Frenchman--a so-called _petit jeune
homme_--poked his nose in; a nasty, silly, pitiful little creature, ...
who enjoyed some repute among his fellow _commis-voyageurs_ on the
theory that Russian countesses had fallen in love with him; for his own
part, his reflections were centred more upon getting a supper gratis;
the last to appear was Tit Bindasov, in appearance a rollicking German
student, in reality a skinflint, in words a terrorist, by vocation a
police-officer, a friend of Russian merchants’ wives and Parisian
_cocottes_; bald, toothless, and drunken; he arrived very red and
sodden, affirming that he had lost his last farthing to that blackguard
Benazet; in reality, he had won sixteen guldens.... In short, there were
a number of people. Remarkable--really remarkable--was the respect with
which all these people treated Gubaryov as a preceptor or chief; they
laid their ideas before him, and submitted them to his judgment; and he
replied by muttering, plucking at his beard, averting his eyes, or by
some disconnected, meaningless words, which were at once seized upon as
the utterances of the loftiest wisdom. Gubaryov himself seldom
interposed in the discussions; but the others strained their lungs to
the utmost to make up for it. It happened more than once that three or
four were shouting for ten minutes together, and all were content and
understood. The conversation lasted till after midnight, and was as
usual distinguished by the number and variety of the subjects discussed.
Madame Suhantchikov talked about Garibaldi, about a certain Karl
Ivanovitch, who had been flogged by the serfs of his own household,
about Napoleon III., about women’s work, about a merchant, Pleskatchov,
who had designedly caused the death of twelve work-women, and had
received a medal for it with the inscription ‘for public services’;
about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Tchuktcheulidzov, who
had shot his wife with a cannon, and about the future of Russia.
Pishtchalkin, too, talked of the future of Russia, and of the spirit
monopoly, and of the significance of nationalities, and of how he hated
above everything what was vulgar. There was an outburst all of a sudden
from Voroshilov; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he
mentioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunov, Bichat, Helmholtz, Star, St.
Raymund, Johann Müller the physiologist, and Johann Müller the
historian--obviously confounding them--Taine, Renan, Shtchapov; and then
Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene.... ‘What sort of queer fish may they be?’
Bambaev muttered bewildered, Shakespeare’s predecessors having the same
relation to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont Blanc. Voroshilov
replied cuttingly, and he too touched on the future of Russia. Bambaev
also spoke of the future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing
colours: but he was thrown into special raptures over the thought of
Russian music, in which he saw something. ‘Ah! great indeed!’ and in
confirmation he began humming a song of Varlamov’s, but was soon
interrupted by a general shout, ‘He is singing the _Miserere_ from the
_Trovatore_, and singing it excruciatingly too.’ One little officer was
reviling Russian literature in the midst of the hubbub; another was
quoting verses from _Sparks_; but Tit Bindasov went even further; he
declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out,
... and that’s all about it, but he did not particularise who were the
swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling; all
were hot and exhausted, every one was hoarse, all eyes were growing dim,
and the perspiration stood out in drops on every face. Bottles of iced
beer were brought in and drunk off instantaneously. ‘What was I saying?’
remarked one; ‘and with whom was I disputing, and about what?’ inquired
another. And among all the uproar and the smoke, Gubaryov walked
indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and
twitching at his beard; now listening, turning an ear to some
controversy, now putting in a word of his own; and every one was forced
to feel that he, Gubaryov, was the source of it all, that he was the
master here, and the most eminent personality....
Litvinov, towards ten o’clock, began to have a terrible headache, and,
taking advantage of a louder outburst of general excitement, went off
quietly unobserved. Madame Suhantchikov had recollected a fresh act of
injustice of Prince Barnaulov; he had all but given orders to have some
one’s ears bitten off.
The fresh night air enfolded Litvinov’s flushed face caressingly, the
fragrant breeze breathed on his parched lips. ‘What is it,’ he thought
as he went along the dark avenue, ‘that I have been present at? Why were
they met together? What were they shouting, scolding, and making such a
pother about? What was it all for?’ Litvinov shrugged his shoulders, and
turning into Weber’s, he picked up a newspaper and asked for an ice. The
newspaper was taken up with a discussion on the Roman question, and the
ice turned out to be very nasty. He was already preparing to go home,
when suddenly an unknown person in a wide-brimmed hat drew near, and
saying in Russian: ‘I hope I am not in your way?’ sat down at his table.
Only then, after a closer glance at the stranger, Litvinov recognised
him as the broad-shouldered gentleman hidden away in a corner at
Gubaryov’s, who had stared at him with such attention when the
conversation had turned on political views. During the whole evening
this gentleman had not once opened his mouth, and now, sitting down near
Litvinov, and taking off his hat, he looked at him with an expression of
friendliness and some embarrassment.
V
‘Mr. Gubaryov, at whose rooms I had the pleasure of meeting you to-day,’
he began, ‘did not introduce me to you; so that, with your leave, I will
now introduce myself--Potugin, retired councillor. I was in the
department of finances in St. Petersburg. I hope you do not think it
strange.... I am not in the habit as a rule of making friends so
abruptly ... but with you....’
Potugin grew rather mixed, and he asked the waiter to bring him a little
glass of kirsch-wasser. ‘To give me courage,’ he added with a smile.
Litvinov looked with redoubled interest at the last of all the new
persons with whom it had been his lot to be brought into contact that
day. His thought was at once, ‘He is not the same as those.’
Certainly he was not. There sat before him, drumming with delicate
fingers on the edge of the table, a broad-shouldered man, with an ample
frame on short legs, a downcast head of curly hair, with very
intelligent and very mournful eyes under bushy brows, a thick well-cut
mouth, bad teeth, and that purely Russian nose to which is assigned the
epithet ‘potato’; a man of awkward, even odd exterior; at least, he was
certainly not of a common type. He was carelessly dressed; his
old-fashioned coat hung on him like a sack, and his cravat was twisted
awry. His sudden friendliness, far from striking Litvinov as intrusive,
secretly flattered him; it was impossible not to see that it was not a
common practice with this man to attach himself to strangers. He made a
curious impression on Litvinov; he awakened in him respect and liking,
and a kind of involuntary compassion.
‘I am not in your way then?’ he repeated in a soft, rather languid and
faint voice, which was marvellously in keeping with his whole
personality.
‘No, indeed,’ replied Litvinov; ‘quite the contrary, I am very glad.’
‘Really? Well, then, I am glad too. I have heard a great deal about you;
I know what you are engaged in, and what your plans are. It’s a good
work. That’s why you were silent this evening.’
‘Yes; you too said very little, I fancy,’ observed Litvinov.
Potugin sighed. ‘The others said enough and to spare. I listened. Well,’
he added, after a moment’s pause, raising his eyebrows with a rather
humorous expression, ‘did you like our building of the Tower of Babel?’
‘That’s just what it was. You have expressed it capitally. I kept
wanting to ask those gentlemen what they were in such a fuss about.’
Potugin sighed again.
‘That’s the whole point of it, that they don’t know that themselves. In
former days the expression used about them would have been: “they are
the blind instruments of higher ends”; well, nowadays we make use of
sharper epithets. And take note that I am not in the least intending to
blame them; I will say more, they are all ... that is, almost all,
excellent people. Of Madame Suhantchikov, for instance, I know for
certain much that is good; she gave away the last of her fortune to two
poor nieces. Even admitting that the desire of doing something
picturesque, of showing herself off, was not without its influence on
her, still you will agree that it was a remarkable act of self-sacrifice
in a woman not herself well-off! Of Mr. Pishtchalkin there is no need to
speak even; the peasants of his district will certainly in time present
him with a silver bowl like a pumpkin, and perhaps even a holy picture
representing his patron saint, and though he will tell them in his
speech of thanks that he does not deserve such an honour, he won’t tell
the truth there; he does deserve it. Mr. Bambaev, your friend, has a
wonderfully good heart; it’s true that it’s with him as with the poet
Yazikov, who they say used to sing the praises of Bacchic revelry,
sitting over a book and sipping water; his enthusiasm is completely
without a special object, still it is enthusiasm; and Mr. Voroshilov,
too, is the most good-natured fellow; like all his sort, all men who’ve
taken the first prizes at school, he’s an _aide-de-camp_ of the
sciences, and he even holds his tongue sententiously, but then he is so
young. Yes, yes, they are all excellent people, and when you come to
results, there’s nothing to show for it; the ingredients are all
first-rate, but the dish is not worth eating.’
Litvinov listened to Potugin with growing astonishment: every phrase,
every turn of his slow but self-confident speech betrayed both the power
of speaking and the desire to speak.
Potugin did, in fact, like speaking, and could speak well; but, as a man
in whom life had succeeded in wearing away vanity, he waited with
philosophic calm for a good opportunity, a meeting with a kindred
spirit.
‘Yes, yes,’ he began again, with the special dejected but not peevish
humour peculiar to him, ‘it is all very strange. And there is something
else I want you to note. Let a dozen Englishmen, for example, come
together, and they will at once begin to talk of the sub-marine
telegraph, or the tax on paper, or a method of tanning rats’ skins,--of
something, that’s to say, practical and definite; a dozen Germans, and
of course Schleswig-Holstein and the unity of Germany will be brought on
the scene; given a dozen Frenchmen, and the conversation will infallibly
turn upon amorous adventures, however much you try to divert them from
the subject; but let a dozen Russians meet together, and instantly there
springs up the question--you had an opportunity of being convinced of
the fact this evening--the question of the significance and the future
of Russia, and in terms so general, beginning with creation, without
facts or conclusions. They worry and worry away at that unlucky subject,
as children chew away at a bit of india-rubber--neither for pleasure nor
profit, as the saying is. Well, then, of course the rotten West comes in
for its share. It’s a curious thing, it beats us at every point, this
West--but yet we declare that it’s rotten! And if only we had a genuine
contempt for it,’ pursued Potugin, ‘but that’s really all cant and
humbug. We can do well enough as far as abuse goes, but the opinion of
the West is the only thing we value, the opinion, that’s to say, of the
Parisian loafers.... I know a man--a good fellow, I fancy--the father of
a family, and no longer young; he was thrown into deep dejection for
some days because in a Parisian restaurant he had asked for _une portion
de biftek aux pommes de terre_, and a real Frenchman thereupon shouted:
_Garçon! biftek pommes!_ My friend was ready to die with shame, and
after that he shouted everywhere, _Biftek pommes!_ and taught others to
do the same. The very _cocottes_ are surprised at the reverential
trepidation with which our young barbarians enter their shameful
drawing-rooms. “Good God!” they are thinking, “is this really where I
am, with no less a person than Anna Deslions herself!”’
‘Tell me, pray,’ continued Litvinov, ‘to what do you ascribe the
influence Gubaryov undoubtedly has over all about him? Is it his talent,
his abilities?’
‘No, no; there is nothing of that sort about him....’
‘His personal character is it, then?’
‘Not that either, but he has a strong will. We Slavs, for the most part,
as we all know, are badly off for that commodity, and we grovel before
it. It is Mr. Gubaryov’s will to be a ruler, and every one has
recognised him as a ruler. What would you have? The government has freed
us from the dependence of serfdom--and many thanks to it! but the habits
of slavery are too deeply ingrained in us; we cannot easily be rid of
them. We want a master in everything and everywhere; as a rule this
master is a living person, sometimes it is some so-called tendency which
gains authority over us.... At present, for instance, we are all the
bondslaves of natural science.... Why, owing to what causes, we take
this bondage upon us, that is a matter difficult to see into; but such
seemingly is our nature. But the great thing is, that we should have a
master. Well, here he is amongst us; that means he is ours, and we can
afford to despise everything else! Simply slaves! And our pride is
slavish, and slavish too is our humility. If a new master arises--it’s
all over with the old one. Then it was Yakov, and now it is Sidor; we
box Yakov’s ears and kneel to Sidor! Call to mind how many tricks of
that sort have been played amongst us! We talk of scepticism as our
special characteristic; but even in our scepticism we are not like a
free man fighting with a sword, but like a lackey hitting out with his
fist, and very likely he is doing even that at his master’s bidding.
Then, we are a soft people too; it’s not difficult to keep the curb on
us. So that’s the way Mr. Gubaryov has become a power among us; he has
chipped and chipped away at one point, till he has chipped himself into
success. People see that he is a man who has a great opinion of himself,
who believes in himself, and commands. That’s the great thing, that he
can command; it follows that he must be right, and we ought to obey him.
All our sects, our Onuphrists and Akulinists, were founded exactly in
that way. He who holds the rod is the corporal.’
Potugin’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes grew dim; but, strange to
say, his speech, cruel and even malicious as it was, had no touch of
bitterness, but rather of sorrow, genuine and sincere sorrow.
‘How did you come to know Gubaryov?’ asked Litvinov.
‘I have known him a long while. And observe, another peculiarity among
us; a certain writer, for example, spent his whole life in inveighing in
prose and verse against drunkenness, and attacking the system of the
drink monopoly, and lo and behold! he went and bought two spirit
distilleries and opened a hundred drink-shops--and it made no
difference! Any other man might have been wiped off the face of the
earth, but he was not even reproached for it. And here is Mr. Gubaryov;
he is a Slavophil and a democrat and a socialist and anything you like,
but his property has been and is still managed by his brother, a master
of the old style, one of those who were famous for their fists. And the
very Madame Suhantchikov, who makes Mrs. Beecher Stowe box Tentelyev’s
ears, is positively in the dust before Gubaryov’s feet. And you know the
only thing he has to back him is that he reads clever books, and always
gets at the pith of them. You could see for yourself to-day what sort of
gift he has for expression; and thank God, too, that he does talk
little, and keeps in his shell. For when he is in good spirits, and lets
himself go, then it’s more than even I, patient as I am, can stand. He
begins by coarse joking and telling filthy anecdotes ... yes, really,
our majestic Mr. Gubaryov tells filthy anecdotes, and guffaws so
revoltingly over them all the time.’
‘Are you so patient?’ observed Litvinov. ‘I should have supposed the
contrary. But let me ask your name and your father’s name?’
Potugin sipped a little kirsch-wasser.
‘My name is Sozont.... Sozont Ivanitch. They gave me that magnificent
name in honour of a kinsman, an archimandrite, to whom I am indebted
for nothing else. I am, if I may venture so to express myself, of most
reverend stock. And as for your doubts about my patience, they are quite
groundless: I am very patient. I served for twenty-two years under the
authority of my own uncle, an actual councillor of state, Irinarh
Potugin. You don’t know him?’
‘No.’
‘I congratulate you. No, I am patient. “But let us return to our first
head,” as my esteemed colleague, who was burned alive some centuries
ago, the protopope Avvakum, used to say. I am amazed, my dear sir, at my
fellow-countrymen. They are all depressed, they all walk with downcast
heads, and at the same time they are all filled with hope, and on the
smallest excuse they lose their heads and fly off into ecstasies. Look
at the Slavophils even, among whom Mr. Gubaryov reckons himself: they
are most excellent people, but there is the same mixture of despair and
exultation, they too live in the future tense. Everything will be, will
be, if you please. In reality there is nothing done, and Russia for ten
whole centuries has created nothing of its own, either in government, in
law, in science, in art, or even in handicraft.... But wait a little,
have patience; it is all coming. And why is it coming; give us leave to
inquire? Why, because we, to be sure, the cultured classes are all
worthless; but the people.... Oh, the great people! You see that
peasant’s smock? That is the source that everything is to come from. All
the other idols have broken down; let us have faith in the smock-frock.
Well, but suppose the smock-frock fails us? No, it will not fail. Read
Kohanovsky, and cast your eyes up to heaven! Really, if I were a
painter, I would paint a picture of this sort: a cultivated man standing
before a peasant, doing him homage: heal me, dear master-peasant, I am
perishing of disease; and a peasant doing homage in his turn to the
cultivated man: teach me, dear master-gentleman, I am perishing from
ignorance. Well, and of course, both are standing still. But what we
ought to do is to feel really humble for a little--not only in
words--and to borrow from our elder brothers what they have invented
already before us and better than us! Waiter, _noch ein Gläschen
Kirsch_! You mustn’t think I’m a drunkard, but alcohol loosens my
tongue.’
‘After what you have just said,’ observed Litvinov with a smile, ‘I need
not even inquire to which party you belong, and what is your opinion
about Europe. But let me make one observation to you. You say that we
ought to borrow from our elder brothers: but how can we borrow without
consideration of the conditions of climate and of soil, the local and
national peculiarities? My father, I recollect, ordered from Butenop a
cast-iron thrashing machine highly recommended; the machine was very
good, certainly--but what happened? For five long years it remained
useless in the barn, till it was replaced by a wooden American one--far
more suitable to our ways and habits, as the American machines are as a
rule. One cannot borrow at random, Sozont Ivanitch.’
Potugin lifted his head.
‘I did not expect such a criticism as that from you, excellent Grigory
Mihalovitch,’ he began, after a moment’s pause. ‘Who wants to make you
borrow at random? Of course you steal what belongs to another man, not
because it is some one else’s, but because it suits you; so it follows
that you consider, you make a selection. And as for results, pray don’t
let us be unjust to ourselves; there will be originality enough in them
by virtue of those very local, climatic, and other conditions which you
mention. Only lay good food before it, and the natural stomach will
digest it in its own way; and in time, as the organism gains in vigour,
it will give it a sauce of its own. Take our language even as an
instance. Peter the Great deluged it with thousands of foreign words,
Dutch, French, and German; those words expressed ideas with which the
Russian people had to be familiarised; without scruple or ceremony Peter
poured them wholesale by bucketsful into us. At first, of course, the
result was something of a monstrous product; but later there began
precisely that process of digestion to which I have alluded. The ideas
had been introduced and assimilated; the foreign forms evaporated
gradually, and the language found substitutes for them from within
itself; and now your humble servant, the most mediocre stylist, will
undertake to translate any page you like out of Hegel--yes, indeed, out
of Hegel--without making use of a single word not Slavonic. What has
happened with the language, one must hope will happen in other
departments. It all turns on the question: is it a nature of strong
vitality? and our nature--well, it will stand the test; it has gone
through greater trials than that. Only nations in a state of nervous
debility, feeble nations, need fear for their health and their
independence, just as it is only weak-minded people who are capable of
falling into triumphant rhapsodies over the fact that we are Russians. I
am very careful over my health, but I don’t go into ecstasies over it: I
should be ashamed.’
‘That is all very true, Sozont Ivanitch,’ observed Litvinov in his turn;
‘but why inevitably expose ourselves to such tests? You say yourself
that at first the result was monstrous! Well, what if that monstrous
product had persisted? Indeed it has persisted, as you know yourself.’
‘Only not in the language--and that means a great deal! And it is our
people, not I, who have done it; I am not to blame because they are
destined to go through a discipline of this kind. “The Germans have
developed in a normal way,” cry the Slavophils, “let us too have a
normal development!” But how are you to get it when the very first
historical step taken by our race--the summoning of a prince from over
the sea to rule over them--is an irregularity, an abnormality, which is
repeated in every one of us down to the present day; each of us, at
least once in his life, has certainly said to something foreign, not
Russian: “Come, rule and reign over me!” I am ready, of course, to agree
that when we put a foreign substance into our own body we cannot tell
for certain what it is we are putting there, bread or poison; yet it is
a well-known thing that you can never get from bad to good through what
is better, but always through a worse state of transition, and poison
too is useful in medicine. It is only fit for fools or knaves to point
with triumph to the poverty of the peasants after the emancipation, and
the increase of drunkenness since the abolition of the farming of the
spirit-tax.... Through worse to better!’
Potugin passed his hand over his face. ‘You asked me what was my opinion
of Europe,’ he began again: ‘I admire her, and am devoted to her
principles to the last degree, and don’t in the least think it necessary
to conceal the fact. I have long--no, not long--for some time ceased to
be afraid to give full expression to my convictions--and I saw that you
too had no hesitation in informing Mr. Gubaryov of your own way of
thinking. Thank God I have given up paying attention to the ideas and
points of view and habits of the man I am conversing with. Really, I
know of nothing worse than that quite superfluous cowardice, that
cringing desire to be agreeable, by virtue of which you may see an
important dignitary among us trying to ingratiate himself with some
little student who is quite insignificant in his eyes, positively
playing down to him, with all sorts of tricks and devices. Even if we
admit that the dignitary may do it out of desire for popularity, what
induces us common folk to shuffle and degrade ourselves. Yes, yes, I am
a Westerner, I am devoted to Europe: that’s to say, speaking more
accurately, I am devoted to culture--the culture at which they make fun
so wittily among us just now--and to civilisation--yes, yes, that is a
better word--and I love it with my whole heart and believe in it, and I
have no other belief, and never shall have. That word, ci-vi-li-sa-tion
(Potugin pronounced each syllable with full stress and emphasis), is
intelligible, and pure, and holy, and all the other ideals, nationality,
glory, or what you like--they smell of blood.... Away with them!’
‘Well, but Russia, Sozont Ivanitch, your country--you love it?’
Potugin passed his hand over his face. ‘I love her passionately and
passionately hate her.’
Litvinov shrugged his shoulders.
‘That’s stale, Sozont Ivanitch, that’s a commonplace.’
‘And what of it? So that’s what you’re afraid of! A commonplace! I know
many excellent commonplaces. Here, for example, Law and Liberty is a
well-known commonplace. Why, do you consider it’s better as it is with
us, lawlessness and bureaucratic tyranny? And, besides, all those
phrases by which so many young heads are turned: vile bourgeoisie,
_souveraineté du peuple_, right to labour, aren’t they commonplaces too?
And as for love, inseparable from hate....’
‘Byronism,’ interposed Litvinov, ‘the romanticism of the thirties.’
‘Excuse me, you’re mistaken; such a mingling of emotions was first
mentioned by Catullus, the Roman poet Catullus,[1] two thousand years
ago. I have read that, for I know a little Latin, thanks to my clerical
origin, if so I may venture to express myself. Yes, indeed, I both love
and hate my Russia, my strange, sweet, nasty, precious country. I have
left her just now. I want a little fresh air after sitting for twenty
years on a clerk’s high stool in a government office; I have left
Russia, and I am happy and contented here; but I shall soon go back
again: I feel that. It’s a beautiful land of gardens--but our wild
berries will not grow here.’
Footnote 1: Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio: sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.--CATULL. lxxxvi.
‘You are happy and contented, and I too like the place,’ said Litvinov,
‘and I came here to study; but that does not prevent me from seeing
things like that.’
He pointed to two _cocottes_ who passed by, attended by a little group
of members of the Jockey Club, grimacing and lisping, and to the
gambling saloon, full to overflowing in spite of the lateness of the
hour.
‘And who told you I am blind to that?’ Potugin broke in. ‘But pardon my
saying it, your remark reminds me of the triumphant allusions made by
our unhappy journalists at the time of the Crimean war, to the defects
in the English War Department, exposed in the _Times_. I am not an
optimist myself, and all humanity, all our life, all this comedy with
tragic issues presents itself to me in no roseate colours: but why
fasten upon the West what is perhaps ingrained in our very human nature?
That gambling hall is disgusting, certainly; but is our home-bred
card-sharping any lovelier, think you? No, my dear Grigory Mihalovitch,
let us be more humble, more retiring. A good pupil sees his master’s
faults, but he keeps a respectful silence about them; these very faults
are of use to him, and set him on the right path. But if nothing will
satisfy you but sharpening your teeth on the unlucky West, there goes
Prince Kokó at a gallop, he will most likely lose in a quarter of an
hour over the green table the hardly earned rent wrung from a hundred
and fifty families; his nerves are upset, for I saw him at Marx’s to-day
turning over a pamphlet of Vaillot.... He will be a capital person for
you to talk to!’
‘But, please, please,’ said Litvinov hurriedly, seeing that Potugin was
getting up from his place, ‘I know Prince Kokó very little, and besides,
of course, I greatly prefer talking to you.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Potugin interrupted him, getting up and making a
bow; ‘but I have already had a good deal of conversation with you;
that’s to say, really, I have talked alone, and you have probably
noticed yourself that a man is always as it were ashamed and awkward
when he has done all the talking, especially so on a first meeting, as
if to show what a fine fellow one is. Good-bye for the present. And I
repeat I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.’
‘But wait a minute, Sozont Ivanitch, tell me at least where you live,
and whether you intend to remain here long.’
Potugin seemed a little put out.
‘I shall remain about a week in Baden. We can meet here though, at
Weber’s or at Marx’s, or else I will come to you.’
‘Still I must know your address.’
‘Yes. But you see I am not alone.’
‘You are married?’ asked Litvinov suddenly.
‘No, good heavens! ... what an absurd idea! But I have a girl with
me.’...
‘Oh!’ articulated Litvinov, with a face of studied politeness, as though
he would ask pardon, and he dropped his eyes.
‘She is only six years old,’ pursued Potugin. ‘She’s an orphan ... the
daughter of a lady ... a good friend of mine. So we had better meet
here. Good-bye.’
He pulled his hat over his curly head, and disappeared quickly. Twice
there was a glimpse of him under the gas-lamps in the rather meanly
lighted road that leads into the Lichtenthaler Allee.