VI

On Sunday, Doctor Blagovo came to see me unexpectedly. He was wearing a

white summer uniform over a silk shirt, and high glacé boots.

"I came to see you!" he began, gripping my hand in his hearty,

undergraduate fashion. "I hear of you every day and I have long intended

to go and see you to have a heart-to-heart, as they say. Things are

awfully boring in the town; there is not a living soul worth talking to.

How hot it is, by Jove!" he went on, taking off his tunic and standing

in his silk shirt. "My dear fellow, let us have a talk."

I was feeling bored and longing for other society than that of the

decorators. I was really glad to see him.

"To begin with," he said, sitting on my bed, "I sympathise with you

heartily, and I have a profound respect for your present way of living.

In the town you are misunderstood and there is nobody to understand you,

because, as you know, it is full of Gogolian pig-faces. But I guessed

what you were at the picnic. You are a noble soul, an honest,

high-minded man! I respect you and think it an honour to shake hands

with you. To change your life so abruptly and suddenly as you did, you

must have passed through a most trying spiritual process, and to go on

with it now, to live scrupulously by your convictions, you must have to

toil incessantly both in mind and in heart. Now, please tell me, don't

you think that if you spent all this force of will, intensity, and power

on something else, like trying to be a great scholar or an artist, that

your life would be both wider and deeper, and altogether more

productive?"

We talked and when we came to speak of physical labour, I expressed this

idea: that it was necessary that the strong should not enslave the weak,

and that the minority should not be a parasite on the majority, always

sucking up the finest sap, _i. e._, it was necessary that all without

exception--the strong and the weak, the rich and the poor--should share

equally in the struggle for existence, every man for himself, and in

that respect there was no better means of levelling than physical labour

and compulsory service for all.

"You think, then," said the doctor, "that all, without, exception,

should be employed in physical labour?"

"Yes."

"But don't you think that if everybody, including the best people,

thinkers and men of science, were to take part in the struggle for

existence, each man for himself, and took to breaking stones and

painting roofs, it would be a serious menace to progress?"

"Where is the danger?" I asked. "Progress consists in deeds of love, in

the fulfilment of the moral law. If you enslave no one, and are a burden

upon no one, what further progress do you want?"

"But look here!" said Blagovo, suddenly losing his temper and getting

up. "I say! If a snail in its shell is engaged in self-perfection in

obedience to the moral law--would you call that progress?"

"But why?" I was nettled. "If you make your neighbours feed you, clothe

you, carry you, defend you from your enemies, their life is built up on

slavery, and that is not progress. My view is that that is the most real

and, perhaps, the only possible, the only progress necessary."

"The limits of universal progress, which is common to all men, are in

infinity, and it seems to me strange to talk of a 'possible' progress

limited by our needs and temporal conceptions."

"If the limits of peoples are in infinity, as you say, then it means

that its goal is indefinite," I said. "Think of living without knowing

definitely what for!"

"Why not? Your 'not knowing' is not so boring as your 'knowing.' I am

walking up a ladder which is called progress, civilisation, culture. I

go on and on, not knowing definitely where I am going to, but surely it

is worth while living for the sake of the wonderful ladder alone. And

you know exactly what you are living for--that some should not enslave

others, that the artist and the man who mixes his colours for him should

dine together. But that is the bourgeois, kitchen side of life, and

isn't it disgusting only to live for that? If some insects devour

others, devil take them, let them! We need not think of them, they will

perish and rot, however you save them from slavery--we must think of

that great Cross which awaits all mankind in the distant future."

Blagovo argued hotly with me, but it was noticeable that he was

disturbed by some outside thought.

"Your sister is not coming," he said, consulting his watch. "Yesterday

she was at our house and said she was going to see you. You go on

talking about slavery, slavery," he went on, "but it is a special

question, and all these questions are solved by mankind gradually."

We began to talk of evolution. I said that every man decides the

question of good and evil for himself, and does not wait for mankind to

solve the question by virtue of gradual development. Besides, evolution

is a stick with two ends. Side by side with the gradual development of

humanitarian ideas, there is the gradual growth of ideas of a different

kind. Serfdom is past, and capitalism is growing. And with ideas of

liberation at their height the majority, just as in the days of Baty,

feeds, clothes, and defends the minority; and is left hungry, naked, and

defenceless. The state of things harmonises beautifully with all your

tendencies and movements, because the art of enslaving is also being

gradually developed. We no longer flog our servants in the stables, but

we give slavery more refined forms; at any rate, we are able to justify

it in each separate case. Ideas remain ideas with us, but if we could,

now, at the end of the nineteenth century, throw upon the working

classes all our most unpleasant physiological functions, we should do

so, and, of course, we should justify ourselves by saying that if the

best people, thinkers and great scholars, had to waste their time on

such functions, progress would be in serious jeopardy.

Just then my sister entered. When she saw the doctor, she was flurried

and excited, and at once began to say that it was time for her to go

home to her father.

"Cleopatra Alexeyevna," said Blagovo earnestly, laying his hands on his

heart, "what will happen to your father if you spend half an hour with

your brother and me?"

He was a simple kind of man and could communicate his cheerfulness to

others. My sister thought for a minute and began to laugh, and suddenly

got very happy, suddenly, unexpectedly, just as she did at the picnic.

We went out into the fields and lay on the grass, and went on with our

conversation and looked at the town, where all the windows facing the

west looked golden in the setting sun.

After that Blagovo appeared every time my sister came to see me, and

they always greeted each other as though their meeting was unexpected.

My sister used to listen while the doctor and I argued, and her face was

always joyful and rapturous, admiring and curious, and it seemed to me

that a new world was slowly being discovered before her eyes, a world

which she had not seen before even in her dreams, which now she was

trying to divine; when the doctor was not there she was quiet and sad,

and if, as she sat on my bed, she sometimes wept, it was for reasons of

which she did not speak.

In August Radish gave us orders to go to the railway. A couple of days

before we were "driven" out of town, my father came to see me. He sat

down and, without looking at me, slowly wiped his red face, then took

out of his pocket our local paper and read out with deliberate emphasis

on each word that a schoolfellow of my own age, the son of the director

of the State Bank, had been appointed chief clerk of the Court of the

Exchequer.

"And now, look at yourself," he said, folding up the newspaper. "You are

a beggar, a vagabond, a scoundrel! Even the bourgeoisie and other

peasants get education to make themselves decent people, while you, a

Pologniev, with famous, noble ancestors, go wallowing in the mire! But I

did not come here to talk to you. I have given you up already." He went

on in a choking voice, as he stood up: "I came here to find out where

your sister is, you scoundrel! She left me after dinner. It is now past

seven o'clock and she is not in. She has been going out lately without

telling me, and she has been disrespectful--and I see your filthy,

abominable influence at work. Where is she?"

He had in his hands the familiar umbrella, and I was already taken

aback, and I stood stiff and erect, like a schoolboy, waiting for my

father to thrash me, but he saw the glance I cast at the umbrella and

this probably checked him.

"Live as you like!" he said. "My blessing is gone from you."

"Good God!" muttered my old nurse behind the door. "You are lost. Oh! my

heart feels some misfortune coming. I can feel it."

I went to work on the railway. During the whole of August there was wind

and rain. It was damp and cold; the corn had now been gathered in the

fields, and on the big farms where the reaping was done with machines,

the wheat lay not in stacks, but in heaps; and I remember how those

melancholy heaps grew darker and darker every day, and the grain

sprouted. It was hard work; the pouring rain spoiled everything that we

succeeded in finishing. We were not allowed either to live or to sleep

in the station buildings and had to take shelter in dirty, damp, mud

huts where the "railies" had lived during the summer, and at night I

could not sleep from the cold and the bugs crawling over my face and

hands. And when we were working near the bridges, then the "railies"

used to come out in a crowd to fight the painters--which they regarded

as sport. They used to thrash us, steal our trousers, and to infuriate

us and provoke us to a fight; they used to spoil our work, as when they

smeared the signal-boxes with green paint. To add to all our miseries

Radish began to pay us very irregularly. All the painting on the line

was given to one contractor, who subcontracted with another, and he

again with Radish, stipulating for twenty per cent commission. The job

itself was unprofitable; then came the rains; time was wasted; we did no

work and Radish had to pay his men every day. The starving painters

nearly came to blows with him, called him a swindler, a bloodsucker, a

Judas, and he, poor man, sighed and in despair raised his hands to the

heavens and was continually going to Mrs. Cheprakov to borrow money.