magistrate laughed, danced a quadrille, flirted, and kept wondering
whether it was not all a dream? The kitchen of the Zemstvo hut, the heap
of hay in the corner, the rustle of the beetles, the revolting poverty-
stricken surroundings, the voices of the witnesses, the wind, the snow
storm, the danger of being lost; and then all at once this splendid,
brightly lighted room, the sounds of the piano, the lovely girls, the
curly-headed children, the gay, happy laughter--such a transformation
seemed to him like a fairy tale, and it seemed incredible that such
transitions were possible at the distance of some two miles in the
course of one hour. And dreary thoughts prevented him from enjoying
himself, and he kept thinking this was not life here, but bits of life
fragments, that everything here was accidental, that one could draw no
conclusions from it; and he even felt sorry for these girls, who were
living and would end their lives in the wilds, in a province far away
from the center of culture, where nothing is accidental, but everything
is in accordance with reason and law, and where, for instance, every
suicide is intelligible, so that one can explain why it has happened and
what is its significance in the general scheme of things. He imagined
that if the life surrounding him here in the wilds were not intelligible
to him, and if he did not see it, it meant that it did not exist at all.
At supper the conversation turned on Lesnitsky.
"He left a wife and child," said Startchenko. "I would forbid
neurasthenics and all people whose nervous system is out of order to
marry, I would deprive them of the right and possibility of multiplying
their kind. To bring into the world nervous, invalid children is a
crime."
"He was an unfortunate young man," said Von Taunitz, sighing gently and
shaking his head. "What a lot one must suffer and think about before one
brings oneself to take one's own life,... a young life! Such a
misfortune may happen in any family, and that is awful. It is hard to
bear such a thing, insufferable...."
And all the girls listened in silence with grave faces, looking at their
father. Lyzhin felt that he, too, must say something, but he couldn't
think of anything, and merely said:
"Yes, suicide is an undesirable phenomenon."
He slept in a warm room, in a soft bed covered with a quilt under which
there were fine clean sheets, but for some reason did not feel
comfortable: perhaps because the doctor and Von Taunitz were, for a long
time, talking in the adjoining room, and overhead he heard, through the
ceiling and in the stove, the wind roaring just as in the Zemstvo hut,
and as plaintively howling: "Oo-oo-oo-oo!"
Von Taunitz's wife had died two years before, and he was still unable to
resign himself to his loss and, whatever he was talking about, always
mentioned his wife; and there was no trace of a prosecutor left about
him now.
"Is it possible that I may some day come to such a condition?" thought
Lyzhin, as he fell asleep, still hearing through the wall his host's
subdued, as it were bereaved, voice.
The examining magistrate did not sleep soundly. He felt hot and
uncomfortable, and it seemed to him in his sleep that he was not at Von
Taunitz's, and not in a soft clean bed, but still in the hay at the
Zemstvo hut, hearing the subdued voices of the witnesses; he fancied
that Lesnitsky was close by, not fifteen paces away. In his dreams he
remembered how the insurance agent, black-haired and pale, wearing dusty
high boots, had come into the bookkeeper's office. "This is our
insurance agent...."
Then he dreamed that Lesnitsky and Loshadin the constable were walking
through the open country in the snow, side by side, supporting each
other; the snow was whirling about their heads, the wind was blowing on
their backs, but they walked on, singing: "We go on, and on, and on...."
The old man was like a magician in an opera, and both of them were
singing as though they were on the stage:
"We go on, and on, and on!... You are in the warmth, in the light and
snugness, but we are walking in the frost and the storm, through the
deep snow.... We know nothing of ease, we know nothing of joy.... We
bear all the burden of this life, yours and ours.... Oo-oo-oo! We go on,
and on, and on...."
Lyzhin woke and sat up in bed. What a confused, bad dream! And why did
he dream of the constable and the agent together? What nonsense! And now
while Lyzhin's heart was throbbing violently and he was sitting on his
bed, holding his head in his hands, it seemed to him that there really
was something in common between the lives of the insurance agent and the
constable. Don't they really go side by side holding each other up? Some
tie unseen, but significant and essential, existed between them, and
even between them and Von Taunitz and between all men--all men; in this
life, even in the remotest desert, nothing is accidental, everything is
full of one common idea, everything has one soul, one aim, and to
understand it it is not enough to think, it is not enough to reason, one
must have also, it seems, the gift of insight into life, a gift which is
evidently not bestowed on all. And the unhappy man who had broken down,
who had killed himself--the "neurasthenic," as the doctor called him--and
the old peasant who spent every day of his life going from one man to
another, were only accidental, were only fragments of life for one who
thought of his own life as accidental, but were parts of one
organism--marvelous and rational--for one who thought of his own life as
part of that universal whole and understood it. So thought Lyzhin, and
it was a thought that had long lain hidden in his soul, and only now it
was unfolded broadly and clearly to his consciousness.
He lay down and began to drop asleep; and again they were going along
together, singing: "We go on, and on, and on.... We take from life what
is hardest and bitterest in it, and we leave you what is easy and
joyful; and sitting at supper, you can coldly and sensibly discuss why
we suffer and perish, and why we are not as sound and as satisfied as
you."
What they were singing had occurred to his mind before, but the thought
was somewhere in the background behind his other thoughts, and flickered
timidly like a faraway light in foggy weather. And he felt that this
suicide and the peasant's sufferings lay upon his conscience, too; to
resign himself to the fact that these people, submissive to their fate,
should take up the burden of what was hardest and gloomiest in life--how
awful it was! To accept this, and to desire for himself a life full of
light and movement among happy and contented people, and to be
continually dreaming of such, means dreaming of fresh suicides of men
crushed by toil and anxiety, or of men weak and outcast whom people only
talk of sometimes at supper with annoyance or mockery, without going to
their help.... And again:
"We go on, and on, and on..." as though someone were beating with a
hammer on his temples.
He woke early in the morning with a headache, roused by a noise; in the
next room Von Taunitz was saying loudly to the doctor:
"It's impossible for you to go now. Look what's going on outside. Don't
argue, you had better ask the coachman; he won't take you in such
weather for a million."
"But it's only two miles," said the doctor in an imploring voice.
"Well, if it were only half a mile. If you can't, then you can't.
Directly you drive out of the gates it is perfect hell, you would be off
the road in a minute. Nothing will induce me to let you go, you can say
what you like."
"It's bound to be quieter towards evening," said the peasant who was
heating the stove.
And in the next room the doctor began talking of the rigorous climate
and its influence on the character of the Russian, of the long winters
which, by preventing movement from place to place, hinder the
intellectual development of the people; and Lyzhin listened with
vexation to these observations and looked out of window at the snow
drifts which were piled on the fence. He gazed at the white dust which
covered the whole visible expanse, at the trees which bowed their heads
despairingly to right and then to left, listened to the howling and the
banging, and thought gloomily:
"Well, what moral can be drawn from it? It's a blizzard and that is all
about it...."
At midday they had lunch, then wandered aimlessly about the house; they
went to the windows.
"And Lesnitsky is lying there," thought Lyzhin, watching the whirling
snow, which raced furiously round and round upon the drifts. "Lesnitsky
is lying there, the witnesses are waiting...."
They talked of the weather, saying that the snowstorm usually lasted two
days and nights, rarely longer. At six o'clock they had dinner, then
they played cards, sang, danced; at last they had supper. The day was
over, they went to bed.
In the night, towards morning, it all subsided. When they got up and
looked out of window, the bare willows with their weakly drooping
branches were standing perfectly motionless; it was dull and still, as
though nature now were ashamed of its orgy, of its mad nights, and the
license it had given to its passions. The horses, harnessed tandem, had
been waiting at the front door since five o'clock in the morning. When
it was fully daylight the doctor and the examining magistrate put on
their fur coats and felt boots, and, saying good-by to their host, went
out.
At the steps beside the coachman stood the familiar figure of the
constable, Ilya Loshadin, with an old leather bag across his shoulder
and no cap on his head, covered with snow all over, and his face was red
and wet with perspiration. The footman who had come out to help the
gentlemen and cover their legs looked at him sternly and said:
"What are you standing here for, you old devil? Get away!"
"Your honor, the people are anxious," said Loshadin, smiling naively all
over his face, and evidently pleased at seeing at last the people he had
waited for so long. "The people are very uneasy, the children are
crying.... They thought, your honor, that you had gone back to the town
again. Show us the heavenly mercy, our benefactors!..."
The doctor and the examining magistrate said nothing, got into the
sledge, and drove to Syrnya.
THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER
A FIRST-CLASS passenger who had just dined at the station and drunk a
little too much lay down on the velvet-covered seat, stretched himself
out luxuriously, and sank into a doze. After a nap of no more than five
minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-a-vis, gave a smirk, and
said:
"My father of blessed memory used to like to have his heels tickled by
peasant women after dinner. I am just like him, with this difference,
that after dinner I always like my tongue and my brains gently
stimulated. Sinful man as I am, I like empty talk on a full stomach.
Will you allow me to have a chat with you?"
"I shall be delighted," answered the vis-a-vis.
"After a good dinner the most trifling subject is sufficient to arouse
devilishly great thoughts in my brain. For instance, we saw just now
near the refreshment bar two young men, and you heard one congratulate
the other on being celebrated. 'I congratulate you,' he said; 'you are
already a celebrity and are beginning to win fame.' Evidently actors or
journalists of microscopic dimensions. But they are not the point. The
question that is occupying my mind at the moment, sir, is exactly what
is to be understood by the word fame or charity. What do you think?
Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a ragged garment; we all
understand it as Pushkin does--that is, more or less subjectively--but no
one has yet given a clear, logical definition of the word.... I would
give a good deal for such a definition!"
"Why do you feel such a need for it?"
"You see, if we knew what fame is, the means of attaining it might also
perhaps be known to us," said the first-class passenger, after a
moment's thought. "I must tell you, sir, that when I was younger I
strove after celebrity with every fiber of my being. To be popular was
my craze, so to speak. For the sake of it I studied, worked, sat up at
night, neglected my meals. And I fancy, as far as I can judge without
partiality, I had all the natural gifts for attaining it. To begin with,
I am an engineer by profession. In the course of my life I have built in
Russia some two dozen magnificent bridges, I have laid aqueducts for
three towns; I have worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium....
Secondly, I am the author of several special treatises in my own line.
And thirdly, my dear sir, I have from a boy had a weakness for
chemistry. Studying that science in my leisure hours, I discovered
methods of obtaining certain organic acids, so that you will find my
name in all the foreign manuals of chemistry. I have always been in the
service, I have risen to the grade of actual civil councilor, and I have
an unblemished record. I will not fatigue your attention by enumerating
my works and my merits, I will only say that I have done far more than
some celebrities. And yet here I am in my old age, I am getting ready
for my coffin, so to say, and I am as celebrated as that black dog
yonder running on the embankment."
"How can you tell? Perhaps you are celebrated."
"H'm! Well, we will test it at once. Tell me, have you ever heard the
name Krikunov?"
The vis-a-vis raised his eyes to the ceiling, thought a minute, and
laughed.
"No, I haven't heard it,..." he said.
"That is my surname. You, a man of education, getting on in years, have
never heard of me--a convincing proof! It is evident that in my efforts
to gain fame I have not done the right thing at all: I did not know the
right way to set to work, and, trying to catch fame by the tail, got on
the wrong side of her."
"What is the right way to set to work?"
"Well, the devil only knows! Talent, you say? Genius? Originality? Not a
bit of it, sir!... People have lived and made a career side by side with
me who were worthless, trivial, and even contemptible compared with me.
They did not do one-tenth of the work I did, did not put themselves out,
were not distinguished for their talents, and did not make an effort to
be celebrated, but just look at them! Their names are continually in the
newspapers and on men's lips! If you are not tired of listening I will
illustrate it by an example. Some years ago I built a bridge in the town
of K. I must tell you that the dullness of that scurvy little town was
terrible. If it had not been for women and cards I believe I should have
gone out of my mind. Well, it's an old story: I was so bored that I got
into an affair with a singer. Everyone was enthusiastic about her, the
devil only knows why; to my thinking she was--what shall I say?--an
ordinary, commonplace creature, like lots of others. The hussy was
empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what's more, she was a fool.
"She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in the
afternoon--and I fancy did nothing else. She was looked upon as a
cocotte, and that was indeed her profession; but when people wanted to
refer to her in a literary fashion, they called her an actress and a
singer. I used to be devoted to the theatre, and therefore this
fraudulent pretense of being an actress made me furiously indignant. My
young lady had not the slightest right to call herself an actress or a
singer. She was a creature entirely devoid of talent, devoid of
feeling--a pitiful creature one may say. As far as I can judge she sang
disgustingly. The whole charm of her 'art' lay in her kicking up her
legs on every suitable occasion, and not being embarrassed when people
walked into her dressing-room. She usually selected translated
vaudevilles, with singing in them, and opportunities for disporting
herself in male attire, in tights. In fact it was--ough! Well, I ask your
attention. As I remember now, a public ceremony took place to celebrate
the opening of the newly constructed bridge. There was a religious
service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on. I hung about my
cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid that my heart would
burst with the excitement of an author. It's an old story and there's no
need for false modesty, and so I will tell you that my bridge was a
magnificent work! It was not a bridge but a picture, a perfect delight!
And who would not have been excited when the whole town came to the
opening? 'Oh,' I thought, 'now the eyes of all the public will be on me!
Where shall I hide myself?' Well, I need not have worried myself,
sir--alas! Except the official personages, no one took the slightest
notice of me. They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, gazed like sheep
at the bridge, and did not concern themselves to know who had built it.
And it was from that time, by the way, that I began to hate our
estimable public--damnation take them! Well, to continue. All at once the
public became agitated; a whisper ran through the crowd,... a smile came
on their faces, their shoulders began to move. 'They must have seen me,'
I thought. A likely idea! I looked, and my singer, with a train of young
scamps, was making her way through the crowd. The eyes of the crowd were
hurriedly following this procession. A whisper began in a thousand
voices: 'That's so-and-so.... Charming! Bewitching!' Then it was they
noticed me.... A couple of young milksops, local amateurs of the scenic
art, I presume, looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: 'That's
her lover!' How do you like that? And an unprepossessing individual in a
top-hat, with a chin that badly needed shaving, hung round me, shifting
from one foot to the other, then turned to me with the words:
"'Do you know who that lady is, walking on the other bank? That's so-
and-so.... Her voice is beneath all criticism, but she has a most
perfect mastery of it!...'
"'Can you tell me,' I asked the unprepossessing individual, 'who built
this bridge?'
"'I really don't know,' answered the individual; some engineer, I
expect.'
"'And who built the cathedral in your town?' I asked again.
"'I really can't tell you.'
"Then I asked him who was considered the best teacher in K., who the
best architect, and to all my questions the unprepossessing individual
answered that he did not know.
"'And tell me, please,' I asked in conclusion, with whom is that singer
living?'
"'With some engineer called Krikunov.'
"Well, how do you like that, sir? But to proceed. There are no
minnesingers or bards nowadays, and celebrity is created almost
exclusively by the newspapers. The day after the dedication of the
bridge, I greedily snatched up the local Messenger, and looked for
myself in it. I spent a long time running my eyes over all the four
pages, and at last there it was--hurrah! I began reading: 'Yesterday in
beautiful weather, before a vast concourse of people, in the presence of
His Excellency the Governor of the province, so-and-so, and other
dignitaries, the ceremony of the dedication of the newly constructed
bridge took place,' and so on.... Towards the end: Our talented actress
so-and-so, the favorite of the K. public, was present at the dedication
looking very beautiful. I need not say that her arrival created a
sensation. The star was wearing...' and so on. They might have given me
one word! Half a word. Petty as it seems, I actually cried with
vexation!
"I consoled myself with the reflection that the provinces are stupid,
and one could expect nothing of them and for celebrity one must go to
the intellectual centers--to Petersburg and to Moscow. And as it
happened, at that very time there was a work of mine in Petersburg which
I had sent in for a competition. The date on which the result was to be
declared was at hand.
"I took leave of K. and went to Petersburg. It is a long journey from K.
to Petersburg, and that I might not be bored on the journey I took a
reserved compartment and--well--of course, I took my singer. We set off,
and all the way we were eating, drinking champagne, and--tra-la-la! But
behold, at last we reach the intellectual center. I arrived on the very
day the result was declared, and had the satisfaction, my dear sir, of
celebrating my own success: my work received the first prize. Hurrah!
Next day I went out along the Nevsky and spent seventy kopecks on
various newspapers. I hastened to my hotel room, lay down on the sofa,
and, controlling a quiver of excitement, made haste to read. I ran
through one newspaper--nothing. I ran through a second--nothing either; my
God! At last, in the fourth, I lighted upon the following paragraph:
'Yesterday the well-known provincial actress so-and-so arrived by
express in Petersburg. We note with pleasure that the climate of the
South has had a beneficial effect on our fair friend; her charming stage
appearance...' and I don't remember the rest! Much lower down than that
paragraph I found, printed in the smallest type: 'First prize in the
competition was adjudged to an engineer called so-and-so.' That was all!
And to make things better, they even misspelt my name: instead of
Krikunov it was Kirkutlov. So much for your intellectual center! But
that was not all.... By the time I left Petersburg, a month later, all
the newspapers were vying with one another in discussing our
incomparable, divine, highly talented actress, and my mistress was
referred to, not by her surname, but by her Christian name and her
father's....
"Some years later I was in Moscow. I was summoned there by a letter, in
the mayor's own handwriting, to undertake a work for which Moscow, in
its newspapers, had been clamoring for over a hundred years. In the
intervals of my work I delivered five public lectures, with a
philanthropic object, in one of the museums there. One would have
thought that was enough to make one known to the whole town for three
days at least, wouldn't one? But, alas! not a single Moscow gazette said
a word about me. There was something about houses on fire, about an
operetta, sleeping town councilors, drunken shop keepers--about
everything; but about my work, my plans, my lectures--mum. And a nice set
they are in Moscow! I got into a tram.... It was packed full; there were
ladies and military men and students of both sexes, creatures of all
sorts in couples.
"'I am told the town council has sent for an engineer to plan such and
such a work!' I said to my neighbor, so loudly that all the tram could
hear. 'Do you know the name of the engineer?'
"My neighbor shook his head. The rest of the public took a cursory
glance at me, and in all their eyes I read: 'I don't know.'
"'I am told that there is someone giving lectures in such and such a
museum?' I persisted, trying to get up a conversation. 'I hear it is
interesting.'
"No one even nodded. Evidently they had not all of them heard of the
lectures, and the ladies were not even aware of the existence of the
museum. All that would not have mattered, but imagine, my dear sir, the
people suddenly leaped to their feet and struggled to the windows. What
was it? What was the matter?
"'Look, look!' my neighbor nudged me. 'Do you see that dark man getting
into that cab? That's the famous runner, King!'
"And the whole tram began talking breathlessly of the runner who was
then absorbing the brains of Moscow.
"I could give you ever so many other examples, but I think that is
enough. Now let us assume that I am mistaken about myself, that I am a
wretchedly boastful and incompetent person; but apart from myself I
might point to many of my contemporaries, men remarkable for their
talent and industry, who have nevertheless died unrecognized. Are
Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanicians, and
agriculturists popular with the public? Do our cultivated masses know
anything of Russian artists, sculptors, and literary men? Some old
literary hack, hard-working and talented, will wear away the doorstep of
the publishers' offices for thirty-three years, cover reams of paper, be
had up for libel twenty times, and yet not step beyond his ant-heap. Can
you mention to me a single representative of our literature who would
have become celebrated if the rumor had not been spread over the earth
that he had been killed in a duel, gone out of his mind, been sent into
exile, or had cheated at cards?"
The first-class passenger was so excited that he dropped his cigar out
of his mouth and got up.
"Yes," he went on fiercely, "and side by side with these people I can
quote you hundreds of all sorts of singers, acrobats, buffoons, whose
names are known to every baby. Yes!"