THE LIBERAL
There once lived a nobleman who liked to back up his statements by quoting history. Whenever he wanted to tell a lie, he went to a likely man and gave him the order:
“Egorka,3 go and find me facts from history to prove that such-and-such a thing does not repeat itself, and vice versa.”
Egorka was a smart fellow, and readily found what was wanted. The nobleman armed himself with these facts as occasion required and contrived to prove everything that was necessary. In fact, he was invincible.
He was, moreover, a plotter against the Government. At one time everyone thought it necessary to conspire against the Government. They were not afraid even to say to one another:
“The English have habeas corpus, but we have ukases.”
And they made mock at these differences between nations.
Having done that, they would forget the Government oppression under which they suffered, and sit down and play whist till the cocks crew for the third time.
When the cocks announced the approach of mom the nobleman commanded:
“Egorka, sing something inspiring, and suitable to the hour.”
Egorka stood up and, lifting his finger, reminded them in a manner full of meaning:
“In Holy Russia the cocks crow,
It will soon be day in Holy Russia.”
“Quite true,” said the nobleman; “it will soon be day.”
And they retired to rest.
So far so good; but suddenly the people began to get agitated. The nobleman noticed this and asked:
“Egorka, why are the people restless?”
The latter looked pleased as he reported:
“The people want to live like human beings.”
“Well, who taught them that? I did. For fifty years I and my ancestors have fostered in them the idea that it was time for them to live like human beings; haven’t we?”
He began to get excited and pressed Egorka eagerly.
“Find me facts from history about the agrarian movement in Europe. Texts from the Gospels about equality, and from the history of civilisation about the origin of property. Be quick about it.”
Egorka was pleased. He perspired freely as he hurried hither and thither. He tore all the leaves out of the books, so that only the bindings were left. He carried big bundles of all kinds of convincing proofs to the nobleman, who still kept urging him on.
“Stick to it! When we have a constitution I will make you editor of a large Liberal paper.”
And becoming quite bold at last he began himself to speak to the more moderate of the peasants.
“Besides,” said he, “there were the brothers Gracchus in Rome; then in England, in Germany, in France.… And all this is historically necessary. Egorka, get me facts.”
Thereupon he proved, by facts, that every nation is bound to desire liberty, even against the wish of the authorities.
The peasants of course were pleased and cried:
“We thank you humbly.”
Everything went very well, harmoniously, in Christian love and mutual confidence, till suddenly the peasants began to ask:
“When are you going to clear out?”
“Clear out? Where?”
“Away.”
“Where from?”
“Off the land.”
And they laughed, saying:
“What a funny fellow. He understands everything, but he has ceased to understand what is simplest of all.” They laughed, but the nobleman became angry.
“But listen to me,” he said. “Why should I go if the land is mine?”
But the peasants did not heed him.
“How can it be yours when you have said yourself that it is the Lord’s, and that even before the time of Jesus Christ there were some just men who knew it?” He did not understand them, and they did not understand him. So he went again to Egorka.
“Egorka, look up the ancient histories and find me…”
But the latter replied in a perfectly independent spirit:
“All the histories were pulled to pieces to prove the contrary.”
“You are lying, you plotter.”
He rushed to the library and saw that it was true. Only the empty covers of the books remained. The surprise was so great that it threw him into a perspiration, and he began to appeal to his ancestors, saying sorrowfully:
“And who taught you to write history in such a one-sided manner? Look what you have done. Alas! what kind of history is it? To the devil with it!” But the peasants kept repeating the same thing:
“You have proved it all to us very clearly,” they said. “Get away as quickly as you can, or else we shall drive you away.”
Egorka had gone completely over to the peasants. When he met the nobleman he turned up his nose and laughed sneeringly:
“O you Liberal! Habeas corpus!”
Things went from bad to worse. The peasants sang songs and were in such high spirits that they carried off to their homes a stack of the nobleman’s hay.
Suddenly the nobleman remembered that he had another card to play. In the entresol sat his great-grandmother, awaiting an inevitable death. She was so old that she had forgotten all human words; she could only remember one thing:
“Don’t give…”
Since the year 18614 she had not been able to say anything else.
He hastened to her, his feelings greatly agitated. He fell at her feet affectionately and appealed to her:
“Mother of mothers, you are a living history.…”
But she only mumbled:
“Don’t give..
“But what is to be done?”
“Don’t give…”
“But they want to drown me—to plunder me.”
“Don’t give…”
“But should I give full play to my desire not to let the Governor know?”
“Don’t give…”
He obeyed the voice of this living history, and sent in the name of his greatgrandmother a telegram containing an irresistible appeal. Then he went out to the peasants and informed them:
“You have so frightened the old lady that she has sent for the soldiers. Be calm, nothing will happen, I shall not let the soldiers harm you.”
Fierce-looking warriors galloped up on horseback. It was winter-time, and the horses, which had sweated freely on the way, began to shiver as the hoar-frost settled on them. The nobleman pitied the horses and stabled them on his estate, saying to the peasants:
“You carted away some hay to which you had no right; please send it back for these horses. They are animals, guilty of nothing; don’t you understand?”
The soldiers were hungry; they caught and ate all the cocks in the village, and everything became peaceful in the nobleman’s district. Egorka, of course, went over to the nobleman’s side and, as before, the nobleman used his services in matters of history: he bought new copies of all the books and ordered all those facts to be erased which are apt to incline one towards Liberalism; and into those which could not be erased he ordered new sense to be put.
As for Egorka, he was equal to anything. To prove his versatility he turned his hand to pornography. Nevertheless a bright spot remained in his soul, and while he was busy blotting out historical facts his heart misgave him, and to appease his conscience he wrote verses and printed them under the nom de plume, “V. W.”—i.e. “Vanquished Warrior.”
“O chanticler, thou harbinger of morn,
How comes it that thy proud call has been stilled?
How comes it that thy place of t’other day
By yonder gloomy barn-owl now is filled?
The nobleman he needs no future now,
And all of us live each day like the last;
Poor chanticler has long since ceased to crow
And giv’n his drumsticks to a last repast.
When shall we waken unto life once more?
And who will call us when the dawn is nigh?
If chanticler, poor chanticler, is dead,
Pray who will wake and turn us out of bed?”
And the peasants of course calmed down; they now live in peace, and, as they have nothing else to do, spend their time making ribald verse:
“O honest Mother!
The Spring is nigh
When we shall groan
And, starving, die!”
The Russians are a happy people.