It didn’t matter indeed: a higher consideration had swallowed up all trivial things and a single powerful feeling fully satisfied me. I left in a kind of rapture. Out in the street I was ready to burst into song. It was a delightful morning, as though deliberately so: sun, people out walking, noise, carriages, joy, crowds. What, had that woman not insulted me? From whom else would I have tolerated such a glance and such an insolent smile without an instant protest – no matter how foolish – on my part? Note that she’d come with the purpose of insulting me as soon as she could, despite never having seen me before: in her eyes I was “Versilov’s messenger boy”, and she was convinced then and for a long time after that Versilov held her fate in his hands and had the means to destroy her in one go, if he so wished, thanks to one document: at least she suspected this. It was a duel to the death. And look – I wasn’t insulted! The insult had been there, but I hadn’t felt it! What for? I was even glad: having come there to hate her I even felt that I was beginning to love her. “I don’t know, can a spider hate the fly it has selected and caught? Dear little fly! I think a victim is loved; at least it’s possible. So I love my enemy: for instance, I’m terribly pleased that she’s beautiful. I’m terribly pleased, madam, that you are so haughty and majestic: had you been meeker, it wouldn’t be such a pleasure. You spat at me and I’m triumphant. If you’d indeed spat at me for real I might, it’s true, not have got angry, because you are my victim, mine, not his. What an enchanting thought! The secret realization of power is almost unbearably more pleasant than obvious domination. Were I a millionaire I think I would find pleasure in actually going about in my oldest clothes so that I’d be taken for a wretched man, almost a beggar, and be pushed around and despised. To be conscious of it would be enough for me.”
That’s how I’d interpret my thoughts back then and my joy and a lot of what I felt. I’ll only add that what I’ve just written has turned out to be rather frivolous: I was in actual fact more intense and modest. Perhaps I’m even now within myself more modest than when I speak or act: please God!
I may have done a bad thing in sitting down to write: there’s infinitely more inside me than what I have expressed in words. An idea, even if a bad one, is always more profound while it’s still with you, but when put into words – it’s largely ridiculous and dishonourable. Versilov told me that the opposite happens only with bad people. They simply lie; to them it comes easily. I’m trying to write the whole truth and it’s terribly hard!
On that 19th September I took yet another “step”.
For the first time since my arrival, I found myself with money in my pocket. I’d given my mother the sixty roubles I’d saved over two years, as I’ve mentioned earlier, but a few days before I’d chosen my pay day to perform a “test” I’d dreamt about for a long time. Even the day before I’d cut out an address from the newspaper – a notice “by the high bailiff of the St Petersburg Court of Arbitration” and so on and so forth, to the effect that “on this 19th September at twelve o’clock, in the Kazan sector of such and such district, etc. etc., in house no. such and such, there will be a sale of the personal estate of Mrs Lebrecht” and that “the inventory, valuation and items for sale can be viewed on the day of sale”, etc. etc.
It was just past one o’clock. I hurried to the address on foot. I hadn’t taken a cab for over two years – I’d taken a vow not to (otherwise I couldn’t have saved those sixty roubles). I’d never been to an auction and hadn’t yet allowed myself to go. Although the present “step” was only a trial run, I’d resolved to resort to this step after finishing grammar school, after breaking off from everyone, and hiding in my shell and becoming totally free. It’s true, I wasn’t at all in my “shell” yet, nor was I free by a long shot. But I resolved to take this step just as a test – just to see, almost to fantasize, and then perhaps no longer go for a long time until the moment I was to start in earnest. For most people this was just a silly little auction, but for me it was like the first piece of timber of the ship on which Columbus had sailed to discover America. That’s what I felt back then.
When I arrived, I walked over to the far end of the courtyard of the house indicated in the notice and entered Mrs Lebrecht’s apartment. It consisted of an entrance hall and four small, low-ceilinged rooms. In the first room stood a crowd of about thirty people, of whom half were traders and the others, judging by their appearance, were either onlookers or lovers of auctions or secretly sent by Mrs Lebrecht. There were also merchants and Jews coveting the golden items and some “well-dressed” men. Even the countenance of some of those gentlemen became engraved in my memory. In the room on the right at the open door, actually between the double doors, a table had been moved to stop anyone coming in: there were the items that had been listed for sale. On the left there was another room, but the door was closed, although it was opened very slightly every minute or so, when someone could be seen peeping through, probably a member of Mrs Lebrecht’s large family, naturally feeling most ashamed at the time. At the table between the doors facing the public sat the bailiff with a badge, carrying out the sale of the objects. I’d arrived about halfway through proceedings: as soon as I’d entered I squeezed my way through the crowd right up to the table. Up for sale were bronze candlesticks. I began to watch.
I watched and immediately began to wonder what I could buy. What would I do with bronze candlesticks and would my goal be achieved and was that how it was done and would my calculations prove to be correct? Or were my calculations childish? That was what was on my mind, and I waited. The sensation was that of standing at a gambling table the instant before putting down a card but having come because you wanted to: “Whether I want to put it down or move away is my decision.” Your heart isn’t actually pounding, but there’s a slight fluttering, sinking feeling – not an unpleasant sensation. But this indecisiveness soon begins to weigh you down and your sight becomes blurred: you reach out, automatically pick up a card, almost against your will, as if someone else is guiding your hand. At last you’ve taken your decision and put it down – by now the sensation is completely different, a tremendous one. I’m not writing about the auction, just about myself: who else would have a pounding heart at an auction?
There were those who got excited and those who remained silent and waited, and there were others who bought and then regretted it. I didn’t have any sympathy for a certain gentleman who hadn’t listened carefully, and had by mistake bought a milk jug made of German silver instead of sterling silver, paying five roubles instead of two for it. I actually found it very amusing. The bailiff varied the items: after the candlesticks came earrings, after earrings an embroidered leather pillow, then a small box – this was probably for the sake of variety or in accordance with the dealers’ wishes. I didn’t stay put for more than ten minutes, was about to move towards the pillow, then towards the small box, but every time stopped short at the critical moment; those objects seemed completely impractical to me. At last an album wound up in the bailiff’s hands.
“A family album in a red leather binding, worn, with watercolour and Indian-ink drawings in a carved ivory casing with silver clasps – price: two roubles!”
I approached: by the look of it the album was elegant, but the ivory carving was flawed in one place. I was the only one to approach, everyone was silent: there was no competition. I could have undone the clasps and removed the album from its casing to inspect it, but I didn’t exercise my right and just waved my trembling hand, as if to say: “It’s all the same to me.”
“Two roubles, five copecks,” I said, again with chattering teeth, I believe.
It was mine. I immediately took out the money, paid, grabbed the album and went into a corner, where I removed it from its casing and began to examine it hastily, feverishly: without the casing it was the trashiest thing in the world – a thin little album with leaves the size of small notepaper, its gilt edges scuffed, very like those kept in the old days by young girls just out of the institute. There were drawings in Indian ink and watercolours of churches on hilltops, cupids, a lake with floating swans; there were verses:
To distant lands I’m on my way;
Moscow I leave behind for long.
Farewell dear ones for ever and a day;
To the Crimea by coach I’m carried along.
(They’ve lived on intact in my memory!) I decided that “I’d failed”; if anything was useless it was this.
“Never mind,” I decided. “The first card is always a loser; it’s even a good omen.”
I was definitely enjoying myself.
“Oh, I’m too late; is it yours? Have you bought it?” I suddenly heard the voice near me of a distinguished and well-dressed gentleman, wearing a blue coat. He’d come in too late.
“I’m too late. Oh, what a shame. How much?”
“Two roubles, five copecks.”
“Oh, what a shame! You wouldn’t let me have it?”
“Let’s go outside,” I whispered, my heart missing a beat.
We went out onto the stairs.
“I’ll let you have it for ten roubles,” I said, feeling a shiver running up my spine.
“Ten roubles! Goodness, how can you?”
“As you wish.”
He stared at me: I was well dressed, not at all like a Jew or a second-hand dealer.
“For pity’s sake, it’s just a trashy old album, no use to anyone. The casing is basically not worth anything; you won’t be able to sell it on, will you?”
“Yet you want to buy it.”
“Yes, but mine is a special case; I only found out about it yesterday: you see, I’m the only one. For goodness’ sake, how can you?”
“I should be asking for twenty-five roubles; but as there’s a risk that you may turn your back on it, I’ve only asked for ten, as a precaution. I won’t give up a copeck.”
I turned round and moved away.
“Take four roubles.” He caught up with me outside. “All right, five.”
I held my tongue and walked on.
“Here you are, take it!” He took out ten roubles and I gave him the album.
“But admit that it’s dishonest! Two roubles versus ten! Well?”
“Why dishonest? It’s the market!”
“What’s the market got to do with it?” (He was angry.)
“Where there’s demand there’s a market; had you not asked I wouldn’t have been able to sell it for forty copecks.”
Though I didn’t burst into laughter and kept a straight face, I was laughing inwardly, not because I was delighted – I don’t really know myself why; I felt slightly out of breath.
“Listen,” I muttered, quite out of control, though amiably and feeling awfully fond of him. “Listen: when the late James Rothschild, from Paris, the one who left behind seventeen hundred million francs” (he nodded) “as a young man, found out by chance, a few hours ahead of anyone else, about the murder of the Duke of Berry, he immediately informed the right people about it, and with just that one trick made several million in a flash – that’s how it’s done!”*
“So you’re Rothschild now, are you?” he yelled at me indignantly, as though I were an idiot.
I quickly left the building. One step and I’d made seven roubles, ninety-five copecks! Agreed, it had been a meaningless step, child’s play, but it did nevertheless concur with my idea and I couldn’t help but feel deeply excited by it… But it’s no good describing feelings. The ten-rouble note was in my waistcoat pocket; I thrust in two fingers to feel it and then walked on without removing my hand from there. Having gone a hundred steps or so along the street, I took the note out to have a look, gazed at it and wanted to kiss it. There was the sudden rumble of a carriage by the front porch of a house. A footman opened the carriage doors and a lady came out of the house and climbed into it: she was splendid, young, beautiful, rich, dressed in silk and velvet and had a two-metre-long train. Suddenly a pretty little purse slipped out of her hands and fell to the ground. She sat down; the footman stooped to pick up the object, but I quickly ran forward, picked it up and handed it over to the lady, raising my hat. It was a top hat and I wasn’t badly dressed, as behoves a young man. The lady, discreetly but with the most pleasant smile, said: “Merci, m’sieu.” The carriage rumbled off. I kissed the ten-rouble note.
That same day I had to see Efim Zverev, a former schoolmate of mine, who’d dropped out of grammar school and gone to a specialized college of higher education in St Petersburg. He’s not worth describing and I wasn’t on friendly terms with him, on the whole. But I’d tracked him down in St Petersburg: he was, for various reasons equally not worth mentioning, in a position to give me the address of a certain Kraft, a man I desperately needed to see as soon as he returned from Vilno.* Zverev was actually expecting him that day or the next, of which he’d informed me two days before. It meant going to the Petersburg Side,* but I didn’t feel tired.
I found Zverev (he too was about nineteen) outside his aunt’s house, where he was staying for the time being. He’d only just had lunch and was walking round the courtyard on stilts; he informed me at once that Kraft had already arrived the day before and was staying in his old apartment, also on the Petersburg Side, and that he himself was eager to meet up with me as soon as possible, as he had something vital to tell me.
“He’s off somewhere else again,” Efim added.
As, in the present circumstances, it was of paramount importance for me to see Kraft, I promptly asked Efim to take me to his apartment, which happened to be two steps away, somewhere in a side alley. But Zverev declared that he’d met up with him an hour ago and that he’d set off for Dergachev’s.*
“Then let’s go to Dergachev’s; why do you keep making excuses, are you scared or something?”
Indeed, Kraft might stay on for a long time at Dergachev’s, so where should I wait for him? I wasn’t afraid of going there, but wasn’t keen to go, despite the fact that Efim had tried to drag me over there twice before. That’s why he always accompanied the words “are you scared?” with a nasty smile at my expense. It wasn’t a question of fear, I’ll tell you now, and if I was scared it was of something entirely different. But I resolved to go this time; it was also a couple of steps away. On the way there I asked Efim whether he still had the intention of running off to America.*
“Maybe, I’ll give it a bit longer,” he replied with a chuckle.
I didn’t like him much; in fact I didn’t like him at all. His hair was extremely fair and his face chubby and far too white, even indecently so, like a child’s, but he was taller than me, though he couldn’t be taken for more than seventeen. There was nothing to talk to him about.
“What’s it like there? Isn’t there always a crowd?” I asked, to check how things stood.
“Why are you always scared?” he laughed again.
“Go to the devil.” I was getting cross.
“No crowd at all. Only acquaintances, don’t worry, all our people.”
“What the devil does it have to do with me whether they’re our people or not! Am I one of them? Why should they trust me?”
“I’ve brought you along, that’s enough. They’ve already heard about you. Kraft can also vouch for you.”
“Listen, will Vasin be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he is, as soon as we enter give me a nudge to point Vasin out to me; as soon as we go in, do you hear?”
I’d already heard quite a lot about Vasin and had long been interested in him.
Dergachev lived in a small outhouse in the courtyard of a wooden house belonging to a merchant’s wife, but he did occupy the whole outhouse. There were three rooms in all. The blinds of all four windows had been lowered. He was a technician who worked in St Petersburg; I’d heard in passing that a profitable private position in the provinces had come up for him and that he was on his way there.
As soon as we entered the tiny front hall we heard voices, apparently in heated argument, and someone was shouting: “Quæ medicamenta non sanant – ferrum sanat; quæ ferrum non sanat – ignis sanat!”*
I was really rather uneasy. I was of course not used to society, in whatever form. At grammar school I’d been on familiar terms with schoolmates, but I wasn’t really friends with any of them and had made a corner for myself in which I lived. But that wasn’t what troubled me. Just in case, I promised myself not to enter into any arguments and only to say what was strictly necessary, so that no one could come to any conclusions about me; the main thing was not to argue.
In the room, which was far too small, there were about seven people, ten counting the ladies. Dergachev was twenty-five years old and married. His wife had a sister and another relative who also lived with him. The room was haphazardly but adequately furnished and it was clean. On the wall hung a very cheap portrait, a lithograph and, in the corner, an icon without metal plating but with its lamp burning. Dergachev came up to me, shook my hand and asked me to sit down.
“Do sit down; we’re among friends here.”
“Please do,” a rather sweet-looking, very modestly dressed young woman added, and after giving me a small bow she promptly left the room. It was his wife, and she too appeared to have been involved in the argument, but had now gone out to feed her baby. But another two ladies were left in the room – one was very short, about twenty years old, in a little black dress and also not bad-looking, and the other was around thirty, skinny and sharp-eyed. They sat listening keenly, yet without taking part in the conversation.
As for the men, they were all standing except for Kraft, Vasin and myself; Efim immediately pointed them out to me as this was also the first time I’d seen Kraft.* I stood up and went over to make their acquaintance. I’ll never forget Kraft’s face: it had no particular beauty, yet there was something almost too gentle and delicate about it, though everything about him displayed personal dignity. He was twenty-six years old, quite lean, taller than average, fair-haired, with an earnest but soft face; something about his person was very still. Yet if you’d asked me, I wouldn’t have exchanged my possibly very ordinary face for his, which I found so attractive. There was something in his face that I didn’t really want to have in mine, something rather too comfortable in the moral sense, something like a secret unconscious pride. Not that I could possibly have judged him back then, in the literal sense; it seems to me now, after the event, that that was how I judged him then.
“I’m very glad you came,” Kraft said to me. “I have a letter here that concerns you. We’ll stay here awhile and then go back to my place.”
Dergachev was of average height and broad-shouldered, and had vigorous dark hair and a full beard. His glance betrayed a sharp wit and an overall reserve, as well as a persistent wariness: although he remained mostly silent he was obviously in charge of the conversation. I was not very impressed by Vasin’s appearance, although I’d heard of him as being exceptionally clever. He was fair-haired, with big light-grey eyes and a very open face which at the same time had something almost too solid about it; he gave the sense of being unsociable, but his look was definitely intelligent, more so than Dergachev’s, deeper even – more intelligent than anyone in that room. But then, I may be exaggerating everything now. Of the others I only remember two individuals out of all those young people: one tall swarthy man with black side whiskers; he was very talkative, about twenty-seven, some teacher or other; and another young man of my age wearing a long Russian-style fitted coat: he had a lined face, was taciturn, and was one of the listeners. He later turned out to be of peasant origin.*
“No, that’s not the way to put it,” began the teacher with the black side whiskers, obviously reviving a recent argument and the most excited of the lot. “I won’t mention mathematical proofs, but it’s an idea that I’m prepared to believe in even without those proofs—”
“Hold on, Tikhomirov,” Dergachev interrupted loudly. “Those who’ve just come in can’t understand a thing. You see,” he suddenly addressed me alone (I confess that if his intention was to test me as a newcomer or force me to speak then he did it very cleverly; I immediately sensed this and braced myself). “You see, here’s Mr Kraft, already well-known to us all for his character and his sound convictions. From a very ordinary fact he’s come to a very extraordinary conclusion, which has amazed us all. He has inferred that the Russian people are a second-rate people—”
“Third-rate,” someone called out.
“…a second-rate people, who are purely destined to serve as material for a nobler race, and not to have their own independent role to play in the fate of mankind. In view of this possibly fair deduction, Mr Kraft has come to the conclusion that future activities by every Russian must be maimed by this idea, so to speak; everyone should just give up and—”
“Allow me, Dergachev, that’s not the way to put it,” Tikhomirov impatiently cut in again (Dergachev gave way at once). “In view of the fact that Kraft has made some serious research and has drawn his conclusions based on physiology which he recognizes as mathematical proof and has lost possibly two years on his idea (which a priori I’d easily accept) – considering this, that is, considering Kraft’s concerns and earnestness, this matter presents itself as a phenomenon. All this leads to a question that Kraft cannot understand, and that’s what we have to take on now, that is, Kraft’s incomprehension, because it is a phenomenon. We need to determine whether this phenomenon belongs in a clinic as a one-off occurrence or whether it’s a characteristic that can repeat itself in others: that’s what’s interesting in relation to the common cause. I believe Kraft as regards Russia and I’ll even add that I’m glad of it: if this idea were adopted by everybody it would untie everyone’s hands and free many from patriotic prejudice…”
“This is not out of patriotism,” said Kraft as though with some effort. He seemed to dislike this entire debate.
“We can put to one side whether it’s patriotism or not,” uttered Vasin, who’d been very quiet.
“But tell me, in what way could Kraft’s conclusion weaken the urge towards the common cause?” shouted the teacher (he was the only one shouting; the others all spoke quietly). “Let Russia be judged as second-rate, and anyway, you don’t have to strive for Russia alone. And besides, how can Kraft be a patriot when he’s stopped believing in Russia?”
“And he’s a German,” a voice was heard again.
“I’m Russian,” Kraft said.
“That question has no relevance to the subject,” Dergachev pointed out to the one who’d interrupted.
“Move away from the narrowness of your idea.” Tikhomirov wasn’t listening. “If Russia is purely material for nobler races, then why should she not serve as material? It’s quite a suitable role. Why not come to terms with this idea in order to broaden our task? Mankind is on the eve of its regeneration, which has already begun. Only the blind deny the task ahead. Abandon Russia if you’ve stopped believing in her and work for the future – the future of a people yet unknown, but which will be made up of all mankind, without distinctions of race. Without this Russia would die anyway: human races, even the most gifted ones, exist only fifteen hundred or two thousand years. Does it matter: two thousand or two hundred years? The Romans didn’t really and truly last more than fifteen hundred years in a vital form before turning into material as well. They’ve long gone, but they’ve left an idea behind, which has entered the destiny of mankind as an element of the future. How can you tell a person that nothing can be done? I can’t imagine a situation when there might be nothing to do! Do it for mankind and don’t worry about the rest. There’s so much to do that a lifetime isn’t long enough if you look round carefully.”
“One must live according to the laws of nature and truth,” Mrs Dergacheva said from behind the door. The door was slightly ajar and she could be seen standing there, listening eagerly, with her baby at her breast, which she’d covered.
Kraft listened with a faint smile, and at last, looking somewhat drained but with great sincerity, said:
“I don’t understand how, when under the influence of some overruling idea to which your mind and heart totally submit, you could live by something that lies outside that idea.”
“But if it’s logically and mathematically proven to you that your conclusion is wrong, that the whole idea is wrong, that you have no right whatsoever to exclude yourself from a common useful activity only because Russia is predestined to be second-rate. If you’re shown that instead of a narrow horizon there’s infinity, that instead of a narrow notion of patriotism—”
“Eh!” Kraft waved his hand gently. “I‘ve told you that this isn’t about patriotism.”
“There’s an obvious misunderstanding here,” Vasin suddenly broke in. “Here the mistake is that Kraft doesn’t just come to a logical conclusion but, as it were, it’s a conclusion that has turned into a feeling. Not everyone’s the same: for many a logical conclusion sometimes turns into a very strong feeling which takes hold of the whole being and which is very hard to dislodge or alter. To cure such a person you need to change the feeling itself, and that can only be done by substituting for it an equivalent feeling. That’s always hard and in many cases impossible.”
“A mistake!” yelled the argumentative one. “A logical conclusion of itself dissolves prejudices. A judicious conviction generates the same feeling. An idea is produced by a feeling and, in turn, once established in a person, formulates a new one!”
“People differ a lot: some readily change their feelings, others with difficulty,” Vasin replied, as if he had no wish to pursue the argument. But I was captivated by his idea.
“It’s exactly as you say!” I suddenly turned to him, breaking the ice and all at once beginning to speak. “You must indeed replace the feeling with another in order to change it. In Moscow, four years ago, a certain general… You see, gentlemen, I didn’t know him but… Maybe he couldn’t inspire respect just like that… And besides, the fact itself could appear unreasonable, but… However, you see, his child died, actually two little girls, one after the other from scarlet fever… So he was all of a sudden so crushed he did nothing but grieve, so that when he walked around you couldn’t look at him – and it ended with his dying almost six months later. That he died from it is a fact! What could have brought him back to life? The answer is: a feeling of equal strength! The two little girls should have been dug up from their graves and handed over to him or something of the kind. But he died. Meanwhile he could have been offered excellent considerations: that life can unexpectedly be cut short, that we’re all mortal; he could have been given calendar statistics* as to how many children die of scarlet fever… He was retired…”
I stopped to catch my breath and looked round.
“That’s not it at all,” someone said.
“Although what you’ve quoted is not quite like the case in question, it’s similar and clarifies the matter.” Vasin turned to me.
I must confess at this point why I was so captivated by Vasin’s argument regarding the “idea-feeling”, and at the same time I have to admit that I was hellishly ashamed. Yes, I’d been scared of going to Dergachev’s, though not for the reason Efim assumed. I was scared because I’d already dreaded them in Moscow. I knew that they (that is they or others like them, it makes no odds) were dialecticians and would be likely to demolish my “idea”. I’d been very sure that I wouldn’t give away or tell them about my idea; but they (again they or others like them) might say something that would lead to my being disappointed in my idea without even having hinted at it. In my “idea” there were as yet unresolved questions, but I didn’t want anyone but myself to solve them. I’d even stopped reading books in the last two years for fear of stumbling across some passage that might go against my “idea”, and which could shake me. And all of a sudden there was Vasin solving the problem and reassuring me in the best way possible. But what was I afraid of and what could they do to me, whatever their skill in dialectics? I was perhaps the only one who understood what Vasin had been saying about the “idea-feeling”! It’s no good refuting a great idea; you need to replace it with an equally strong one; or else, not wanting to part with my feeling at any cost, I’d repudiate the denial in my heart, even by force, whatever they said. And what could they give me in return? That’s why I could be braver; I had a duty to show more courage. Captivated by Vasin, I felt ashamed, and myself – no better than a child!
A further disgrace came of it. It wasn’t a vile intention to boast about my intelligence that made me break the ice and speak out, but the desire to “fling my arms around their necks”! This desire to fling my arms around their necks so as to be thought well of and embraced by them or something in that vein (in a word, a swinish act) I regard as the most loathsome of all my shameful ways and had suspected it in myself long ago, in fact in that corner where I’d kept myself for so many years – yet I do not regret it. I knew that I should remain aloof when among people. I was comforted, after each infamous event, by the thought that my “idea” was nevertheless with me and still a secret, and that I hadn’t given it away. I sometimes imagined with a sinking feeling that as soon as I told someone my “idea” there would suddenly be nothing left, that I’d be like everyone else and that I’d perhaps give up my idea; and that’s why I protected it and kept it secret and was nervous of chatter. And then at Dergachev’s, at just about the very first encounter, I’d been unable to hold back: of course I didn’t give anything away but I jabbered on inappropriately; it was a disgrace. An awful memory! No, I shouldn’t live among people; that’s what I think even now; I’ll be saying this forty years from now. My idea is to be in my corner.
No sooner had Vasin praised me than I felt an irrepressible urge to speak.
“I think that everyone has the right to his own feelings… if it’s from conviction… so that no one should blame him for them,” I turned to Vasin. Though I spoke glibly, it was as if it wasn’t me speaking, but a stranger’s tongue moving in my mouth.
“Rea-lly, sir?” The same voice that had interrupted Dergachev and shouted at Kraft that he was a German now promptly joined in with an ironic drawl.
Considering him a complete nonentity, I turned to the teacher, as though he’d been the one to call out.
“My conviction is that I have no right to judge anyone.” I was trembling, well aware that I was getting carried away.
“Why so secretive?”* the nonentity’s voice resounded again.
“To each his own idea.” I deliberately looked at the teacher, who held his tongue and watched me with a smile.
“Do you have one?” shouted the nonentity.
“It would take a long time to explain… But my idea is in part precisely that I should be left in peace. So long as I’ve got two roubles I want to live by myself, not depend on anyone (don’t worry, I know what you want to say) and do nothing – not even for that grand future of mankind for which Mr Kraft has been invited to work. Personal freedom, that is, my very own, sir, first and foremost, and I don’t want to know anything beyond that.”
My mistake was to become angry.
“So you advocate the tranquillity of a replete cow, do you?”
“If you want. Cows don’t offend. I don’t owe anyone anything, I pay society in the form of taxes to avoid being robbed, beaten or killed, and no one has the right to ask me for anything else. I myself may even have other ideas, and if I want to serve mankind I’ll do so, maybe ten times more than any preacher, but all I want is that no one should dare to demand anything of me or force me to do anything, as they have Mr Kraft: I want total freedom, even if it means not so much as lifting a finger. But to run and fling yourself at everyone out of love of mankind or to burn with tears of tender emotion is only a fashion. Why should I unequivocally love my neighbour or your future mankind, which I’ll never get to see, which won’t know about me and which in turn will turn into dust, leaving not a single trace or memory behind (time counts for nothing here), when the Earth will in turn become an icy rock and will fly off into the void with an infinite number of similar icy rocks? In short, you can’t imagine anything more pointless! So much for your teaching! Tell me, why should I be noble, especially if nothing lasts beyond a moment?”
“Well well!” someone shouted.
I’d blurted all this out nervously and savagely, throwing caution to the wind. I knew that I was digging myself into a hole, but I rushed on, afraid of any retorts. I was only too aware that my words were pouring out disjointedly as I jumped from one thought to the next, but I was in a hurry to convince them and triumph. It was so important to me! I’d been preparing for this for three years! But they, remarkably, suddenly all fell silent; no one said a thing, but they all listened. I went on addressing the teacher:
“That’s how it is, sir. One extremely clever man used to say, among other things, that there’s nothing harder than to reply to the question: ‘Why should one necessarily be honourable?’ You see, sir, there are three kinds of scoundrel in the world: naive scoundrels, in other words those who are convinced that their baseness is the highest form of nobility; the scoundrels who are ashamed, that is, ashamed of their own baseness, but who still fully intend to pursue it to the end; and finally those who are simply downright scoundrels. Allow me, sir: I had a friend, Lambert, who told me when he was only sixteen that when he became rich his greatest pleasure would be to feed his dogs bread and meat, while the children of the poor were dying of hunger; when they had nothing left to stoke their fire with, he’d buy an entire yard full of wood, pile it up in a field and set fire to it without giving the poor a single log. Those were his feelings! So tell me, what should my reply be to that downright scoundrel to the question: ‘Why should he absolutely be honourable?’ Especially now, in our time that you have so transformed. For it’s never been as bad as it is now. Nothing’s clear-cut in our society, gentlemen. You repudiate God, you repudiate great deeds, so what kind of voiceless, blind, obtuse lethargy could force me to act like that, when it would suit me better to act another way? You say: ‘A sensible attitude towards mankind would benefit me too.’ But what if I find all that good sense unreasonable, all this talk of barracks and phalansteries?* I don’t give a damn for them or for the future when I only have one life in this world! Allow me to know for myself what suits me, it’s more fun. What interest is it to me what will happen in a thousand years’ time to this mankind of yours if, under your rules, I will have no love, no life after death, no acknowledgment for any deeds I may undertake? No sir, if that’s so, then I’ll live for myself in the rudest possible way and let all the rest be damned.”
“An excellent wish!”
“Though I’m always ready to join in.”
“Even better!” (It was the same voice each time.)
The rest remained silent; they were all looking at me and examining me closely, but gradually from various corners of the room arose a sniggering sound, quietly at first, but they all sniggered straight in my face. Only Kraft and Vasin were not sniggering. The one with the black side whiskers was also grinning: he was looking straight at me and listening.
“Gentlemen” – I was trembling all over – “I wouldn’t tell you my idea for anything but I’ll ask you from your point of view – don’t think it’s from mine, because it may be that I love mankind a thousand times more than the whole bunch of you! Tell me, and you must absolutely answer me, you’re duty-bound to because you’re laughing: how will you tempt me to follow you? Tell me, how will you prove to me that it will be better with you? What will you do with my personal protest in your barracks? I’ve long, gentlemen, wanted to meet you! You’ll have barracks, communal apartments, the stricte nécessaire,* atheism and wives in common without children – that’s your goal: you see, I know it, gentlemen. And in return for this, for that small share of average benefit that your good sense provides me with, for a piece of bread and some warmth, you take away my individuality! Allow me, gentlemen: say they take my wife away: will you repress my individuality to stop me from smashing my enemy’s skull? You’ll say that I’ll become wiser; but what will my wife say about such a reasonable man if she has any self-respect at all? It’s unnatural, gentlemen; shame on you!”
“You’re a specialist on women, are you now?” the nonentity’s voice rang out with malicious pleasure.
For an instant I had the thought of hurling myself at him and punching him. He was short, ginger-haired and freckled… but to hell with his looks!
“Calm down; I’ve never yet been with any woman,” I cut him short, addressing him for the first time.
“A precious piece of information which might have been given with more consideration towards the ladies!”
But suddenly everyone began stirring in unison; they all started to look for their hats with the intention of leaving – not because of me of course, but because the time had come; but this silent treatment of me overwhelmed me with shame. I too jumped up.
“May I, however, please have your name, since you kept on looking at me?” The teacher suddenly came towards me with the most odious smile.
“Dolgoruky.”
“Prince Dolgoruky?”
“No, simply Dolgoruky, the son of the former serf Makar Dolgoruky and the illegitimate son of my former master Versilov. Don’t worry, gentlemen: I’m not at all expecting you to fling your arms around my neck for this or start wailing from tender emotion like a bunch of calves!”
A loud and most unceremonious roar of laughter rang out all at once, causing the baby who’d fallen asleep behind the door to wake up and squeal. I was quivering with rage. They all shook hands with Dergachev and left, completely ignoring me.
“Let’s go.” Kraft gave me a nudge.
I stepped over to Dergachev, squeezed his hand as hard as I could and shook it several times, also as hard as I could.
“I’m sorry that Kudryumov” (the ginger-haired one) “kept on insulting you,” Dergachev said to me.
I followed Kraft. I felt not the least bit ashamed.
Of course there’s an infinite difference between me as I am now and me as I was then.
Continuing “without feeling the least bit ashamed”, I managed to catch up with Vasin on the stairs, keeping my distance from Kraft, as if he were second-rate, and, with the most natural look, as though nothing had happened, I asked:
“I believe you’re acquainted with my father, by whom I mean Versilov?”
“I don’t really know him,” Vasin promptly replied (without any sign of that offensive and subtly polite tone sensitive people put on when addressing someone who’s only just made a fool of himself). “But I know him a little; I’ve met him and listened to him.”
“If you’ve listened to him then of course you know him, because you are who you are! What do you make of him? Excuse my abrupt question, but I need to know. Particularly what you thought; it’s your opinion I need.”
“You’re asking a lot. It seems to me that he’s a man capable of making huge demands upon himself and perhaps carrying them through – without being accountable to anyone.”
“That’s right, absolutely right; he’s a very proud man! But is he sincere? Listen, what do you think about his Catholicism? But I’ve forgotten that you may not know…”
Had I not been so over-excited I naturally wouldn’t have fired off so many questions, and to so little purpose, at a man whom I’d only heard of and never spoken to. I was amazed that Vasin didn’t seem to be aware of how crazy I was!
“I’d also heard something about that, but I don’t know how true it is,” he replied as calmly and measuredly as before.
“Not true at all! It’s false! Do you really think he can believe in God?”
“He’s a very proud man, as you just said yourself. And many very proud people love to believe in God, particularly if they feel a slight contempt for people. Many strong people seem to have a natural need to find someone or something to bow down to. It’s at times very hard for a strong person to endure his own strength.”
“Listen, that must be awfully true!” I exclaimed again. “Only I’d like to understand—”
“The reason is clear: they choose God to avoid bowing down before men – naturally they don’t know this themselves – bowing down before God is not as offensive. They produce some extremely fervent believers – or rather they fervently want to believe – but they take this desire to be faith itself. Of those there are many disillusioned ones in the end. I think that Mr Versilov has some extremely sincere traits. I was interested in him, on the whole.”
“Vasin!” I cried out. “You make me happy! I’m not surprised at your intelligence but am surprised that you, a person of such sincerity, and standing so far above me, that you can walk with me and talk to me so simply and civilly, as though nothing had happened!”
Vasin smiled.
“You praise me too much, and the only thing that happened over there is that you are too fond of abstract discussions. You must have been silent for a long time before then.”
“I’ve been silent for three years; I’ve been getting ready to talk for three years… I can’t appear to be a complete fool to you, of course, because you’re extremely clever yourself – although it’s impossible to behave more stupidly than I did – but I must appear to be a scoundrel!”
“A scoundrel?”
“Yes, absolutely! Tell me, don’t you secretly despise me for saying that I’m Versilov’s illegitimate son… and for boasting of being the son of a serf?”
“You worry too much. If you feel that you spoke out of turn, then all you have to do is not do so another time – you have another fifty years ahead of you.”
“Oh, I know that I have to remain very silent around people. The worst depravity is to fling yourself at someone; that’s what I just told them, and I’m doing it right now to you! But there’s a difference, isn’t there? If you’ve understood the difference, if you’re able to understand, then I bless this moment!”
Vasin smiled again.
“Come and see me if you like,” he said. “I have work to do now and am busy, but you’ll be very welcome.”
“I concluded earlier, going by the way you look, that you were excessively single-minded and uncommunicative.”
“That may be very true. I got to know your sister, Lizaveta Makarovna, last year, in Luga… Kraft has stopped and seems to be waiting; he has to turn there.”
I firmly shook Vasin’s hand and caught up with Kraft, who’d gone on ahead while I was talking to Vasin. We walked to his apartment without a word; I didn’t want to, nor could I, talk to him yet. One of Kraft’s strongest traits was his tactfulness.