Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (552 page)

“That’s nothing to do with it,” said some one.

“The instance you have quoted, though it’s not quite in the same category, is very similar and illustrates the subject,” said Vassin, turning to me.

4

Here I must confess why I was so delighted with what Vassin had said about the “idea transmuted into feeling,” and at the same time I must confess to a fiendish disgrace.  Yes, I was afraid to go to Dergatchev’s, though not for the reason Efim imagined.  I dreaded going because I had been afraid of them even before I left Moscow.  I knew that they (or some of their sort, it’s all the same) were great in argument and would perhaps shatter “my idea.”  I was firmly resolved in myself that I wouldn’t give away my idea or say a word to them about it; but they (or again some of their sort) might easily say something to me which would destroy my faith in my “idea,” even though I might not utter a syllable about it.  There were questions connected with my “idea” which I had not settled, but I did not want anyone to settle them but myself.  For the last two years I had even given up reading for fear of meeting with some passage opposed to my “idea” which might shake me.  And all at once Vassin had solved the difficulty and reassured me on the most essential point.  Alter all, what was I afraid of and what could they do to me, whatever skill in argument they might have?  I perhaps was the only one who understood what Vassin meant by “an idea transformed into an emotion.”  It’s not enough to refute a fine idea, one must replace it by something fine of equal strength; or else, refusing absolutely to part with my feeling, in my heart I should refute the refutation, however strong the argument might be, whatever they might say.  And what could they give me in place of it?  And therefore I might be braver, I was bound to be more manly.  While I was delighted with Vassin, I felt ashamed, and felt myself an insignificant child.

Then there followed fresh ignominy.  It was not a contemptible desire to show off my intelligence that made me break the ice and speak, it was an impulse to “throw myself on his neck.”  The impulse to throw myself on people’s necks that they might think well of me and take me to their hearts or something of the sort (pure beastliness, in fact) I look upon as the most abject of my weaknesses, and I suspected it in myself long ago; in fact, when I was in the corner in which I entrenched myself for so many years, though I don’t regret doing so, I knew I ought to behave in company with more austerity.  What comforted me after every such ignominious scene was that my “idea” was as great a secret as ever, and that I hadn’t given it away.  With a sinking at my heart I sometimes imagined that when I did let out my idea to some one I should suddenly have nothing left, that I should become like every one else, and perhaps I should give up the idea; and so I was on my guard and preserved it, and trembled at the thought of chattering.  And now at Dergatchev’s, almost at the first contact with anyone, I broke down.  I hadn’t betrayed anything, of course, but I had chattered unpardonably; it was ignominious.  It is a horrid thing to remember!  No, I must not associate with people.  I think so even now.  Forty years hence I will speak.  My idea demands a corner.

5

As soon as Vassin expressed approval I felt irresistibly impelled to talk.

“I consider that every one has a right to have his own feelings . . . if they are from conviction . . . and that no one should reproach him with them,” I went on, addressing Vassin.  Though I spoke boldly, it was as though I was not speaking, not my own tongue moving in my mouth.

“Re-all-ly?” the same voice which had interrupted Dergatchev and shouted at Kraft that he was a German interposed with an ironical drawl.  Regarding the speaker as a complete nonentity, I addressed the teacher as though he had called out to me.

“It’s my conviction that I should not dare to judge anyone,” I said, quivering, and conscious that I was going to make a fool of myself.

“Why so mysterious?” cried the voice of the nonentity again.

“Every man has his own idea,” I went on, gazing persistently at the teacher, who for his part held his tongue and looked at me with a smile.

“Yours is?” cried the nonentity.

“Too long to describe. . . .  But part of my idea is that I should be left alone.  As long as I’ve two roubles I want to be independent of every one (don’t excite yourself, I know the objection that will be made) and to do nothing — not even to work for that grand future of humanity which Mr. Kraft is invited to work for.  Personal freedom, that is, my own, is the first thing, and I don’t care about anything else.”

My mistake was that I lost my temper.

“In other words you advocate the tranquillity of the well-fed cow?”

“So be it.  Cows don’t hurt anyone.  I owe no one anything.  I pay society in the form of taxes that I may not be robbed, killed or assaulted, and no one dare demand anything more.  I personally, perhaps, may have other ideas, and if I want to serve humanity I shall, and perhaps ten times as much as those who preach about it; only I want no one to dare to demand it of me, to force me to it like Mr. Kraft.  I must be perfectly free not to lift a finger if I like.  But to rush and ‘fall on everybody’s neck’ from love to humanity, and dissolve in tears of emotion — is only a fashion.  And why should I be bound to love my neighbour, or your future humanity which I shall never see, which will never know anything about me, and which will in its turn disappear and leave no trace (time counts for nothing in this) when the earth in its turn will be changed into an iceberg, and will fly off into the void with an infinite multitude of other similar icebergs; it’s the most senseless thing one could possibly imagine.  That’s your teaching.  Tell me why I am bound to be so noble, especially if it all lasts only for a moment?”

“P-pooh!” cried a voice.

I had fired off all this with nervous exasperation, throwing off all restraint.  I knew that I was making a fool of myself, but I hurried on, afraid of being interrupted.  I felt that my words were pouring out like water through a sieve, incoherently, nineteen to the dozen, but I hurried on to convince them and get the better of them.  It was a matter of such importance to me.  I had been preparing for it for three years.  But it was remarkable that they were all suddenly silent, they said absolutely nothing, every one was listening.  I went on addressing my remarks to the teacher.

“That’s just it.  A very clever man has said that nothing is more difficult than to answer the question ‘Why we must be honourable.’  You know there are three sorts of scoundrels in the world; naïve scoundrels, that is, convinced that their villany is the highest virtue; scoundrels who are ashamed, that is, ashamed of their own villany, though they fully intend to persevere with it; and lastly simple scoundrels, pure-bred scoundrels.  For example I had a schoolfellow called Lambert who told me at sixteen that when he came into his fortune it would be his greatest satisfaction to feed on meat and bread while the children of the poor were dying of hunger; and when they had no fuel for their fires he would buy up a whole woodstack, build it up in a field and set fire to it there, and not give any of it to the poor.  Those were his feelings!  Tell me, what am I to say to a pure-blooded scoundrel like that if he asks me why he should be honourable?  Especially now in these times which you have so transformed, for things have never been worse than they are now.  Nothing is clear in our society.  You deny God, you see, deny heroism.  What blind, deaf, dull-witted stagnation of mind can force me to act in one way, if it’s more to my advantage to do the opposite?  You say ‘a rational attitude to humanity is to your own advantage, too’; but what if I think all these rational considerations irrational, and dislike all these socialist barracks and phalanxes?  What the devil do I care for them or for the future when I shall only live once on earth!  Allow me to judge of my advantage for myself; it’s more amusing.  What does it matter to me what will happen in a thousand years to your humanity if, on your principles, I’m to get for it neither love, nor future life, nor recognition of my heroism?  No, if that’s how it is I’d rather live in the most ignorant way for myself and let them all go to perdition!”

“An excellent sentiment!”

“Though I’m always ready to go with them.”

“That’s one better!” — the same voice again.

The others still remained silent, they all scrutinized me, staring; but little by little in different parts of the room there rose a titter, subdued indeed, but they were all laughing at me to my face.  Vassin and Kraft were the only ones not laughing, the gentleman with the black whiskers was sniggering too; he sneered at me persistently and listened.

“I’m not going to tell you my idea,” I cried, quivering all over, “nothing would induce me, but I ask you on the other hand, from your point of view — don’t imagine I’m speaking for myself, for I dare say I love humanity a thousand times more than all of you put together!  Tell me, and you must, you are bound now to answer because you are laughing, tell me, what inducement do you hold out to me to follow you?  Tell me, how do you prove to me that you’ll make things better?  How will you deal with my individual protest in your barracks?  I have wanted to meet you, gentlemen, for ever so long.  You will have barracks, communistic homes, stricte necessaire, atheism, and communistic wives without children — that’s your ideal, I know all about it.  And for all this, for this little part of mediocre advantage which your rational system guarantees me, for a bit of bread and a warm corner you take away all my personal liberty!  For instance; if my wife’s carried off, are you going to take away my personal liberty so that I mayn’t bash my rival’s brains in?  You’ll tell me I shall be more sensible then myself, but what will the wife say to a husband so sensible, if she has the slightest self-respect?  Why it’s unnatural; you ought to be ashamed!”

“You’re a specialist on the woman question then?” the voice of the nonentity pronounced malignantly.

For one instant I had an impulse to fly at him and pommel him with my fists.  He was a short fellow with red hair and freckles though what the devil does his appearance matter?

“Don’t excite yourself.  I’ve never once had relations with a woman,” I rapped out, for the first time addressing him directly.

“A priceless avowal which might have been made more politely in the presence of ladies.”

But there was a general movement among them; they were all looking for their hats and taking leave — not on my account, of course, but simply because it was time to break up.  But I was crushed with shame at the way they all ignored me.  I jumped up, too.

“Allow me to ask your name.  You kept looking at me,” said the teacher, coming up to me with a very nasty smile.

“Dolgoruky.”

“Prince Dolgoruky?”

“No, simply Dolgoruky, legally the son of a former serf, Makar Dolgoruky, but the illegitimate son of my former master, Monsieur Versilov.  Don’t make a mistake, gentlemen, I don’t tell you this to make you all fall upon my neck and begin howling like calves from sentimentality.”

There was a loud and unceremonious roar of laughter, so much so that the baby, who was asleep in the next room, waked up and began squealing.  I trembled with fury.  Every one shook hands with Dergatchev and went out without taking the slightest notice of me.

“Come along,” said Kraft, touching me.

I went up to Dergatchev, pressed his hand and shook it vigorously several times.

“You must excuse Kudryumov’s being so rude to you” (Kudryumov was the red-haired man), said Dergatchev.

I followed Kraft out.  I was not in the least ashamed.

6

There is of course an immense difference between what I am now and what I was then.

Still “not in the least ashamed” I overtook Vassin on the stairs, leaving Kraft behind as of secondary importance, and with the most natural air as though nothing had happened I asked:

“I believe you know my father, I mean Versilov.”

“He’s not exactly an acquaintance of mine,” Vassin answered at once (and without a trace of that insulting refinement of politeness which delicate people adopt when they speak to people who have just disgraced themselves), “but I do know him a little; I have met him and I’ve heard him talk.”

“If you’ve heard him no doubt you do know him, for you are you!  What do you think of him?  Forgive the abrupt question but I need to know.  It’s what YOU would think, just your opinion that I need.”

“You are asking a great deal of me.  I believe that man is capable of setting himself tremendous tasks and possibly carrying them through — but without rendering an account of his doings to anyone.”

“That’s true, that’s very true — he’s a very proud man!  Is he a sincere man?  Tell me, what do you think about his being a Catholic?  But I forgot, perhaps you don’t know?”

If I had not been so excited I should not, of course, have fired off such questions so irrelevantly at a man of whom I had heard but whom I had never seen before.  I was surprised that Vassin did not seem to notice how rude I was.

“I heard something about it, but I don’t know how far it may be true,” he answered in the same calm and even tone as before.

“Not a bit!  It’s false!  Do you suppose he can believe in God?”

“He — is a very proud man, as you said just now, and many very proud people like to believe in God, especially those who despise other people.  Many strong natures seem to have a sort of natural craving to find some one or something to which they can do homage.  Strong natures often find it very difficult to bear the burden of their strength.”

“Do you know that must be awfully true,” I cried again.  “Only I should like to understand . . .”

“The reason is obvious.  They turn to God to avoid doing homage to men, of course without recognizing how it comes about in them; to do homage to God is not so humiliating.  They become the most fervent of believers — or to be more accurate the most fervently desirous of believing; but they take this desire for belief itself.  These are the people who most frequently become disillusioned in the end.  As for Monsieur Versilov, I imagine that he has some extremely sincere characteristics.  And altogether he interested me.”