Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (551 page)

I found Efim (who was also nineteen) in the yard of his aunt’s house, where he was staying for the time.  He had just had dinner and was walking about the yard on stilts.  He told me at once that Kraft had arrived the day before, and was staying at his old lodgings close by, and that he was anxious to see me as soon as possible, as he had something important to tell me.

“He’s going off somewhere again,” added Efim.

As in the present circumstances it was of great importance to see Kraft I asked Efim to take me round at once to his lodging, which it appeared was in a back street only a few steps away.  But Efim told me that he had met him an hour ago and that he was on his way to Dergatchev’s.

“But come along to Dergatchev’s.  Why do you always cry off?  Are you afraid?”

Kraft might as a fact stay on at Dergatchev’s, and in that case where could I wait for him?  I was not afraid of going to Dergatchev’s, but I did not want to go to his house, though Efim had tried to get me there three times already.  And on each occasion had asked “Are you afraid?” with a very nasty smile at my expense.  It was not a case of fear I must state at once; if I was afraid it was of something quite different.  This time I made up my mind to go.  Dergatchev’s, too, was only a few steps away.  On the way I asked Efim if he still meant to run away to America.

“Maybe I shall wait a bit,” he answered with a faint smile.

I was not particularly fond of him; in fact I did not like him at all.  He had fair hair, and a full face of an excessive fairness, an almost unseemly childish fairness, yet he was taller than I was, but he would never have been taken for more than seventeen.  I had nothing to talk to him about.

“What’s going on there?  Is there always a crowd?” I asked.

“But why are you always so frightened?” he laughed again.

“Go to hell!” I said, getting angry.

“There won’t be a crowd at all.  Only friends come, and they’re all his own set.  Don’t worry yourself.”

“But what the devil is it to me whether they’re his set or not!  I’m not one of his set.  How can they be sure of me?”

“I am bringing you and that’s enough.  They’ve heard of you already.  Kraft can answer for you, too.”

“I say, will Vassin be there?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he is, give me a poke and point him out as soon as we go in.  As soon as we go in.  Do you hear?”

I had heard a good deal about Vassin already, and had long been interested in him.

Dergatchev lived in a little lodge in the courtyard of a wooden house belonging to a merchant’s wife, but he occupied the whole of it.  There were only three living rooms.  All the four windows had the blinds drawn down.  He was a mechanical engineer, and did work in Petersburg.  I had heard casually that he had got a good private berth in the provinces, and that he was just going away to it.

As soon as we stepped into the tiny entry we heard voices.  There seemed to be a heated argument and some one shouted:

“Quae medicamenta non sanant, ferrum sanat, quae ferrum non sanat — ignis sanat!”

I certainly was in some uneasiness.  I was, of course, not accustomed to society of any kind.  At school I had been on familiar terms with my schoolfellows, but I was scarcely friends with anyone; I made a little corner for myself and lived in it.  But this was not what disturbed me.  In any case I vowed not to let myself be drawn into argument and to say nothing beyond what was necessary, so that no one could draw any conclusions about me; above all — to avoid argument.

In the room, which was really too small, there were seven men; counting the ladies, ten persons.  Dergatchev was five-and-twenty, and was married.  His wife had a sister and another female relation, who lived with them.  The room was furnished after a fashion, sufficiently though, and was even tidy.  There was a lithographed portrait on the wall, but a very cheap one; in the corner there was an ikon without a setting, but with a lamp burning before it.

Dergatchev came up to me, shook hands and asked me to sit down.

“Sit down; they’re all our own set here.”

“You’re very welcome,” a rather nice-looking, modestly dressed young woman added immediately, and making me a slight bow she at once went out of the room.  This was his wife, and she, too, seemed to have been taking part in the discussion, and went away to nurse the baby.  But there were two other ladies left in the room; one very short girl of about twenty, wearing a black dress, also rather nice-looking, and the other a thin, keen-eyed lady of thirty.  They sat listening eagerly, but not taking part in the conversation.  All the men were standing except Kraft, Vassin and me.  Efim pointed them out to me at once, for I had never seen Kraft before, either.  I got up and went up to make their acquaintance.  Kraft’s face I shall never forget.  There was no particular beauty about it, but a positive excess of mildness and delicacy, though personal dignity was conspicuous in everything about him.  He was twenty- six, rather thin, above medium height, fair-haired, with an earnest but soft face; there was a peculiar gentleness about his whole personality.  And yet if I were asked I would not have changed my own, possibly very commonplace, countenance for his, which struck me as so attractive.  There was something in his face I should not have cared to have in mine, too marked a calm (in a moral sense) and something like a secret, unconscious pride.  But I probably could not have actually formed this judgment at the time.  It seems so to me now, in the light of later events.

“I’m very glad you’ve come,” said Kraft.  “I have a letter which concerns you.  We’ll stay here a little and then go home.”

Dergatchev was a strong, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned man of medium height, with a big beard.  His eyes showed acuteness, habitual reserve, and a certain incessant watchfulness; though he was for the most part silent, he evidently controlled the conversation.  Vassin’s face did not impress me much, though I had heard of him as extraordinarily intelligent: he had fair hair, large light grey eyes, and a very open face.  But at the same time there was something, as it were, too hard in it; one had a presentiment that he would not be communicative, but he looked undeniably clever, cleverer than Dergatchev, of a more profound intellect — cleverer than anyone in the room.  But perhaps I am exaggerating.  Of the other young men I only recall two; one a tall, dark man of twenty-seven, with black whiskers, who talked a great deal, a teacher or something of the sort; the other was a fellow of my own age, with good lines in his face, wearing a Russian tunic without sleeves.  He was silent, and listened attentively.  He turned out afterwards to be a peasant.

“No, that’s not the way to put it,” the black-whiskered teacher began, obviously continuing the previous discussion.  He talked more than anyone in the room.

“I’m not talking of mathematical proofs, but that idea which I am prepared to believe without mathematical proof . . .”

“Wait a bit, Tihomirov,” Dergatchev interrupted loudly, “the newcomers don’t understand.  You see,” he suddenly addressed himself to me alone (and I confess if he intended to put me as a novice through an examination or to make me speak, it was adroitly done on his part; I felt it and prepared myself) “it’s all our friend Kraft, who is well known to us all for his character and the solidity of his convictions.  From a very ordinary fact he has deduced a very extraordinary conviction that has surprised us all.  He has deduced that the Russians are a second-rate people . . .”

“Third-rate,” shouted some one.

“A second-rate people destined to serve as the raw material for a nobler race, and not to play an independent part in the history of humanity.  In view of this theory of his, which is perhaps correct, Kraft has come to the conclusion that the activity of every Russian must in the future be paralysed by this idea, that all, so to speak, will fold their hands and . . .”

“Excuse me, Dergatchev, that’s not the way to put it,” Tihomirov interrupted impatiently again (Dergatchev at once gave way), “considering that Kraft has made a serious study of the subject, has made on a physiological basis deductions which he regards as mathematically proved, and has spent perhaps two years on his idea (which I should be prepared a priori to accept with equanimity), considering all this, that is considering Kraft’s excitement and earnestness, the case must be considered as a phenomenon.  All this leads up to a question which Kraft cannot understand, and that’s what we must attend to — I mean, Kraft’s not understanding it, for that’s the phenomenon.  We must decide whether this phenomenon belongs to the domain of pathology as a solitary instance, or whether it is an occurrence which may be normally repeated in others; that’s what is of interest for the common cause.  I believe Kraft about Russia, and I will even say that I am glad of it, perhaps; if this idea were assimilated by all it would free many from patriotic prejudice and untie their hands . . .”

“I am not influenced by patriotism,” said Kraft, speaking with a certain stiffness.  All this debate seemed distasteful to him.

“Whether patriotism or not we need not consider,” observed Vassin, who had been very silent.

“But how, tell me, please, could Kraft’s deduction weaken the impulse to the cause of humanity,” shouted the teacher.  (He was the only one shouting.  All the others spoke in a low voice.)  “Let Russia be condemned to second-rateness, but we can still work and not for Russia alone.  And, what’s more, how can Kraft be a patriot if he has ceased to believe in Russia?”

“Besides being a German,” a voice interrupted again.

“I am a Russian,” said Kraft.

“That’s a question that has no direct bearing on the subject,” observed Dergatchev to the speaker who had interrupted.

“Take a wider view of your idea,” cried Tihomirov, heeding nothing.  “If Russia is only the material for nobler races why shouldn’t she serve as such material?  It’s a sufficiently attractive part for her to play.  Why not accept the idea calmly, considering how it enlarges the task?  Humanity is on the eve of its regeneration, which is already beginning.  None but the blind deny the task before us.  Let Russia alone, if you’ve lost faith in her, and work for the future, for the future unknown people that will be formed of all humanity without distinction of race.  Russia would perish some time, anyway; even the most gifted peoples exist for fifteen hundred or at the most two thousand years.  Isn’t it all the same whether it’s two thousand or two hundred?  The Romans did not last fifteen hundred years as a vital force, they too have turned into material.  They ceased to exist long ago, but they’ve left an idea, and it has become an element in the future of mankind.  How can one tell a man there’s nothing to be done?  I can’t conceive of a position in which there ever could be nothing to do!  Work for humanity and don’t trouble about the rest.  There’s so much to do that life isn’t long enough if you look into it more closely.”

“One must live in harmony with the laws of nature and truth,” Mme. Dergatchev observed from the doorway.  The door was slightly ajar and one could see that she was standing there, listening eagerly, with the baby at her breast which was covered.

Kraft listened with a faint smile and brought out at last with a somewhat harassed face, but with earnest sincerity:

“I don’t understand how, if one is under the influence of some over-mastering idea which completely dominates one’s mind and one’s heart, one can live for something else which is outside that idea.”

“But if it is logically, mathematically proved to you that your deduction is erroneous — that your whole idea is erroneous, that you have not the slightest right to exclude yourself from working for the welfare of humanity simply because Russia is predestined to a second-rate part, if it is pointed out to you, that in place of your narrow horizon infinity lies open before you, that instead of your narrow idea of patriotism . . .”

“Ah!” Kraft waved his hand gently, “I’ve told you there is no question of patriotism.”

“There is evidently a misunderstanding,” Vassin interposed suddenly, “the mistake arises from the fact that Kraft’s conclusion is not a mere logical theory but, so to say, a theory that has been transmuted into a feeling.  All natures are not alike; in some men a logical deduction is sometimes transmuted into a very powerful emotion which takes possession of the whole being, and is sometimes very difficult to dislodge or alter.  To cure such a man the feeling itself must be changed, which is only possible by replacing it by another, equally powerful one.  That’s always difficult, and in many cases impossible.”

“That’s a mistake,” roared the argumentative teacher, “a logical proof of itself will dissipate prejudices.  A rational conviction will give rise to feeling, too.  Thought arises from feeling, and dominating a man in its turn formulates new feeling.”

“People are very different.  Some change their feelings readily, while for others it’s hard to do so,” responded Vassin, as though disinclined to continue the argument; but I was delighted by his idea.

“That’s perfectly true what you say,” I said, turning to him, all at once breaking the ice and suddenly beginning to speak; “that to change a feeling one must replace it by another.  Four years ago a general in Moscow . . . I didn’t know him, you see, but . . . Perhaps he couldn’t have inspired respect of himself . . . And the fact itself may seem irrational but . . . But he had lost a child, that’s to say two little girls who had died one after another of scarlatina.  And he was utterly crushed, and did nothing but grieve, so that one couldn’t bear to go and look at him, and he ended by dying scarcely six months later.  It’s a fact that he died of it!  What could have saved him?  The answer is — a feeling of equal strength.  One would have had to dig those two little girls out of the grave and give them back to him — that would have been the only thing, I mean in that way.  And he died.  Yet one might have presented him with excellent reflections: that life is transitory, that all are mortal; one might have produced statistics to show how many children do die of scarlatina . . . he was on the retired list. . . .”

I stopped, out of breath, and looked round.