VIII
The sapient reader—I explain myself only to the masculine reader; my lady reader has too much understanding to be bothered with guessing, and therefore I do not explain to her; I say this once and for all. There are also among my masculine readers not a few who are not stupid, and to this class of readers also, I do not need to make any explanation; but the majority of readers—and this number includes almost all literary men, and those who claim to be literary men—are sapient, and it is always agreeable for me to talk with such; and so the sapient reader says: “I understand how the affair is going to turn. A new romance is going to begin in Viéra Pavlovna’s life, and in this Kirsánof is going to play a part. I understand even more; Kirsánof fell in love with Viéra Pavlovna long ago, and that was the reason why he ceased to call on the Lopukhófs.” Oh, what penetration you have, my sapient readers! As soon as you are told anything, then you say, “I thought so,” and you plume yourself on your shrewdness. I bow before you, sapient reader!
And thus in Viéra Pavlovna’s life appears a new person, and it would be necessary to describe him, if he had not already been described. When I spoke about Lopukhóf, I had some difficulty in distinguishing between him and his intimate friend, and there was scarcely anything more that I could have said about him that I should not have to repeat about Kirsánof. And, in fact, everything that the (sapient) reader can learn from the following description of Kirsánof’s characteristics, will be a repetition of Lopukhóf’s characteristics. Lopukhóf was the son of a meshchanín, who was well to do for a man of his rank—that is, one who very often has meat in his shchi; Kirsánof was the son of a clerk in a provincial court—that is, a man who often has no meat in his shchi; or, in other words, not very often has meat in his shchi. Lopukhóf, in very early youth, almost from childhood, earned money for his own support; Kirsánof, after he reached the age of twelve, helped his father copy papers, and he gave lessons while he was still in the fourth class in the gymnasium. They both, by their own exertion, without connections, without acquaintances, made their own way. What sort of a man was Lopukhóf? In the gymnasium he did not succeed in learning French, and he did not go further in German than the declension of der, die, das, with few mistakes; but after he entered the medical school, Lopukhóf soon saw that he could not make great progress in science with the Russian language alone; he took a French dictionary and such French books as happened to be at hand, and those that fell into his hands were: Télémaque and the stories of Madame Genlis, and several livraisons of our clever journal Revue Etrangère. They were not very attractive books, but he took them; and though he was an eager reader, he said, “I shall not open a Russian book until I am able to read French fluently.” And thus he learned French fluently. But he acted differently in regard to German: he rented a room in a house where there were a good many German laborers; it was a wretched hole; the Germans were tiresome; it was a long walk to the medical school, but he lived there until he had accomplished what he needed.
Kirsánof did in a different way: he learned the German through different books, with a lexicon, just as Lopukhóf learned French, but French he acquired in a peculiar fashion—through one book without a lexicon. It was the Gospels—a very familiar book; and he took the New Testament, in the translation of Geneva; then he read it over eight times; the ninth time he understood it thoroughly; and so he mastered it. What kind of a man was Lopukhóf? This was what he was. One time he was walking in a shabby uniform on the Kammenoi-Ostrof Prospekt, on his way from his lesson, for which he got fifty kopeks (thirty cents) an hour, though he had to go a distance of three versts from the lyceum. A distinguished somebody, of imposing mien, met him, motions him out of the way in the manner of men of imposing mien, and bears straight down upon him without giving way. But Lopukhóf, at that time, had a rule, not to be the first to turn out for anybody except a woman. They bumped against each other with their shoulders, and the distinguished somebody, half turning about, said, “What a pig, what a hog you are!” but while he was preparing to continue the lesson, Lopukhóf made a full turn towards the distinguished somebody, took the distinguished somebody by the body, and deposited him in the gutter very tenderly; then he stood over him, and said, “Don’t you move, else I will drag you farther where the mud is deeper.” Two muzhiks passed, looked on, praised him; a tchinovnik passed, looked at him, and did not praise him, but smiled sweetly; some carriages passed by; no one looked out; it could not be seen who was lying in the gutter; Lopukhóf stood there for a time, then he took the distinguished somebody, not by the body this time, but by the hand, picked him up, led him upon the highway, and said, “Akh, my dear sir, how did you happen to get into this plight? You have not done yourself any harm, I hope? Allow me to brush your coat!”
A muzhik passed by, and began to help wipe the dirt off from the distinguished somebody. Two meshchaníns passed; they also stopped to help wipe him off; they wiped the dirt off from the distinguished somebody, and departed.
Kirsánof never had such an experience as that; but this was what happened to him: A certain lady, who had people to run errands for her, thought that it was necessary to have prepared a catalogue of the library left her by her husband, who was a follower of Voltaire, and had died twenty years before. Why such a catalogue was needed, after the lapse of twenty years, is more than I can tell. Kirsánof was selected to arrange the catalogue, at a salary of eighty rubles. He worked at it a month and a half. Suddenly the lady came to the conclusion that the catalogue was not necessary. She came into the library and said: “Don’t take any more trouble about this work; I have changed my mind. And here’s to pay you”; and she gave Kirsánof ten rubles. “Your ladyship” (he gave the lady the benefit of her full title), “I have already done more than half the work; out of seventeen shelves I have already catalogued ten.”
“Do you find that I have taken advantage of you as regards pay?—Nicolas, come here and talk this matter over with this gentleman.”
Nicholas came in.
“How do you dare to insult my maman?”
“You are a milk-sucker!”
An unjustifiable expression on Kirsánof’s part. Nicolas was five years older than he.
“You had better hear both sides first.”
“Help!” cried Nicolas.
“Help? I will show you how to call for help.”
In the twinkling of an eye the lady screamed and fell in a swoon; and Nicolas felt that he could not move his hands, which were fixed to his sides, as by an iron belt; and indeed they were pinned by Kirsánof’s right hand, while his left hand had Nicolas by the jaw, ready to clutch his throat, and Kirsánof was saying, “Just see how easily I can choke you.” And he squeezed his gullet; and Nicolas perceived that it was a very easy thing for Kirsánof to choke him; but Kirsánof’s hand has already left his throat. He can breathe freely; and yet Kirsánof’s hand is at his throat. And Kirsánof addressing the Goliaths who appeared at the door, says: “Stay where you are, else I shall choke him! Get out of here, else I shall choke him!” All this Nicolas understood in the twinkling of an eye; he made a sign with his nose, which signified that Kirsánof was right in the case.
“Now, brother, see me downstairs,” said Kirsánof, again turning to Nicolas, and continuing to embrace Nicolas as before. He went into the front room, went downstairs, followed from afar by the astonished gaze of the Goliaths, and on the last step he let go of Nicolas’ throat, pushed Nicolas himself away, and went into a store to buy a cap, in place of the one which had remained as a prey in the possession of Nicolas.
Now, what difference can you find between such people? All their most prominent features are features not of individuals, but of a type; a type differing so greatly from that to which you are accustomed, sapient reader, that its general peculiarities hide the individual differences in them. These people when seen amongst others, are like Europeans among Chinamen, whom the Chinamen cannot distinguish apart. In all of them they see one characteristic, that they are “redheaded barbarians, who do not understand any ceremonies.” In their eyes the French are just as redheaded as the English. And the Chinamen are right, as they look upon it; all Europeans are like anyone European, not individuals, but representatives of a type, and nothing more. All of them alike do not eat cockroaches and centipedes; they are alike in not cutting people into little bits; they all alike drink brandy and wine made from grapes, and not from rice. And actually, even the one thing which the Chinamen see, is their native custom, the drinking of tea, practised in a diametrically different way from their way—with sugar, and never without sugar.
Thus people of the type to which Lopukhóf and Kirsánof belong seem alike to people of a different type. Every one of them is a man, dauntless, firm, unwavering, capable of undertaking any matter; and if he undertakes it, he sticks so resolutely to it that it cannot slip out of his grasp. This is one side of their nature. Another side: each one of them is a man of irreproachable integrity, so much so that the question never even enters our mind, “Is it possible to rely on this person unconditionally?” It is as clear as the fact that he breathes with his lungs; as long as the lungs breathe, such a heart is warm and unchanged. You can lean your head upon such a bosom, you can rest upon it. These general features are so prominent that the personal peculiarities are covered over by them.
It is not long that this type has been in existence among us. In former times there were only isolated individuals, who gave promise of it; they were exceptions, and as exceptions they felt lonely and powerless, and for that very reason they were inactive, or they fell into despair, or they felt exalted, or became romantic or fanciful; that is, they could not possess the chief characteristic of this type; they could not show any cool practicability, an even, well-regulated activity, or active, sound good sense. Those were people who, though they had this very same nature, had not yet developed into this type; and this type is a recent growth; in my time it had not yet come into existence, though I am not very old; in fact, am not at all an old man. I myself could not have come to be such. I was brought up in a different epoch; and for the very reason because I myself am not of this type, I can, without the least hesitation, express my respect for it; unfortunately I do not give myself a word of praise when I say in regard to these people, They are good people.
This type sprang up not long ago, and it is growing rapidly. It was engendered by the times, it is a sign of the times, and, shall I say further, it will vanish with its time, and not a long time either. Its already short life is doomed to be short in the future. Six years ago these people were not to be seen; three years ago they were despised; and now!—but it does not make any difference what is thought about them now; in a very few years, a very few years, these people will be called upon, “Save us!” and whatever they will say, will be believed by everybody; a few years more, and maybe not years but months, and they will be cursed, and they will be driven off the stage, they will be hissed and insulted. All right, hiss and cast insults, drive them away and curse; you have gained your benefit from them; that is sufficient for them, and amid the noise of hissings, amid the thunder of curses, they will leave the scene, proud and modest, stern and kind, as they have ever been. And will nothing be left of them on the stage? No. How will the world get along without them? Wretchedly. But after them it will be still better than if they had not been. And years will pass, and people will say, “After they left, the world was better, but still it is bad enough.” And when this is said, it shows that the time for this type has come again, and it will come again and be represented in greater numbers, in better forms, because then there will be more of good in the world; and again the same history will be repeated in a new light. And so it will come to pass that men shall say, “Well, now we are enjoying life”; and then it will not be an exceptional type, because all people will be of this same type, and they will find it difficult to understand how there ever was a time when it was considered a peculiar type, and not the general nature of all people.