A Vital Question
I
A Fool
On the morning of the 23rd of July, 1856, the servants of one of the largest hotels of Petersburg, near the Moscow railroad station, were in perplexity, and even partly in fear. On the previous evening, about nine o’clock, a gentleman arrived with a valise, took a room, gave his passport to be registered, asked for tea and a small cutlet, gave orders that they should not disturb him during the evening, because he was tired and wanted to sleep, but that they should wake him without fail at eight o’clock in the morning, because he had important business. Then he locked the door; and, after rattling his knife and fork, and jingling the tea-things for a time, nothing more was heard of him. He was apparently asleep. Morning came; at eight o’clock a servant knocked at the stranger’s door; the stranger did not answer. The servant knocked louder, very loud; still the stranger did not reply. Apparently he was very tired. The servant waited a quarter of an hour, again tried to arouse him, again was unsuccessful. He consulted with the other servants, with the butler.
“Can anything have happened to him?”
“We must break in the door.”
“No, that won’t do! If we break in the door, we must have a policeman.”
It was decided to try once more, still louder; if it failed this time, to send for the police.
They made their last endeavor; they could not arouse him. They sent for the police, and now they are waiting to see what the result will be.
About ten o’clock a policeman came; he himself knocked at the door, ordered the servants to knock; result the same as before.
“There is nothing to be done; burst in the door, children.”
They broke open the door. The room was empty.
“Look under the bed!”
But there was no one under the bed. The policeman went to the table; on the table lay a sheet of paper, and written in large letters were these words:—
“I shall go away at eleven o’clock this evening, and I shall not return. You will hear of me on the Liteinaïa bridge between two and three o’clock tonight. Let no one be suspected.”
“Now I see, the matter is plain; nobody could make anything out of it,” said the policeman.
“What do you mean, Ivan Afanasyévitch?” asked the butler.
“Give me some tea. I will tell you.”
The policeman’s narration long served as a subject for lively discussions and arguments in the hotel. The story was of this sort:—
At half-past three last night—the night was cloudy, dark—on the centre of the Liteinaïa bridge a fire flashed, and the report of a pistol was heard. The guards rushed to the spot, a few people quickly collected; not a person or a thing was to be seen where the pistol shot was fired. It was evidently not a murder, but a suicide. Volunteers wanted to dive; in a few moments boat-hooks were brought, a fishing-net was brought; they dived, they grappled, they dragged the river; they brought up about fifty large chips, but they could neither catch nor discover the body. Yes; and how could it be found? The night was dark. In those two hours the body was already far down towards the sea. Go, find it there. Therefore advanced thinkers arose, discrediting the former supposition:—
“May be there was no corpse whatsoever. May be some drunken man, or simply some mischievous fellow, played a joke, fired off a pistol, and ran; or perhaps the very fellow is standing here among the excited crowd, yes, and laughing at the trouble which he has made.”
But the majority, as is usual when a case is argued reasonably, proved to be conservative, and defended the former supposition:—
“What kind of a joke is that? Of course he put a bullet into his brain, and that is the end of it!” The progressive party were outruled. But the victorious party, as usual, having won the victory, was itself immediately divided. “Let us suppose that he committed suicide. But what did he do it for?”
“He was drunk,” was the opinion of some of the conservatives; “a ruined spendthrift,” asserted others.
“Only a fool” (durak), said someone. And this expression, “Only a fool,” was accepted by all, even by those who discredited the fact of a suicide. Indeed, whether it was a drunkard or a spendthrift committed suicide, or whether some mischievous fellow did not commit suicide at all, but simply played a trick; at all events, it was an absurd trick of a fool.
And this put an end to the matter that night on the bridge. In the morning, at the hotel of the Moscow railroad, it was decided that the fool did not play a joke, but committed suicide.
But there still remained, after all this story, an element in regard to which even the vanquished party were in agreement. It was this. If it was not a trick, but a case of suicide, nevertheless, it was a fool! This conclusion, so satisfactory to all parties, was particularly strong from the very fact that the conservatives were victorious; if he had only played a trick by firing his pistol on the bridge, it would have been really doubtful whether he were a fool or a mischievous fellow. But he shot himself on the bridge. Who shot himself on the bridge? How on the bridge? Why on the bridge? Ridiculous to do it on the bridge! and, therefore, he was doubtless a fool.
Again a doubt arose among some of them. He shot himself on the bridge, but people don’t go to a bridge to shoot themselves; consequently, he did not commit suicide. Towards evening, however, the servants of the hotel were summoned to the station to identify a cap, pierced with a bullet hole, which had been taken out of the water; all recognized that it was the very same cap that the stranger had worn. Thus indubitably he must have shot himself, and the spirit of denial and progress was entirely defeated.
All were agreed that it was a fool (durak), and suddenly all began to chatter, “On the bridge, a clever dodge! It was done evidently so as to save suffering; for if the shot did not kill—he reasoned wisely—no matter how slight the wound was, he would jump into the water, and so drown before he knew what had happened. Yes, on the bridge! wisely done!”
At this stage it was utterly impossible to come to any decision; both a fool and wise!
II
The First Consequences of the Fool’s Deed
On that very same morning, about twelve o’clock, a young woman was sitting in one of the three rooms of a small dacha on the Kamennoï Ostrof (Stone Island); she was sewing, and singing in an undertone a little French song full of spirit and courage. “We are poor,” said the song, “but we are working people; we have strong hands. We are obscure, but we are not dull, and we want light. Let us learn; knowledge will give us freedom. Let us be industrious; industry will give us wealth. This will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
Ça ira,
Qui vivra verra.
We are rough, but from our roughness ’tis only we ourselves who are the losers. We are full of prejudices, but we ourselves suffer from them; this we feel. Let us look for happiness, let us find humanity, we shall be good; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
“Industry without knowledge is fruitless; our own happiness is impossible without the happiness of others. As soon as we become enlightened we shall become rich; we shall be happy; we shall form one brotherhood and sisterhood; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
“Let us learn and be industrious; let us sing and love; we shall have a heaven on earth! Let us be happy while we live; this will go on; it will soon come to pass; we shall all see it.
Donc, vivons,
Ça bien vite ira,
Ça viendra,
Nous tous le verrons!”
Courageous, spirited, was the song, and its melody was joyous. There were two or three melancholy notes in it, but they were concealed by the generally light character of the motive; they vanished in the refrain, they vanished in the conclusion of the couplet—at least they ought to have vanished and to have been concealed, and they would have vanished had the lady been in a different frame of mind; but now these few melancholy notes are made more prominent than the others. She almost trembles as she perceives it; she lowers her voice as she sings them, and tries to sing the joyful notes louder; but again her mind is drawn away from her song by her own thoughts, and then again the melancholy notes become prominent. Evidently the young woman does not like to give in to melancholy, and it is no less evident that the melancholy is loath to leave her, no matter how hard she tries to drive it away. But whether melancholy or joyful, whether or no it becomes joyful in the spirit of the song, the young woman sews very industriously. She is a good seamstress.
A young servant girl comes into the room.
“Do you see, Masha, how I am sewing? I have almost finished the cuffs which I am getting ready to wear at your wedding.”
“Akh! there is much less work in them than in those which you made for me.”
“That’s of no matter! a bride ought to be dressed better than anybody else at her own wedding.”
“And I have brought you a letter, Viéra Pavlovna.”
Viéra Pavlovna’s face expressed perplexity, as she began to break open the letter; the envelope bore the city postmark.
“How is this? Isn’t he in Moscow?” She hastily unfolded the letter and grew pale; her hand holding the letter fell to her side.
“No, it is not so; I have scarcely had a chance to read the letter; there is nothing in it at all.”
And again she lifted her hand with the letter. All this took place in two seconds. But at the second reading her eyes looked long and immovably at the few lines of the letter, and the brightness of their expression grew dimmer and dimmer; the sheet fell from her nerveless hands to the worktable; she hid her face in her hands; she began to weep.
“What have I done? What have I done?” And again sobs.
“Viérotchka [Little Viéra]! What is the matter with you? Are you so fond of weeping? How often does this happen? What is the matter with you?”—a young man came into the room with quick but gentle, careful steps.
“Read it; it is on the table.” She was now no longer weeping, but was sitting motionless, scarcely breathing.
The young man took the letter. He also grew pale, and his hands trembled, and long he looked at the letter, short though it was, not more than a score of words all told:—
“I have disturbed your peace of mind. I leave these scenes. Don’t grieve; I love you both so much that I am very happy at my decision. Proshchaïte” (Farewell).
The young man stood long, rubbing his forehead; then he began to twirl his mustache; then he looked at the sleeve of his coat; finally he collected his thoughts. He made a step forward towards the young woman, who was still sitting motionless, hardly breathing, as if in a lethargy. He took her hand.
“Viérotchka!”
But as his hand touched hers, she jumped up with a cry of terror, as though she had been roused by an electric shock, impetuously drew off from the young man, convulsively pushed him from her.
“Go away! Don’t touch me! You are stained with blood! His blood is on you! I cannot bear to see you! I shall go away from you! I am going away! Leave me!” And she kept pushing, pushing the empty air, motioning him away, and suddenly she tottered, fell into the armchair, and covered her face with her hands.
“On me too is his blood! On me! Thou art not to blame! I alone! I alone! What have I done!” Her sobs choked her.
“Viérotchka,” said he, gently and timidly, “my friend!”
She drew a painful sigh, and with a restrained and still trembling voice said, though it was hard to say:—
“My love, leave me alone for now. Come again in an hour. Then I shall be calm. Give me a drink of water, and go!”
He obeyed her silently. He went to his room, sat down at his writing-table, where he had been sitting so calm, so content, but a quarter of an hour before. He took his pen again. “At such moments one should have perfect control over himself. I have a will, and all will be well, will be well.” And his pen, without his control, all the time went on writing some article or other. “Can it be borne? It is horrible! Happiness is over!”
“My love, I am ready. Let us talk,” was heard from the adjoining room. The young woman’s voice was low but firm.
“My love, we must part. I have decided. It is hard, but it would be still harder for us to see each other. I am his murderer. I killed him for thy sake!”
“Viérotchka! why art thou to blame?”
“Don’t say a word, do not justify me, else I shall despise thee! I—I am to blame for all. Forgive me, my love, for coming to a decision which will be very hard for thee, and for me, my love, also! But I cannot do otherwise; thou thyself wilt shortly see that it was best to do so. This is unalterable, my friend! Only listen: I shall leave Petersburg; it will be easier at a distance from the places which would remind me of the past. I shall sell my things. On the money I get I shall be able to live some time. Where? In Tver, in Nizhni [Novgorod], I don’t know; it is all the same. I shall try to give singing lessons. In all probability I shall find pupils, because I shall settle in some large city. If I don’t find them, I shall go out as governess. I think that I shall not come to want; but if I should, I will let you know. At any rate, be sure to have some money ready for me. You know very well that I have a good many necessities, heavy expenses, stingy though I am; I cannot help it. Dost thou hear? I do not refuse thy help. Let this be a proof to thee that thou art still dear to me. And now let us part forever. Go back to town, right away, right away! It will be easier for me when I am alone. Tomorrow I shall not be here; then come back. I shall leave for Moscow. There I will see, I will find out in which of the provincial cities I can easiest find singing pupils. I forbid you coming to the station to see me off. Proshchaï, my friend! Give me thy hand in token of farewell; I shall press it for the last time.”
He wanted to kiss her; she stopped his motion.
“No, it must not be; it is impossible. This would be an insult to him. Give me thy hand. I press it, thou seest how warmly! But forgive me.”
He did not let go her hand.
“That is enough! Go!” She withdrew her hand. He did not dare to resist. “Forgive me!” She looked at him so tenderly, and with firm steps she went to her room, and not once did she look at him as she went.
It was long before he could find his hat. Though half a dozen times he took it into his hand, he did not see that he had it. He was like a drunken man. At last he realized that what he was looking for was the hat in his hand. He went to the entry, put on his overcoat, and now he is near the gate. “Who is running after me? Surely Masha. Surely something bad has happened to her.” He turned around. Viéra Pavlovna threw herself on his neck, embraced him, kissed him passionately.
“No, I could not endure it, my love! Farewell forever!”
She hurried back, threw herself on the bed, and let the tears flow which she had so long restrained.
III
Preface
“The motive of this story is love; the principal character is a woman. So far, so good, although the story itself may be poor enough,” says my lady reader. “This is true,” say I.
The man who reads is not limited to such weak conclusions. Apparently a man’s thinking faculties are naturally stronger and better developed than a woman’s. He says (very likely, however, woman also thinks the same thing, but does not deem it necessary to say it, and therefore I have no cause to argue with her), the man who reads says, “I know that the gentleman who fired the pistol did not commit suicide.” I catch that word “know,” and say, “You do not know it, because you have not yet been told, and all you know is that which is told you. You don’t know anything. You do not even know that, by the way in which I began this story, I insulted, I humiliated you. You did not know that, did you? Well, then, let me tell you!”
Yes, the first pages of this story show that I have a very low opinion of the public. I have used the ordinary shrewdness of novelists: I began my story with effective scenes, clipt out from the middle or the end of it; I covered them with a fog. Thou, O public, art clever, very clever, and therefore thou hast neither discernment nor wit. Thou canst not depend upon thyself to tell by the first pages whether the story is worth reading through. Thy sense of smell is wretched; it needs aid, and there are two ways of giving aid—either the name of the author or effectiveness of style. I am going to relate to thee my first story. Thou hast not acquired a critical faculty, so as to judge whether or no the author is endowed with an artistic talent (yet thou hast so many writers, to whom thou hast attributed an artistic talent!), but my name, has not yet attracted thee, and I am compelled to throw a hook to thee, baited with an attraction of effectiveness. Condemn me not for it. Thou thyself art to blame; thy simple-minded innocence compels me to lower myself to such trivial business. But now thou art caught in my hands, and I can prolong my story, according to my own judgment, without any tricks. Henceforth there shall be no mysteries; thou shalt always be able to look forward twenty pages at a time and see the result of every situation, and now, at the very beginning, I will tell thee the conclusion of my story: the thing will end joyfully, with wine-cups, with song; there will be no theatrical effects nor embellishments. The author does not like embellishments, gentle public, because he always thinks what a chaos there is in thy head; how many, many needless sufferings are caused, inflicted upon every man by the wild confusion of thy ideas. It is to me both pitiful and ridiculous to look at thee; thou art so helpless and so piqued at the superabundant amount of absurdities in thy head.
I am vext with thee because thou art so spiteful to people, and yet thou thyself art the people. Why art thou so spiteful to thyself? That is the reason that I am scolding thee. But thou art spiteful on account of thy mental helplessness; and therefore, while I am scolding thee, I am compelled to help thee. What shall be the first step toward helping thee? By touching upon the very thing that now thou art thinking about. “What sort of an author is this who speaks so impudently to me?” I will tell thee what kind of an author I am.
I do not possess the slightest sign of an artistic talent. My skill in using good language is small, but that is not of the least consequence. Read! my dear public; not without profit shalt thou read. Truth is a good thing; truth compensates for the faults of that author who serves her. And therefore I will tell thee, that if I had not warned thee, thou wouldst probably have the idea my story was written artistically, that the author possessed a great poetic talent. But I have warned thee that I have no talent, and thou shalt now know that all the good qualities of this story lie in its truthfulness.
In the first place, my kind public, as I am hitting thee under the ribs, I must speak out to the end; although thou art fond of guessing, thou hast no skill to unriddle what has been begun and now ended. When I say that I have not a sign of an artistic talent, and that my story has very little style, don’t make up thy mind that I am very much worse than all thy novelists, whom thou callest great, and that my novel is worse than theirs. I do not say that. I say that my story has less style than the works of other people who are endowed with talent. But, as far as merit goes, thou canst boldly place my story in the same rank as the famous writings of thy favorite authors; thou wilt not be mistaken if thou place it still higher. There is more art in it than in theirs; thou mayest rest assured of it.
Thank me now; thou art obsequious to those who despise thee: bow also to me.
But there is in thee, O public, a certain class of people—and at the present time a considerable number—whom I esteem. To thee as a whole; to the majority I am impertinent, and it is only about the majority that I have been speaking. As regards those whom I have just mentioned I should have spoken humbly to them, even with some fear, but I had no need of making explanations to them. I prize their opinions, but I know beforehand that they are on my side. The good and the strong, the honest, the wise, ye have begun to arise among us; ye are not few in number, and ye are growing more and more. If ye were the public, I should not have to write any more; if ye did not exist, it would be impossible for me to write. But ye are not yet the public, but ye are a part of the public; therefore, I must and I can write.