I caught a chill, and have been at home with a bad attack of influenza all the week. I might have enjoyed a good rest in spite of my indisposition had I not devoured so many papers, nor thought so much about the horrors of the times. The things they write, the things that go on, are simply unbearable! One fellow made me furious! And he is considered, by some mistaken idea, as one of our leading writers. To my mind his pernicious article is nothing short of criminal, for all that the men in our office are so enthusiastic about it. The man assures us in the most flowering terms, distorting every fact, that the war will bring every possible kind of good to humanity all over the world—future humanity, that is. At present, he says, we must sacrifice ourselves for the good of posterity. The war is like a disease that destroys separate cells in the body, at the same time regenerating the whole organism. And the “cells” must be consoled by this idea! Who are these “cells,” I should like to ask? I suppose he means me, mother, our poor dead Pavel, the millions of killed and wounded, and the rest who will soon lie buried in the cold earth! An excellent idea!
It seems that we “cells” must not only refrain from protesting, rebelling, but we must not even feel pain; we must submerge ourselves with the most wild rejoicing, for the general good, exulting that we have been of some use! But what if we don’t want to exult! We are held responsible just the same. The war will take five, ten millions of us, if it deems necessary, and then will come the process of healing and happiness. According to the worthy writer’s words, the broken remnants of humanity will suddenly repent of their sins, understand certain wonderful truths, and begin to love each other—they will turn into angels, in fact. I should like to take the man who preaches this gospel and have him well flogged while there are still rods in the world with which to do it, and we haven’t grown wings! It would be awkward to flog an angel!
From now onwards I am no longer Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, but a “cell,” with no right even to think for myself for fear of upsetting the whole show! No, sir, I am not a “cell” but Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, as I always was—a man with all a man’s rights! You may ask me as much as you like to die exulting, but I refuse to die dancing! If it should so happen that you drive me to my grave or to the lunatic asylum, I will die in hatred, cursing those who murdered me. I am not a “cell,” and I refuse to become an angel after your pattern! I would much rather be Ilya Petrovitch, the sinner that I am, answerable to God alone for my sins!
I refuse to perish for the good of posterity! I haven’t the smallest desire to do so! Where is the sense in it all, if the man of yesterday suffered for me, and I must suffer for the man of tomorrow, and the man of tomorrow must suffer for the man of the day after tomorrow? We have had enough of such frauds and deceptions! I want to live and enjoy the good things of life, and not convert myself into manure for the nurture of some delicate person of the future with tender white hands! I detest that future person and the glories that are to be his!
A “cell” indeed! Pavel, I suppose, must find consolation in the thought in his unknown grave in some Prussian cabbage-field, and mother must dry up her tears and paint her cheeks. It was not her son who was killed, but a “cell” to whom nothing better could have happened! How wicked and presumptions a man must be to compare a human being—sacred as he is—to a “cell.” The blackguard! Instead of dancing on my grave if I should die, he ought to shed tears for me. He ought to shed tears for every man who dies, for once dead, no one returns! For all that he is a great writer and I an insignificant little man of whom the world has never heard, he should scatter flowers on my grave, mourn for me with all the tears he can command, and pity me with all the pity in his heart! This comes of speaking of men in numbers like so much grain! The very look of a figure takes all the sense out of one. Millions, indeed! Man is not so much seed to be measured! Anyone who can speak of a human being in other than the dignified term of man, and can look upon him as no more than a figure in a number, is a servant of Satan. He deceives himself and others. When a man begins to count other men, he loses all values and every sense of pity. Here is an example of my meaning in a few words taken out of my paper, reporting some engagement. “Our losses were insignificant; only two killed and five wounded.”
Who considers these losses insignificant, I wonder? Is it the killed? I should like to hear what they had to say on the subject, if they could rise from their graves! Would they consider the losses insignificant when they recalled their childhood, their kith and kin, the women they had loved, their emotions and terror as they marched along, and how all was cut short by the horror of death. … Insignificant losses, indeed! The blackguard ought to be made to realise whom it is that he serves with his clever arithmetic to keep him from his lying statements regarding the welfare of the human race about which he is so ignorant.
Condfound the beggar, how furious he’s made me!
The children are well. Lidotchka has lost two milk teeth, making her face look sweeter than ever. It’s nice to have a clever child. During my illness she read me fairy tales, spelling out each word.