Текст книги "The Eternal Husband and Other Stories"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

These appear clearly in the form of the two works. The Meek Onehas none of the discursive and polemical character of Notes. It is the most intimate of Dostoevsky’s stories; reading it seems almost like a profanation. The man from underground is a writer, though a careless and defiant one; the narrator here is a desperately speaking voice. But despite his rambling efforts to “collect his thoughts to a point,” the story is highly unified, concentrated into the few hours following the catastrophe, during which he tries to understand what has happened. As in The Eternal Husband, Dostoevsky shows himself a master at revealing events through the incomprehension of the person who experiences them. But here the double story of the marriage and the “attempt to understand” unfolds simultaneously. There is a difference, too, in the consciousness of the hero, who is in the process of exchanging defiance for grief. All this gives his voice a piercing urgency.

Like Bobok, the brief Dream of a Ridiculous Manis a compendium of themes central to Dostoevsky’s work. One of these is the theme of “ridiculousness.” The fear of being or looking ridiculous marks most of Dostoevsky’s underground heroes, including the suave Velchaninov and even the proud Nikolai Stavrogin. Ridiculousness is the shameful other face of pride. The narrator of The Meek Onerefuses to challenge a fellow officer, not from fear of a duel but from fear of looking ridiculous in the theater buffet, and for that he pays the most terrible price. In this last story, the label of “ridiculous” is fastened on the narrator from the start. The second paragraph is a succinct description of the doubled personality of all of Dostoevsky’s ridiculous men. The metaphysical malady it leads to is the same that afflicts Kirillov in Demons:“The conviction was overtaking me,” says the ridiculous man, “that everywhere in the world it made no difference.”It is an ethical solipsism the implications of which the narrator ponders for a long time while sitting in his Voltaire armchair. And he resolves on the Kirillovian solution of suicide, though without the messianic ambition that pushes Kirillov into demonic parody. At this extremity he is granted two things which are really one—first, a moment of “irrational” pity, which he repulses, and then a saving dream. In the end, which is the beginning, he not only loses his shame at being ridiculous, but even embraces his ridiculousness. He has gone through the underground and come out on the other side.

These ridiculous narrators are all extreme cases. Dostoevsky was obviously drawn to such cases, perhaps for the reason suggested by the man from underground at the end of his story: “As far as I myself am concerned, I have merely carried to an extreme in my life what you have not dared to carry even halfway, and, what’s more, you’ve taken your cowardice for good sense, and found comfort in thus deceiving yourselves. So that I, perhaps, come out even more ‘living’ than you. Take a closer look!” The extreme and eccentric have a heroic and representative quality, despite their social isolation. Bakhtin goes so far as to say that “Dostoevsky’s mode of artistic thinking could not imagine anything in the slightest way humanly significant that did not have certain elements of eccentricity (in all its diverse manifestations).” The Dream of a Ridiculous Manwas Dostoevsky’s last artistic work before The Brothers Karamazovand points to that novel’s hero, Alyosha Karamazov, who is beyond the fear of being ridiculous, that is, beyond the doubled consciousness of the underground. The author says of Alyosha in his opening note: “… not only is an odd man ‘not always’ a particular and isolated case, but, on the contrary, it sometimes happens that it is precisely he, perhaps, who bears within himself the heart of the whole, while the other people of his epoch have all for some reason been torn away from it for a time by some kind of flooding wind.”

The dream that saves the ridiculous man is a vision of the earthly paradise—a “second earth” that has not known the Fall into sin and evil. Similar dreams come to Stavrogin in Demonsand to Versilov in The Adolescent, but the theme is treated most fully here. Stavrogin discovers the “tiny red spider” of his own terrible sin in the center of his vision, and it is suddenly dispelled. The Fall is not absent from the ridiculous man’s dream either: he brings it about himself. What comes then is a condensed and somewhat polemicized history of humanity, which so fills the dreamer’s heart with guilt, pity, grief, and love that he wakes up—and for him it is a true awakening, to life, “life—and preaching!” In the terms of the epigraph I have placed at the head of this preface, he moves from “eternal defection” to “ever increasing participation.” He will preach because he has seen the “living image” of the truth, beyond conceptual understanding. It has shown him “that people can be beautiful and happy without losing the ability to live on earth.” And he goes and finds the little girl he offended. The Dream of a Ridiculous Manthus resolves a whole series of interlocking motifs in Dostoevsky’s work.

This book begins and ends with attempts to speak the saving word that will unite mankind. But Pralinsky’s absurd “hu-humaneness” had to pass through the underground of duplicity and silence—the failure of Velchaninov to tear “the very last word” either from Pavel Pavlovich or from himself in The Eternal Husband;the putrefaction of souls leading to the senselessly repeated “bobok, bobok” that haunts the writer of Bobok;and finally the hell of “silent speaking” in The Meek One—before it could emerge in the ridiculous man’s preaching, the same yet quite transformed.

–Richard Pevear

A NASTY ANECDOTE

A STORY

THIS NASTY anecdote occurred precisely at the time when, with such irrepressible force and such touchingly naive enthusiasm, the regeneration of our dear fatherland began, and its valiant sons were all striving toward new destinies and hopes. Then, one winter, on a clear and frosty evening, though it was already past eleven, three extremely respectable gentlemen were sitting in a comfortably and even luxuriously furnished room, in a fine two-storied house on the Petersburg side, ¹and were taken up with a solid and excellent conversation on a quite curious subject. These three gentlemen were all three of general’s rank. ²They were sitting around a small table, each in a fine, soft armchair, and as they conversed they were quietly and comfortably sipping champagne. The bottle was right there on the table in a silver bucket with ice. The thing was that the host, privy councillor Stepan Nikiforovich Nikiforov, an old bachelor of about sixty-five, was celebrating the housewarming of his newly purchased house, and, incidentally, his birthday, which happened to come along and which he had never celebrated before. However, the celebration was none too grand; as we have already seen, there were only two guests, both former colleagues of Mr. Nikiforov and his former subordinates, namely: actual state councillor Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko and the other, also an actual state councillor, Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky. They came at around nine o’clock, had tea, then switched to wine, and knew that at exactly eleven-thirty they should go home. The host had liked regularity all his life. A couple of words about him: he began his career as a fortuneless petty clerk, quietly endured the drag for forty-five years on end, knew very well how far he would be promoted, could not bear having stars in his eyes, though he was already wearing two of them, ³and particularly disliked expressing his own personal opinion on any subject whatsoever. He was also honest, that is, he had never happened to do anything particularly dishonest; he was a bachelor because he was an egoist; he was far from stupid, but could not bear to display his intelligence; he particularly disliked sloppiness and rapturousness, which he considered moral sloppiness, and toward the end of his life sank entirely into some sweet, lazy comfort and systematic solitude. Though he himself sometimes visited people of the better sort, from his youth he could never bear to receive guests, and of late, when not playing patience, he was content with the company of his dining-room clock, imperturbably listening, as he dozed in his armchair, to its ticking under the glass dome on the mantelpiece. He was of extremely decent and clean-shaven appearance, looked younger than his years, was well preserved, promising to live a long time, and adhered to the strictest gentlemanliness. His post was rather comfortable: he sat somewhere and signed something. In short, he was considered a most excellent man. He had only one passion, or, better, one ardent desire: this was to own his own house, and precisely a grand house, not simply a solid one. His desire was finally realized: he picked out and purchased a house on the Petersburg side, far away, true, but the house had a garden, and was elegant besides.The new owner reasoned that far away was even better: he did not like receiving at home, and as for going to visit someone or to work—for that he had a fine two-place carriage of chocolate color, the coachman Mikhei, and two small but sturdy and handsome horses. All this had been duly acquired by forty years of painstaking economy, and so his heart rejoiced over it all. This was why, having acquired the house and moved into it, Stepan Nikiforovich felt such contentment in his peaceful heart that he even invited guests for his birthday, which before he used carefully to conceal from his closest acquaintances. He even had special designs on one of the invited. He himself occupied the upper story of the house, and he needed a tenant for the lower one, which was built and laid out in the same way. So Stepan Nikiforovich was counting on Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, and during the evening even twice turned the conversation to that subject. But Semyon Ivanovich kept silent in that regard. This was a man who had also had a long and difficult time cutting a path for himself, with black hair and side-whiskers and a permanently bilious tinge to his physiognomy. He was a married man, a gloomy homebody, kept his household in fear, served self-confidently, also knew very well what he would achieve and still better what he would never achieve, sat in a good post and sat very solidly. At the new ways that were beginning he looked, if not without bile, still with no special alarm: he was very confident of himself and listened not without mocking spite to Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky’s expatiating on the new themes. However, they were all somewhat tipsy, so that even Stepan Nikiforovich himself condescended to Mr. Pralinsky and entered into a light dispute with him about the new ways. But a few words about His Excellency Mr. Pralinsky, the more so as he is the main hero of the forthcoming story.

Actual state councillor Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky had been called “Your Excellency” for only four months—in short, he was a young general. He was young in years, too, about forty-three, certainly not more, and in looks he appeared and liked to appear still younger. He was a tall, handsome man, who made a show of his dress and of the refined solidity of his dress, wore an important decoration on his neck ⁴with great skill, from childhood had managed to adopt a few high-society ways, and, being a bachelor, dreamed of a rich and even high-society bride. He dreamed of many other things as well, though he was far from stupid. At times he was a great talker and even liked to assume parliamentary poses. He came from a good family, was a general’s son and a sybarite, in his tender childhood wore velvet and cambric, was educated in an aristocratic institution, and, though he did not come out of it with much learning, was successful in the service and even got himself as far as a generalship. His superiors considered him a capable man and even placed hopes in him. Stepan Nikiforovich, under whom he began and continued his service almost up to the generalship, never considered him a very practical man and did not place any hopes in him. But he liked that he was from a good family, had a fortune, that is, a big rental property with a manager, was related to some not-insignificant people, and, on top of that, carried himself well. Stepan Nikiforovich inwardly denounced him for surplus imagination and light-mindedness. Ivan Ilyich himself sometimes felt that he was too vain and even ticklish. Strangely, at times he was overcome by fits of some morbid conscientiousness and even a slight repentance for something. With bitterness and a secret sting in his soul, he sometimes admitted that he had not flown at all as high as he thought. In those moments he would even fall into some sort of despondency, especially when his hemorrhoids were acting up, called his life une existence manquée, ⁵ceased believing (privately, of course) even in his parliamentary abilities, calling himself a parleur, a phraseur, ⁶and though all this was, of course, very much to his credit, it in no way prevented him from raising his head again half an hour later, and with still greater obstinacy and presumption taking heart and assuring himself that he would still manage to show himself and would become not only a dignitary, but even a statesman whom Russia would long remember. At times he even imagined monuments. From this one can see that Ivan Ilyich aimed high, though he kept his vague hopes and dreams hidden deep in himself, even with a certain fear. In short, he was a kind man, and even a poet in his soul. In recent years, painful moments of disappointment had begun to visit him more often. He became somehow especially irritable, insecure, and was ready to consider any objection an offense. But the reviving Russia suddenly gave him great hopes. The generalship crowned them. He perked up; he raised his head. He suddenly started talking much and eloquently, talking on the newest topics, which he adopted extremely quickly and unexpectedly, to the point of fierceness. He sought occasions for talking, drove around town, and in many places managed to become known as a desperate liberal, which flattered him greatly. That evening, having drunk some four glasses, he got particularly carried away. He wanted to make Stepan Nikiforovich, whom he had not seen for a long time prior to that and till then had always respected and even obeyed, change his mind about everything. For some reason he considered him a retrograde and attacked him with extraordinary heat. Stepan Nikiforovich made almost no objections and only listened slyly, though the topic interested him. Ivan Ilyich was getting excited and in the heat of the imagined dispute sampled from his glass more often than he should have. Then Stepan Nikiforovich would take the bottle and top up his glass at once, which, for no apparent reason, suddenly began to offend Ivan Ilyich, the more so in that Semyon Ivanych Shipulenko, whom he particularly despised and, moreover, even feared on account of his cynicism and malice, was most perfidiously silent just beside him, and smiled more often than he should have. “They seem to take me for a mere boy,” flashed in Ivan Ilyich’s head.

“No, sir, it’s time, it’s long since time,” he went on with passion. “We’re too late, sir, and, in my view, humaneness is the first thing, humaneness with subordinates, remembering that they, too, are people. Humaneness will save everything and keep it afloat…”

“Hee, hee, hee, hee!” came from Semyon Ivanovich’s direction.

“But, anyhow, why are you scolding us so?” Stepan Nikiforovich finally objected, smiling amiably. “I confess, Ivan Ilyich, so far I’m unable to get the sense of what you’re so kindly explaining. You put forward humaneness. That means the love of mankind, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, if you wish, the love of mankind. I…”

“Excuse me, sir. As far as I’m able to judge, the point is not just in that. Love of mankind is always proper. But the reform is not limited to that. Questions have come up about the peasants, the courts, management, tax-farming, ⁷morality, and… and… and there’s no end to them, these questions, and all together, all at once, they may produce great, so to speak, upheavals. That’s what we’re worried about, not just humaneness…”

“Yes, sir, the thing goes a bit deeper,” Semyon Ivanovich observed.

“I understand very well, sir, and allow me to observe, Semyon Ivanovich, that I shall by no means agree to lag behind you in the depth of my understanding of things,” Ivan Ilyich observed caustically and much too sharply. “However, even so I shall make so bold as to observe that you, Stepan Nikiforovich, also have not quite understood me…”

“No, I haven’t.”

“And yet I precisely hold to and maintain everywhere the idea that humaneness, and precisely humaneness with subordinates, from clerk to scrivener, from scrivener to household servant, from servant to peasant—humaneness, I say, may serve, so to speak, as the cornerstone of the forthcoming reform and generally toward the renewal of things. Why? Because. Take the syllogism: I am humane, consequently they love me. They love me, therefore they feel trust. They feel trust, therefore they believe; they believe, therefore they love… that is, no, I mean to say, if they believe, they will also believe in the reform, understand, so to speak, the very essence of the matter, will, so to speak, embrace each other morally and resolve the whole matter amicably, substantially. Why are you laughing, Semyon Ivanovich? Is it not clear?”

Stepan Nikiforovich silently raised his eyebrows; he was surprised.

“I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink,” Semyon Ivanych observed venomously, “that’s why I’m hard of understanding. A certain darkening of the mind, sir.”

Ivan Ilyich winced.

“We won’t hold out,” Stepan Nikiforovich said suddenly, after slight reflection.

“That is, how is it we won’t hold out?” asked Ivan Ilyich, surprised at Stepan Nikiforovich’s sudden and fragmentary observation.

“Just so, we won’t hold out.” Stepan Nikiforovich obviously did not wish to expand further.

“You don’t mean about new wine in new bottles?” ⁸Ivan Ilyich objected, not without irony. “Ah, no, sir; I can answer for myself.”

At that moment the clock struck half past eleven.

“They sit and sit, then up and go,” said Semyon Ivanych, preparing to get up from his place. But Ivan Ilyich forestalled him, rising from the table at once and taking his sable hat from the mantelpiece. He looked as if offended.

“Well, then, Semyon Ivanych, you’ll think?” said Stepan Nikiforovich, seeing his guests off.

“About the apartment, you mean? I’ll think, I’ll think, sir.”

“And let me know quickly once you decide.”

“Still business?” Mr. Pralinsky observed amiably, fawning somewhat and playing with his hat. It seemed to him that he was being forgotten.

Stepan Nikiforovich raised his eyebrows and said nothing, as a sign that he was not keeping his guests. Semyon Ivanych hastily took his leave.

“Ah… well… as you wish, then… since you don’t understand simple amiability,” Mr. Pralinsky decided to himself, and somehow with particular independence offered his hand to Stepan Nikiforovich.

In the front hall Ivan Ilyich wrapped himself in his light, expensive fur coat, trying for some reason to ignore Semyon Ivanych’s shabby raccoon, and they both started down the stairs.

“Our old man seemed offended,” Ivan Ilyich said to the silent Semyon Ivanych.

“No, why?” the other replied calmly and coldly.

“The flunky!” Ivan Ilyich thought to himself.

They came out on the porch, and Semyon Ivanych’s sleigh with its homely gray stallion drove up.

“What the devil! Where has Trifon gone with my carriage!” Ivan Ilyich cried, not seeing his equipage.

They looked this way and that—no carriage. Stepan Nikiforovich’s man had no idea about it. They turned to Varlaam, Semyon Ivanych’s coachman, and received the answer that he had been standing there all the while, and the carriage had been there, too, but now they were no more.

“A nasty anecdote!” said Mr. Shipulenko. “Want me to give you a lift?”

“Scoundrelly folk!” Mr. Pralinsky cried in rage. “The rascal asked me to let him go to some wedding here on the Petersburg side, some female crony was getting married, devil take her. I strictly forbade him to leave. And now I’ll bet he’s gone there!”

“Actually,” Varlaam observed, “he did go there, sir, and he promised to manage it in just one minute, that is, to be here right on time.”

“So there! I just knew it! He’ll catch it from me!”

“You’d better give him a couple of good whippings at the police station, then he’ll follow your orders,” Semyon Ivanych said, covering himself with a rug.

“Kindly don’t trouble yourself, Semyon Ivanych!”

“So you don’t want a lift?”

“Safe journey, merci.”

Semyon Ivanych drove off, and Ivan Ilyich went by foot along the wooden planks, feeling a rather strong irritation.

“No, you’ll catch it from me now, you rogue! I’ll go by foot on purpose so that you’ll feel it, so that you’ll get scared! He’ll come back and find out that the master went by foot… blackguard!”

Ivan Ilyich had never cursed like that before, but he was very furious, and besides there was a clamor in his head. He was not used to drinking and therefore some five or six glasses worked quickly. But the night was delightful. It was frosty, but unusually calm and windless. The sky was clear, starry. The full moon flooded the earth with a matted silver gleam. It was so good that Ivan Ilyich, having gone some fifty steps, almost forgot his troubles. He was beginning to feel somehow especially pleasant. Besides, tipsy people change impressions quickly. He was even starting to like the plain wooden houses on the deserted street.

“It’s really nice that I went by foot,” he thought to himself, “both a lesson to Trifon and a pleasure for me. Indeed, I must go by foot more often. So what? On Bolshoi Prospect I’ll find a cab at once. A nice night! What wretched little houses here. Must all be petty folk, clerks… merchants, maybe… that Stepan Nikiforovich! and what retrogrades they all are, the old nightcaps! Precisely nightcaps, c’est le mot! ⁹He’s an intelligent man, though; he has this bon sens ¹⁰a sober, practical understanding of things. No, but these old men, old men! They lack… what do you call it? Well, they lack something… We won’t hold out! What did he mean by that? He even fell to thinking when he said it. By the way, he didn’t understand me at all. But how could he not? It’s harder not to understand than to understand. Above all, I’m convinced, convinced in my soul. Humaneness… love of mankind. Restore man to himself… revive his personal dignity, and then… with this ready material get down to business. Seems clear! Yes, sir! I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, take the syllogism: we meet a clerk, for instance, a poor, downtrodden clerk. ‘Well… what are you?’ Answer: ‘A clerk.’ All right, so he’s a clerk; then: ‘What kind of a clerk?’ Answer: such-and-such kind. ‘You’re in the civil service?’ ‘I am!’ ‘Want to be happy?’ ‘I do.’ ‘What does one need for happiness?’ This and that. ‘Why?’ Because… And so the man understands me after a couple of words: the man is mine, the man is caught, so to speak, in the net, and I can do whatever I like with him—for his own good, that is. A nasty man, this Semyon Ivanych! And such a nasty mug… A whipping at the police station—he said it on purpose. No, lies, you do the whipping, I won’t; I’ll get Trifon with words, I’ll get him with reproaches, and he’ll feel it. About birch rods, ¹¹hm… an unsolved problem, hm… But shouldn’t I stop at Emerance’s? Pah, the devil, you cursed planks!” he cried, suddenly tripping. “And this is the capital! Enlightenment! You could break a leg. Hm. I hate this Semyon Ivanych; a most disgusting mug. He sniggered at me tonight when I said they’d embrace each other morally. So they will, and what do you care? You I won’t embrace; sooner a peasant… I’ll meet a peasant, and talk with a peasant. Anyhow, I was drunk, and maybe didn’t express myself properly. Maybe I’m not expressing myself properly now either… Hm. I’m never going to drink. You babble in the evening, then the next day you repent. So what, I’m not staggering as I walk… And anyhow, they’re all rogues!”

So Ivan Ilyich reasoned, desultorily and incoherently, as he went on down the sidewalk. The fresh air affected him and, so to speak, got him going. Another five minutes and he would have calmed down and wanted to sleep. But suddenly, about two steps from Bolshoi Prospect, he heard music. He looked around. On the other side of the street, in a very decrepit, one-story, but long wooden house, a great feast was going on, fiddles hummed, a string bass droned, and a flute spouted shrilly to a very merry quadrille tune. The public was standing under the windows, mostly women in quilted coats with kerchiefs on their heads; they strained all their efforts to make something out through the chinks in the blinds. Obviously there was merriment. The sound of the dancers’ stomping reached the other side of the street. Ivan Ilyich noticed a policeman not far away and went up to him.

“Whose house is that, brother?” he said, throwing his expensive fur coat open slightly, just enough so that the policeman could notice the important decoration on his neck.

“The clerk Pseldonymov’s, a legistrar,” ¹²the policeman, who instantly managed to make out the decoration, replied, straightening up.

“Pseldonymov? Hah! Pseldonymov!… What’s he doing, getting married?”

“Getting married, Your Honor, to a titular councillor’s daughter. Mlekopitaev, ¹³a titular councillor… served on the board. That house comes with the bride, sir.”

“So it’s already Pseldonymov’s house, not Mlekopitaev’s?”

“Pseldonymov’s, Your Honor. Used to be Mlekopitaev’s, and now it’s Pseldonymov’s.”

“Hm. I’m asking, brother, because I’m his superior. I’m general over the place where Pseldonymov works.”

“Right, Your Excellency.” The policeman drew himself all the way up, but Ivan Ilyich seemed to have lapsed into thought. He was standing and reflecting …

Yes, Pseldonymov actually was from his department, from his own office; he recalled that. He was a petty clerk, with a salary of about ten roubles a month. Since Mr. Pralinsky had taken over his office still very recently, he might not have remembered all his subordinates in too much detail, but Pseldonymov he did remember, precisely apropos of his last name. It had leaped out at him from the very first, so that he had been curious right then to have a closer look at the owner of such a name. He now recalled a man still very young, with a long, hooked nose, with blond and wispy hair, skinny and malnourished, in an impossible uniform, and unmentionables impossible even to the point of indecency. He remembered how the thought had flashed in him right then: should he not award the wretch some ten roubles to fix himself up for the holiday? But since the wretch’s face was all too lenten, and had an extremely unpleasant look, even causing disgust, the good thought somehow evaporated of itself, and so Pseldonymov remained without a bonus. The greater was his amazement when this same Pseldonymov, not more than a week ago, put in a request to get married. ¹⁴Ivan Ilyich remembered that he had somehow had no time to occupy himself with the matter more thoroughly, so that the matter of the wedding had been decided lightly, hastily. But all the same he remembered with precision that Pseldonymov was taking his bride together with a wooden house and four hundred roubles in cash; this circumstance had surprised him then; he remembered even cracking a light joke about the encounter of the names Pseldonymov and Mlekopitaev. He clearly recalled it all.

As he went on recollecting, he fell to thinking more and more. It is known that whole trains of thought sometimes pass instantly through our heads, in the form of certain feelings, without translation into human language, still less literary language. But we shall attempt to translate all these feelings of our hero’s and present the reader if only with the essence of these feelings, with what, so to speak, was most necessary and plausible in them. Because many of our feelings, when translated into ordinary language, will seem perfectly implausible. That is why they never come into the world, and yet everybody has them. Naturally, Ivan Ilyich’s feelings and thoughts were a bit incoherent. But you know the reason why.

“What then!” flashed in his head. “So we all talk and talk, but once it gets to business, only a fig comes out. Here’s an example, this very same Pseldonymov: he’s just come from the church, all excited, all hopeful, expecting to taste… This is one of the most blissful days of his life… Now he’s busy with the guests, giving a feast—modest, poor, but merry, joyful, sincere… What, then, if he knew that at this very moment I, I, his superior, his chief superior, am standing right here by his house and listening to his music! But how, in fact, would it be with him? No, how would it be with him if I should suddenly up and walk in now? hm… Naturally, he’d be frightened at first, numb with bewilderment. I’d be interfering with him, I’d probably upset everything… Yes, that’s how it would be if any other general walked in, but not I… Here’s the thing, that any other, only not I…

“Yes, Stepan Nikiforovich! You didn’t understand me just now, but here’s a ready example for you.

“Yes, sir. We all shout about humaneness, but heroism, a great deed, that we’re not capable of.

“What kind of heroism? This kind. Just consider: given the present-day relations between all members of society, for me, for me to come after midnight to the wedding of my subordinate, a registrar, who makes ten roubles—after all, this is bewilderment, this is a turnabout of ideas, the last day of Pompeii, ¹⁵bedlam! No one will understand it. Stepan Nikiforovich would die before he understood it. Didn’t he say: we won’t hold out. Yes, but that’s you old people, people of paralysis and stagnation, but I will hold out! I’ll turn the last day of Pompeii into the sweetest day for my subordinate, and a wild act into a normal, patriarchal, lofty and e-thi-cal one. How? Like this. Be so good as to listen …