The laughter grew louder and louder, but it came chiefly from the younger and less initiated visitors. There was an expression of some annoyance on the faces of Madame Virginsky, Liputin, and the lame teacher.
“If you’ve been unsuccessful in making your system consistent, and have been reduced to despair yourself, what could we do with it?” one officer observed warily.
“You are right, Mr. Officer” — Shigalov turned sharply to him—” especially in using the word despair. Yes, I am reduced to despair. Nevertheless, nothing can take the place of the system set forth in my book, and there is no other way out of it; no one can invent anything else. And so I hasten without loss of time to invite the whole society to listen for ten evenings to my book and then give their opinions of it. If the members are unwilling to listen to me, let us break up from the start — the men to take up service under government, the women to their cooking; for if you reject my solution you’ll find no other, none whatever! If they let the opportunity slip, it will simply be their loss, for they will be bound to come back to it again.”
There was a stir in the company. “Is he mad, or what?” voices asked.
“So the whole point lies in Shigalov’s despair,” Lyamshin commented, “and the essential question is whether he must despair or not?”
“Shigalov’s being on the brink of despair is a personal question,” declared the schoolboy.
“I propose we put it to the vote how far Shigalov’s despair affects the common cause, and at the same time whether it’s worth while listening to him or not,” an officer suggested gaily.
“That’s not right.” The lame teacher put in his spoke at last. As a rule he spoke with a rather mocking smile, so that it was difficult to make out whether he was in earnest or joking. “That’s not right, gentlemen. Mr. Shigalov is too much devoted to his task and is also too modest. I know his book. He suggests as a final solution of the question the division of mankind into two unequal parts. One-tenth enjoys absolute liberty and unbounded power over the other nine-tenths. The others have to give up all individuality and become, so to speak, a herd, and, through boundless submission, will by a series of regenerations attain primaeval innocence, something like the Garden of Eden. They’ll have to work, however. The measures proposed by the author for depriving nine-tenths of mankind of their freedom and transforming them into a herd through the education of whole generations are very remarkable, founded on the facts of nature and highly logical. One may not agree with some of the deductions, but it would be difficult to doubt the intelligence and knowledge of the author. It’s a pity that the time required — ten evenings — is impossible to arrange for, or we might hear a great deal that’s interesting.”
“Can you be in earnest?” Madame Virginsky addressed the lame gentleman with a shade of positive uneasiness in her voice, “when that man doesn’t know what to do with people and so turns nine-tenths of them into slaves? I’ve suspected him for a long time.”
“You say that of your own brother?” asked the lame man.
“Relationship? Are you laughing at me?”
“And besides, to work for aristocrats and to obey them as though they were gods is contemptible!” observed the girl-student fiercely.
“What I propose is not contemptible; it’s paradise, an earthly paradise, and there can be no other on earth,” Shigalov pronounced authoritatively.
“For my part,” said Lyamshin, “if I didn’t know what to do with nine-tenths of mankind, I’d take them and blow them up into the air instead of putting them in paradise. I’d only leave a handful of educated people, who would live happily ever afterwards on scientific principles.”
“No one but a buffoon can talk like that!” cried the girl, flaring up.
“He is a buffoon, but he is of use,” Madame Virginsky whispered to her.
“And possibly that would be the best solution of the problem,” said Shigalov, turning hotly to Lyamshin. “You certainly don’t know what a profound thing you’ve succeeded in saying, my merry friend. But as it’s hardly possible to carry out your idea, we must confine ourselves to an earthly paradise, since that’s what they call it.”
“This is pretty thorough rot,” broke, as though involuntarily, from Verhovensky. Without even raising his eyes, however, he went on cutting his nails with perfect nonchalance.
“Why is it rot?” The lame man took it up instantly, as though he had been lying in wait for his first words to catch at them. “Why is it rot? Mr. Shigalov is somewhat fanatical in his love for humanity, but remember that Fourier, still more Cabet and even Proudhon himself, advocated a number of the most despotic and even fantastic measures. Mr. Shigalov is perhaps far more sober in his suggestions than they are. I assure you that when one reads his book it’s almost impossible not to agree with some things. He is perhaps less far from realism than anyone and his earthly paradise is almost the real one — if it ever existed — for the loss of which man is always sighing.”
“I knew I was in for something,” Verhovensky muttered again.
“Allow me,” said the lame man, getting more and more excited. “Conversations and arguments about the future organisation of society are almost an actual necessity for all thinking people nowadays. Herzen was occupied with nothing else all his life. Byelinsky, as I know on very good authority, used to spend whole evenings with his friends debating and settling beforehand even the minutest, so to speak, domestic, details of the social organisation of the future.”
“Some people go crazy over it,” the major observed suddenly.
“We are more likely to arrive at something by talking, anyway, than by sitting silent and posing as dictators,” Liputin hissed, as though at last venturing to begin the attack.
“I didn’t mean Shigalov when I said it was rot,” Verhovensky mumbled. “You see, gentlemen,” — he raised his eyes a trifle— “to my mind all these books, Fourier, Cabet, all this talk about the right to work, and Shigalov’s theories — are all like novels of which one can write a hundred thousand — an aesthetic entertainment. I can understand that in this little town you are bored, so you rush to ink and paper.”
“Excuse me,” said the lame man, wriggling on his chair, “though we are provincials and of course objects of commiseration on that ground, yet we know that so far nothing has happened in the world new enough to be worth our weeping at having missed it. It is suggested to us in various pamphlets made abroad and secretly distributed that we should unite and form groups with the sole object of bringing about universal destruction. It’s urged that, however much you tinker with the world, you can’t make a good job of it, but that by cutting off a hundred million heads and so lightening one’s burden, one can jump over the ditch more safely. A fine idea, no doubt, but quite as impracticable as Shigalov’s theories, which you referred to just now so contemptuously.”
“Well, but I haven’t come here for discussion.” Verhovensky let drop this significant phrase, and, as though quite unaware of his blunder, drew the candle nearer to him that he might see better.
“It’s a pity, a great pity, that you haven’t come for discussion, and it’s a great pity that you are so taken up just now with your toilet.”
“What’s my toilet to you?”
“To remove a hundred million heads is as difficult as to transform the world by propaganda. Possibly more difficult, especially in Russia,” Liputin ventured again.
“It’s Russia they rest their hopes on now,” said an officer.
“We’ve heard they are resting their hopes on it,” interposed the lame man. “We know that a mysterious finger is pointing to our delightful country as the land most fitted to accomplish the great task. But there’s this: by the gradual solution of the problem by propaganda I shall gain something, anyway — I shall have some pleasant talk, at least, and shall even get some recognition from government for my services to the cause of society. But in the second way, by the rapid method of cutting off a hundred million heads, what benefit shall I get per
sonally? If you began advocating that, your tongue might be cut out.”
“Yours certainly would be,” observed Verhovensky.
“You see. And as under the most favourable circumstances you would not get through such a massacre in less than fifty or at the best thirty years — for they are not sheep, you know, and perhaps they would not let themselves be slaughtered — wouldn’t it be better to pack one’s bundle and migrate to some quiet island beyond calm seas and there close one’s eyes tranquilly? Believe me” — he tapped the table significantly with his finger— “you will only promote emigration by such propaganda and nothing else!”
He finished evidently triumphant. He was one of the intellects of the province. Liputin smiled slyly, Virginsky listened rather dejectedly, the others followed the discussion with great attention, especially the ladies and officers. They all realised that the advocate of the hundred million heads theory had been driven into a corner, and waited to see what would come of it.
“That was a good saying of yours, though,” Verhovensky mumbled more carelessly than ever, in fact with an air of positive boredom. “Emigration is a good idea. But all the same, if in spite of all the obvious disadvantages you foresee, more and more come forward every day ready to fight for the common cause, it will be able to do without you. It’s a new Religion, my good friend, coming to take the place of the old one. That’s why so many fighters come forward, and it’s a big movement. You’d better emigrate! And, you know, I should advise Dresden, not ‘the calm islands.’ To begin with, it’s a town that has never been visited by an epidemic, and as you are a man of culture, no doubt you are afraid of death. Another thing, it’s near the Russian frontier, so you can more easily receive your income from your beloved Fatherland. Thirdly, it contains what are called treasures of art, and you are a man of aesthetic tastes, formerly a teacher of literature, I believe. And, finally, it has a miniature Switzerland of its own — to provide you with poetic inspiration, for no doubt you write verse. In fact it’s a treasure in a nutshell!” There was a general movement, especially among the officers. In another instant they would have all begun talking at once. But the lame man rose irritably to the bait.
“No, perhaps I am not going to give up the common cause. You must understand that . . .”
“What, would you join the quintet if I proposed it to you?” Verhovensky boomed suddenly, and he laid down the scissors.
Every one seemed startled. The mysterious man had revealed himself too freely. He had even spoken openly of the “quintet.”
“Every one feels himself to be an honest man and will not shirk his part in the common cause” — the lame man tried to wriggle out of it—” but . . .”
“No, this is not a question which allows of a but,” Verhovensky interrupted harshly and peremptorily. “I tell you, gentlemen, I must have a direct answer. I quite understand that, having come here and having called you together myself, I am bound to give you explanations” (again an unexpected revelation), “but I can give you none till I know what is your attitude to the subject. To cut the matter short — for we can’t go on talking for another thirty years as people have done for the last thirty — I ask you which you prefer: the slow way, which consists in the composition of socialistic romances and the academic ordering of the destinies of humanity a thousand years hence, while despotism will swallow the savoury morsels which would almost fly into your mouths of themselves if you’d take a little trouble; or do you, whatever it may imply, prefer a quicker way which will at last untie your hands, and will let humanity make its own social organisation in freedom and in action, not on paper? They shout ‘a hundred million heads’; that may be only a metaphor; but why be afraid of it if, with the slow day-dream on paper, despotism in the course of some hundred years will devour not a hundred but five hundred million heads? Take note too that an incurable invalid will not be cured whatever prescriptions are written for him on paper. On the contrary, if there is delay, he will grow so corrupt that he will infect us too and contaminate all the fresh forces which one might still reckon upon now, so that we shall all at last come to grief together. I thoroughly agree that it’s extremely agreeable to chatter liberally and eloquently, but action is a little trying. . . . However, I am no hand at talking; I came here with communications, and so I beg all the honourable company not to vote, but simply and directly to state which you prefer: walking at a snail’s pace in the marsh, or putting on full steam to get across it?”
“I am certainly for crossing at full steam!” cried the schoolboy in an ecstasy.
“So am I,” Lyamshin chimed in.
“There can be no doubt about the choice,” muttered an officer, followed by another, then by some one else. What struck them all most was that Verhovensky had come “with communications” and had himself just promised to speak.
“Gentlemen, I see that almost all decide for the policy of the manifestoes,” he said, looking round at the company.
“All, all!” cried the majority of voices.
“I confess I am rather in favour of a more humane policy,” said the major, “but as all are on the other side, I go with all the rest.”
“It appears, then, that even you are not opposed to it,” said Verhovensky, addressing the lame man.
“I am not exactly . . ,” said the latter, turning rather red, “but if I do agree with the rest now, it’s simply not to break up—”
“You are all like that! Ready to argue for six months to practise your Liberal eloquence and in the end you vote the same as the rest! Gentlemen, consider though, is it true that you are all ready?”
(Ready for what? The question was vague, but very alluring.)
“All are, of course!” voices were heard. But all were looking at one another.
“But afterwards perhaps you will resent having agreed so quickly? That’s almost always the way with you.”
The company was excited in various ways, greatly excited. The lame man flew at him.
“Allow me to observe, however, that answers to such questions are conditional. Even if we have given our decision, you must note that questions put in such a strange way ...”
“In what strange way?”
“In a way such questions are not asked.”
“Teach me how, please. But do you know, I felt sure you’d be the first to take offence.”
“You’ve extracted from us an answer as to our readiness for immediate action; but what right had you to do so? By what authority do you ask such questions?”
“You should have thought of asking that question sooner! Why did you answer? You agree and then you go back on it!”
“But to my mind the irresponsibility of your principal question suggests to me that you have no authority, no right, and only asked from personal curiosity.”
“What do you mean? What do you mean?” cried Verhovensky, apparently beginning to be much alarmed.
“Why, that the initiation of new members into anything you like is done, anyway, tete-a-tete and not in the company of twenty people one doesn’t know!” blurted out the lame man. He had said all that was in his mind because he was too irritated to restrain himself. Verhovensky turned to the general company with a capitally simulated look of alarm.
“Gentlemen, I deem it my duty to declare that all this is folly, and that our conversation has gone too far. I have so far initiated no one, and no one has the right to say of me that I initiate members. We were simply discussing our opinions. That’s so, isn’t it? But whether that’s so or not, you alarm me very much.” He turned to the lame man again. “I had no idea that it was unsafe here to speak of such practically innocent matters except tete-a-tete. Are you afraid of informers? Can there possibly be an informer among us here?”
The excitement became tremendous; all began talking.
“Gentlemen, if that is so,” Verhovensky went on, “I have compromised myself more than anyone, and so I will ask you to answer one question, if you care to, of course. You are all perfectly free.”
/>
“What question? What question?” every one clamoured.
“A question that will make it clear whether we are to remain together, or take up our hats and go our several ways without speaking.”
“The question! The question!”
“If any one of us knew of a proposed political murder, would he, in view of all the consequences, go to give information, or would he stay at home and await events? Opinions may differ on this point. The answer to the question will tell us clearly whether we are to separate, or to remain together and for far longer than this one evening. Let me appeal to you first.” He turned to the lame man.
“Why to me first?”
“Because you began it all. Be so good as not to prevaricate; it won’t help you to be cunning. But please yourself, it’s for you to decide.”
“Excuse me, but such a question is positively insulting.”
“No, can’t you be more exact than that?”
“I’ve never been an agent of the Secret Police,” replied the latter, wriggling more than ever.
“Be so good as to be more definite, don’t keep us waiting.”
The lame man was so furious that he left off answering. Without a word he glared wrathfully from under his spectacles at his tormentor.
“Yes or no? Would you inform or not?” cried Verhovensky.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” the lame man shouted twice as loudly.
“And no one would, of course not!” cried many voices.
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 402
