‘‘Yes, your situation’s hopeless,’’ said von Koren.
These calm, cold words, containing either mockery or an uninvited prophecy, offended Laevsky. He remembered the zoologist’s gaze yesterday, full of mockery and squeamishness, paused briefly, and asked, no longer smiling:
‘‘And how are you informed of my situation?’’
‘‘You’ve just been talking about it yourself, and your friends take such a warm interest in you that one hears of nothing but you all day long.’’
‘‘What friends? Samoilenko, is it?’’
‘‘Yes, him, too.’’
‘‘I’d ask Alexander Davidych and my friends generally to be less concerned about me.’’
‘‘Here comes Samoilenko, ask him to be less concerned about you.’’
‘‘I don’t understand your tone . . .’’ Laevsky murmured; he was gripped by such a feeling as though he had only now understood that the zoologist hated him, despised and jeered at him, and that the zoologist was his worst and most implacable enemy. ‘‘Save that tone for somebody else,’’ he said softly, unable to speak loudly from the hatred that was already tightening around his chest and neck, as the desire to laugh had done yesterday.
Samoilenko came in without his frock coat, sweaty and crimson from the stuffiness of the kitchen.
‘‘Ah, you’re here?’’ he said. ‘‘Greetings, dear heart. Have you had dinner? Don’t be ceremonious, tell me: have you had dinner?’’
‘‘Alexander Davidych,’’ said Laevsky, getting up, ‘‘if I turned to you with an intimate request, it did not mean I was releasing you from the obligation of being modest and respecting other people’s secrets.’’
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Samoilenko was surprised.
‘‘If you don’t have the money,’’ Laevsky went on, raising his voice and shifting from one foot to the other in agitation, ‘‘then don’t give it to me, refuse, but why announce on every street corner that my situation is hopeless and all that? I cannot bear these benefactions and friendly services when one does a kopeck’s worth with a rouble’s worth of talk! You may boast of your benefactions as much as you like, but no one gave you the right to reveal my secrets!’’
‘‘What secrets?’’ asked Samoilenko, perplexed and beginning to get angry. ‘‘If you came to abuse me, go away. You can come later!’’
He remembered the rule that, when angry with your neighbor, you should mentally start counting to a hundred and calm down; and he started counting quickly.
‘‘I beg you not to be concerned about me!’’ Laevsky went on. ‘‘Don’t pay attention to me. And who has any business with me and how I live? Yes, I want to go away! Yes, I run up debts, drink, live with another man’s wife, I’m hysterical, I’m banal, I’m not as profound as some are, but whose business is that? Respect the person!’’
‘‘Excuse me, brother,’’ said Samoilenko, having counted up to thirty-five, ‘‘but . . .’’
‘‘Respect the person!’’ Laevsky interrupted him. ‘‘This constant talk on another man’s account, the ohs and ahs, the constant sniffing out, the eavesdropping, these friendly commiserations . . . devil take it! They lend me money and set conditions as if I was a little boy! I’m treated like the devil knows what! I don’t want anything!’’ cried Laevsky, reeling with agitation and fearing he might have hysterics again. ‘‘So I won’t leave on Saturday,’’ flashed through his mind. ‘‘I don’t want anything! I only beg you, please, to deliver me from your care! I’m not a little boy and not a madman, and I beg you to relieve me of this supervision!’’
The deacon came in and, seeing Laevsky, pale, waving his arms, and addressing his strange speech to the portrait of Prince Vorontsov, stopped by the door as if rooted to the spot.
‘‘This constant peering into my soul,’’ Laevsky went on, ‘‘offends my human dignity, and I beg the volunteer detectives to stop their spying! Enough!’’
‘‘What . . . what did you say, sir?’’ asked Samoilenko, having counted to a hundred, turning purple, and going up to Laevsky.
‘‘Enough!’’ said Laevsky, gasping and taking his cap.
‘‘I am a Russian doctor, a nobleman, and a state councillor!’’ Samoilenko said measuredly. ‘‘I have never been a spy, and I will not allow anyone to insult me!’’ he said in a cracked voice, emphasizing the last words. ‘‘Silence!’’
The deacon, who had never seen the doctor so majestic, puffed up, crimson, and fearsome, covered his mouth, ran out to the front room, and there rocked with laughter. As if through a fog, Laevsky saw von Koren get up and, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, stand in that pose as if waiting for what would happen next. Laevsky found this relaxed pose insolent and offensive in the highest degree.
‘‘Kindly take back your words!’’ cried Samoilenko.
Laevsky, who no longer remembered what words he had spoken, answered:
‘‘Leave me alone! I don’t want anything! All I want is that you and these Germans of Yid extraction leave me alone! Otherwise I’ll take measures! I’ll fight!’’
‘‘Now I see,’’ said von Koren, stepping away from the table. ‘‘Mr. Laevsky wants to divert himself with a duel before his departure. I can give him that satisfaction. Mr. Laevsky, I accept your challenge.’’
‘‘My challenge?’’ Laevsky said softly, going up to the zoologist and looking with hatred at his swarthy forehead and curly hair. ‘‘My challenge? If you please! I hate you! Hate you!’’
‘‘Very glad. Tomorrow morning early, by Kerbalai’s, with all the details to your taste. And now get out of here.’’
‘‘I hate you!’’ Laevsky said softly, breathing heavily. ‘‘I’ve hated you for a long time! A duel! Yes!’’
‘‘Take him away, Alexander Davidych, or else I’ll leave,’’ said von Koren. ‘‘He’s going to bite me.’’
Von Koren’s calm tone cooled the doctor down; he somehow suddenly came to himself, recovered his senses, put his arm around Laevsky’s waist, and, leading him away from the zoologist, mumured in a gentle voice, trembling with agitation:
‘‘My friends . . . good, kind friends . . . You got excited, but that will do...that will do . . . My friends...’’
Hearing his soft, friendly voice, Laevsky felt that something unprecedented and monstrous had just taken place in his life, as if he had nearly been run over by a train; he almost burst into tears, waved his hand, and rushed from the room.
‘‘To experience another man’s hatred of you, to show yourself in the most pathetic, despicable, helpless way before the man who hates you—my God, how painful it is!’’ he thought shortly afterwards, sitting in the pavilion and feeling something like rust on his body from the just experienced hatred of another man. ‘‘How crude it is, my God!’’
Cold water with cognac cheered him up. He clearly pictured von Koren’s calm, haughty face, his gaze yesterday, his carpetlike shirt, his voice, his white hands, and a heavy hatred, passionate and hungry, stirred in his breast and demanded satisfaction. In his mind, he threw von Koren to the ground and started trampling him with his feet. He recalled everything that had happened in the minutest detail, and wondered how he could smile ingratiatingly at a nonentity and generally value the opinion of petty little people, unknown to anyone, who lived in a worthless town which, it seemed, was not even on the map and which not a single decent person in Petersburg knew about. If this wretched little town were suddenly to fall through the earth or burn down, people in Russia would read the telegram about it with the same boredom as the announcement of a sale of secondhand furniture. To kill von Koren tomorrow or leave him alive was in any case equally useless and uninteresting. To shoot him in the leg or arm, to wound him, then laugh at him, and, as an insect with a torn-off leg gets lost in the grass, so let him with his dull suffering lose himself afterwards in a crowd of the same nonentities as himself.
Laevsky went to Sheshkovsky, told him about it all, and invited him to be his second; then they
both went to the head of the post and telegraph office, invited him to be a second as well, and stayed with him for dinner. At dinner they joked and laughed a great deal; Laevsky made fun of the fact that he barely knew how to shoot, and called himself a royal marksman and a Wilhelm Tell.
‘‘This gentleman must be taught a lesson . . .’’ he kept saying.
After dinner they sat down to play cards. Laevsky played, drank wine, and thought how generally stupid and senseless dueling was, because it did not solve the problem but only complicated it, but that sometimes one could not do without it. For instance, in the present case, he could not plead about von Koren before the justice of the peace! And the impending duel was also good in that, after it, he would no longer be able to stay in town. He became slightly drunk, diverted himself with cards, and felt good.
But when the sun set and it grew dark, uneasiness came over him. It was not the fear of death, because all the while he was having dinner and playing cards, the conviction sat in him, for some reason, that the duel would end in nothing; it was a fear of something unknown, which was to take place tomorrow morning for the first time in his life, and a fear of the coming night . . . He knew that the night would be long, sleepless, and that he would have to think not only about von Koren and his hatred but about that mountain of lies he would have to pass through and which he had neither the strength nor the ability to avoid. It looked as though he had unexpectedly fallen ill; he suddenly lost all interest in cards and people, began fussing, and asked to be allowed to go home. He wanted to go to bed quickly, lie still, and prepare his thoughts for the night. Sheshkovsky and the postal official saw him off and went to von Koren to talk about the duel.
Near his apartment, Laevsky met Atchmianov. The young man was breathless and agitated.
‘‘I’ve been looking for you, Ivan Andreich!’’ he said. ‘‘I beg you, let’s go quickly ...’’
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘A gentleman you don’t know wishes to see you on very important business. He earnestly requests that you come for a moment. He needs to talk to you about something . . . For him it’s the same as life and death . . . ’’
In his excitement, Atchmianov uttered this with a strong Armenian accent, so that it came out not ‘‘life’’ but ‘‘lafe.’’
‘‘Who is he?’’ asked Laevsky.
‘‘He asked me not to give his name.’’
‘‘Tell him I’m busy. Tomorrow, if he likes . . .’’
‘‘Impossible!’’ Atchmianov became frightened. ‘‘He wishes to tell you something very important for you . . . very important! If you don’t go, there will be a disaster.’’
‘‘Strange . . .’’ murmured Laevsky, not understanding why Atchmianov was so agitated and what mysteries there could be in this boring, useless little town. ‘‘Strange,’’ he repeated, pondering. ‘‘However, let’s go. It makes no difference.’’
Atchmianov quickly went ahead, and he followed. They walked down the street, then into a lane.
‘‘How boring this is,’’ said Laevsky.
‘‘One moment, one moment . . . It’s close by.’’
Near the old ramparts they took a narrow lane between two fenced lots, then entered some big yard and made for a little house.
‘‘That’s Miuridov’s house, isn’t it?’’ asked Laevsky.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘But why we came through the back alleys, I don’t understand. We could have taken the street. It’s closer.’’
‘‘Never mind, never mind . . .’’
Laevsky also found it strange that Atchmianov led him to the back door and waved his hand as if asking him to walk softly and keep silent.
‘‘This way, this way . . .’’ said Atchmianov, cautiously opening the door and going into the hallway on tiptoe. ‘‘Quiet, quiet, I beg you... They may hear you.’’
He listened, drew a deep breath, and said in a whisper:
‘‘Open this door and go in . . . Don’t be afraid.’’
Laevsky, perplexed, opened the door and went into a room with a low ceiling and curtained windows. A candle stood on the table.
‘‘Whom do you want?’’ someone asked in the next room. ‘‘Is that you, Miuridka?’’
Laevsky turned to that room and saw Kirilin, and beside him Nadezhda Fyodorovna.
He did not hear what was said to him, backed his way out, and did not notice how he ended up in the street. The hatred of von Koren, and the uneasiness—all of it vanished from his soul. Going home, he awkwardly swung his right arm and looked intently under his feet, trying to walk where it was even. At home, in his study, he paced up and down, rubbing his hands and making angular movements with his shoulders and neck, as though his jacket and shirt were too tight for him, then lighted a candle and sat down at the table . . .
XVI
‘‘THE HUMANE SCIENCES, of which you speak, will only satisfy human thought when, in their movement, they meet the exact sciences and go on alongside them. Whether they will meet under a microscope, or in the soliloquies of a new Hamlet, or in a new religion, I don’t know, but I think that the earth will be covered with an icy crust before that happens. The most staunch and vital of all humanitarian doctrines is, of course, the teaching of Christ, but look at how differently people understand even that! Some teach us to love all our neighbors, but at the same time make an exception for soldiers, criminals, and madmen: the first they allow to be killed in war, the second to be isolated or executed, and the third they forbid to marry. Other interpreters teach the love of all our neighbors without exception, without distinguishing between pluses and minuses. According to their teaching, if a consumptive or a murderer or an epileptic comes to you and wants to marry your daughter— give her to him; if cretins declare war on the physically and mentally healthy—offer your heads. This preaching of love for love’s sake, like art for art’s sake, if it could come to power, in the end would lead mankind to total extinction, and thus the most grandiose villainy of all that have ever been done on earth would be accomplished. There are a great many interpretations, and if there are many, then serious thought cannot be satisfied by any one of them, and to the mass of all interpretations hastens to add its own. Therefore never put the question, as you say, on philosophical or so-called Christian grounds; by doing so, you merely get further away from solving it.’’
The deacon listened attentively to the zoologist, pondered, and asked:
‘‘Was the moral law, which is proper to each and every person, invented by philosophers, or did God create it along with the body?’’
‘‘I don’t know. But this law is common to all peoples and epochs to such a degree that it seems to me it ought to be acknowledged as organically connected with man. It hasn’t been invented, but is and will be. I won’t tell you that it will one day be seen under a microscope, but its organic connection is proved by the evidence: serious afflictions of the brain and all so-called mental illnesses, as far as I know, express themselves first of all in a perversion of the moral law.’’
‘‘Very well, sir. Meaning that, as the stomach wants to eat, so the moral sense wants us to love our neighbor. Right? But our nature, being selfish, resists the voice of conscience and reason, and therefore many brain-racking questions arise. To whom should we turn for the solution of these questions, if you tell me not to put them on philosophical grounds?’’
‘‘Turn to the little precise knowledge we have. Trust the evidence and the logic of facts. True, it’s scanty, but then it’s not as flimsy and diffuse as philosophy. Let’s say the moral law demands that you love people. What, then? Love should consist in renouncing everything that harms people in one way or another and threatens them with danger in the present and the future. Our knowledge and the evidence tell you that mankind is threatened by danger on the part of the morally and physically abnormal. If so, then fight with the abnormal. If you’re unable to raise them to the norm, you should have enough strength and skill to render them harmless, tha
t is, destroy them.’’
‘‘So love consists in the strong overcoming the weak.’’
‘‘Undoubtedly.’’
‘‘But it was the strong who crucified our Lord Jesus Christ!’’ the deacon said hotly.
‘‘The point is precisely that it was not the strong who crucified Him but the weak. Human culture has weakened and strives to nullify the struggle for existence and natural selection; hence the rapid proliferation of the weak and their predominance over the strong. Imagine that you manage to instill humane ideas, in an undeveloped, rudimentary form, into bees. What would come of it? The drones, which must be killed, would remain alive, would eat the honey, would corrupt and stifle the bees—the result being that the weak would prevail over the strong, and the latter would degenerate. The same is now happening with mankind: the weak oppress the strong. Among savages, still untouched by culture, the strongest, the wisest, and the most moral goes to the front; he is the leader and master. While we, the cultured, crucified Christ and go on crucifying Him. It means we lack something... And we must restore that ‘something’ in ourselves, otherwise there will be no end to these misunderstandings.’’
‘‘But what is your criterion for distinguishing between the strong and the weak?’’
‘‘Knowledge and evidence. The consumptive and the scrofulous are recognized by their ailments, and the immoral and mad by their acts.’’
‘‘But mistakes are possible!’’
‘‘Yes, but there’s no use worrying about getting your feet wet when there’s the threat of a flood.’’
‘‘That’s philosophy,’’ laughed the deacon.
‘‘Not in the least. You’re so spoiled by your seminary philosophy that you want to see nothing but fog in everything. The abstract science your young head is stuffed with is called abstract because it abstracts your mind from the evidence. Look the devil straight in the eye, and if he is the devil, say so, and don’t go to Kant or Hegel for explanations.’’
The zoologist paused and went on:
‘‘Two times two is four, and a stone is a stone. Tomorrow we’ve got a duel. You and I are going to say it’s stupid and absurd, that dueling has outlived its time, that an aristocratic duel is essentially no different from a drunken brawl in a pot-house, and even so, we won’t stop, we’ll go and fight. There is, therefore, a power that is stronger than our reasonings. We shout that war is banditry, barbarism, horror, fratricide, we cannot look at blood without fainting; but the French or the Germans need only insult us and we at once feel a surge of inspiration, we most sincerely shout ‘hurrah’ and fall upon the enemy, you will call for God’s blessing on our weapons, and our valor will evoke universal, and withal sincere, rapture. So again, there is a power that is if not higher, then stronger, than us and our philosophy. We can no more stop it than we can stop this storm cloud moving in from over the sea. Don’t be a hypocrite, then, don’t show it a fig in the pocket, and don’t say: ‘Ah, how stupid! Ah, how outdated! Ah, it doesn’t agree with the Scriptures!’ but look it straight in the eye, acknowledge its reasonable legitimacy, and when it wants, for instance, to destroy the feeble, scrofulous, depraved tribe, don’t hinder it with your pills and quotations from the poorly understood Gospel. In Leskov there’s a conscientious Danila,28 who finds a leper outside of town and feeds him and keeps him warm in the name of love and Christ. If this Danila indeed loved people, he would have dragged the leper further away from the town and thrown him into a ditch, and would have gone himself and served the healthy. Christ, I hope, gave us the commandment of reasonable, sensible, and useful love.’’
The Complete Short Novels Page 23