II
With conspicuous nonchalance Verhovensky lounged in the chair at the upper end of the table, almost without greeting anyone. His expression was disdainful and even haughty. Stavrogin bowed politely, but in spite of the fact that they were all only waiting for them, everybody, as though acting on instruction, appeared scarcely to notice them. The lady of the house turned severely to Stavrogin as soon as he was seated.
“Stavrogin, will you have tea?”
“Please,” he answered.
“Tea for Stavrogin,” she commanded her sister at the samovar. “And you, will you?” (This was to Verhovensky.)
“Of course. What a question to ask a visitor! And give me cream too; you always give one such filthy stuff by way of tea, and with a name-day party in the house!”
“What, you believe in keeping name-days too!” the girl-student laughed suddenly. “We were just talking of that.”
“That’s stale,” muttered the schoolboy at the other end of the table.
“What’s stale? To disregard conventions, even the most innocent is not stale; on the contrary, to the disgrace of every one, so far it’s a novelty,” the girl-student answered instantly, darting forward on her chair. “Besides, there are no innocent conventions,” she added with intensity.
“I only meant,” cried the schoolboy with tremendous excitement, “to say that though conventions of course are stale and must be eradicated, yet about name-days everybody knows that they are stupid and very stale to waste precious time upon, which has been wasted already all over the world, so that it would be as well to sharpen one’s wits on something more useful. . . .”
“You drag it out so, one can’t understand what you mean,” shouted the girl.
“I think that every one has a right to express an opinion as well as every one else, and if I want to express my opinion like anybody else ...”
“No one is attacking your right to give an opinion,” the lady of the house herself cut in sharply. “You were only asked not to ramble because no one can make out what you mean.”
“But allow me to remark that you are not treating me with respect. If I couldn’t fully express my thought, it’s not from want of thought but from too much thought,” the schoolboy muttered, almost in despair, losing his thread completely.
“If you don’t know how to talk, you’d better keep quiet,” blurted out the girl.
The schoolboy positively jumped from his chair.
“I only wanted to state,” he shouted, crimson with shame and afraid to look about him, “that you only wanted to show off your cleverness because Mr. Stavrogin came in — so there!”
“That’s a nasty and immoral idea and shows the worthless-ness of your development. I beg you not to address me again,” the girl rattled off.
“Stavrogin,” began the lady of the house, “they’ve been discussing the rights of the family before you came — this officer here” — she nodded towards her relation, the major— “and, of course, I am not going to worry you with such stale nonsense, which has been dealt with long ago. But how have the rights and duties of the family come about in the superstitious form in which they exist at present? That’s the question. What’s your opinion?”
“What do you mean by ‘come about’?” Stavrogin asked in his turn.
“We know, for instance, that the superstition about God came from thunder and lightning.” The girl-student rushed into the fray again, staring at Stavrogin with her eyes almost jumping out of her head. “It’s well known that primitive man, scared by thunder and lightning, made a god of the unseen enemy, feeling their weakness before it. But how did the superstition of the family arise? How did the family itself arise?”
“That’s not quite the same thing. . . .” Madame Virginsky tried to check her.
“I think the answer to this question wouldn’t be quite discreet,” answered Stavrogin.
“How so?” said the girl-student, craning forward suddenly. But there was an audible titter in the group of teachers, which was at once caught up at the other end by Lyamshin and the schoolboy and followed by a hoarse chuckle from the major.
“You ought to write vaudevilles,” Madame Virginsky observed to Stavrogin.
“It does you no credit, I don’t know what your name is,” the girl rapped out with positive indignation.
“And don’t you be too forward,” boomed the major. “You are a young lady and you ought to behave modestly, and you keep jumping about as though you were sitting on a needle.”
“Kindly hold your tongue and don’t address me familiarly with your nasty comparisons. I’ve never seen you before and I don’t recognise the relationship.”
“But I am your uncle; I used to carry you about when you ere a baby!”
“I don’t care what babies you used to carry about. I didn’t ask you to carry me. It must have been a pleasure to you to do so, you rude officer. And allow me to observe, don’t dare to address me so familiarly, unless it’s as a fellow-citizen. I forbid you to do it, once for all.”
“There, they are all like that!” cried the major, banging the table with his fist and addressing Stavrogin, who was sitting opposite. “But, allow me, I am fond of Liberalism and modern ideas, and I am fond of listening to clever conversation; masculine conversation, though, I warn you. But to listen to these women, these nightly windmills — no, that makes me ache all over! Don’t wriggle about!” he shouted to the girl, who was leaping up from her chair. “No, it’s my turn to speak, I’ve been insulted.”
“You can’t say anything yourself, and only hinder other people talking,” the lady of the house grumbled indignantly.
“No, I will have my say,” said the major hotly, addressing Stavrogin. “I reckon on you, Mr. Stavrogin, as a fresh person who has only just come on the scene, though I haven’t the honour of knowing you. Without men they’ll perish like flies — that’s what I think. All their woman question is only lack of originality. I assure you that all this woman question has been invented for them by men in foolishness and to their own hurt. I only thank God I am not married. There’s not the slightest variety in them, they can’t even invent a simple pattern; they have to get men to invent them for them! Here I used to carry her in my arms, used to dance the mazurka with her when she was ten years old; to-day she’s come, naturally I fly to embrace her, and at the second word she tells me there’s no God. She might have waited a little, she was in too great a hurry! Clever people don’t believe, I dare say; but that’s from their cleverness. But you, chicken, what do you know about God, I said to her. ‘Some student taught you, and if he’d taught you to light the lamp before the ikons you would have lighted it.’”
“You keep telling lies, you are a very spiteful person. I proved to you just now the untenability of your position,” the girl answered contemptuously, as though disdaining further explanations with such a man. “I told you just now that we’ve all been taught in the Catechism if you honour your father and your parents you will live long and have wealth. That’s in the Ten Commandments. If God thought it necessary to offer rewards for love, your God must be immoral. That’s how I proved it to you. It wasn’t the second word, and it was because you asserted your rights. It’s not my fault if you are stupid and don’t understand even now. You are offended and you are spiteful — and that’s what explains all your generation.”
“You’re a goose!” said the major.
“And you are a fool!”
“You can call me names!”
“Excuse me, Kapiton Maximitch, you told me yourself you don’t believe in God,” Liputin piped from the other end of the table.
“What if I did say so — that’s a different matter. I believe, perhaps, only not altogether. Even if I don’t believe altogether, still I don’t say God ought to be shot. I used to think about God before I left the hussars. From all the poems you would think that hussars do nothing but carouse and drink. Yes, I did drink, maybe, but would you believe it, I used to jump out of bed at night and sto
od crossing myself before the images with nothing but my socks on, praying to God to give me faith; for even then I couldn’t be at peace as to whether there was a God or not. It used to fret me so! In the morning, of course, one would amuse oneself and one’s faith would seem to be lost again; and in fact I’ve noticed that faith always seems to be less in the daytime.”
“Haven’t you any cards?” asked Verhovensky, with a mighty yawn, addressing Madame Virginsky.
“I sympathise with your question, I sympathise entirely,” the girl-student broke in hotly, flushed with indignation at the major’s words.
“We are wasting precious time listening to silly talk,” snapped out the lady of the house, and she looked reprovingly at her husband.
The girl pulled herself together.
“I wanted to make a statement to the meeting concerning the sufferings of the students and their protest, but as time is being wasted in immoral conversation ...”
“There’s no such thing as moral or immoral,” the schoolboy brought out, unable to restrain himself as soon as the girl began.
“I knew that, Mr. Schoolboy, long before you were taught it.”
“And I maintain,” he answered savagely, “that you are a child come from Petersburg to enlighten us all, though we know for ourselves the commandment ‘honour thy father and thy mother,’ which you could not repeat correctly; and the fact that it’s immoral every one in Russia knows from Byelinsky.”
“Are we ever to have an end of this?” Madame Virginsky said resolutely to her husband. As the hostess, she blushed for the ineptitude of the conversation, especially as she noticed .smiles and even astonishment among the guests who had been invited for the first time.
“Gentlemen,” said Virginsky, suddenly lifting up his voice, “if anyone wishes to say anything more nearly connected with our business, or has any statement to make, I call upon him to do so without wasting time.”
“I’ll venture to ask one question,” said the lame teacher suavely. He had been sitting particularly decorously and had not spoken till then. “I should like to know, are we some sort of meeting, or are we simply a gathering of ordinary mortals paying a visit? I ask simply for the sake of order and so as not to remain in ignorance.”
This “sly” question made an impression. People looked at each other, every one expecting some one else to answer, and suddenly all, as though at a word of command, turned their eyes to Verhovensky and Stavrogin.
“I suggest our voting on the answer to the question whether we are a meeting or not,” said Madame Virginsky.
“I entirely agree with the suggestion,” Liputin chimed in, “though the question is rather vague.”
“I agree too.”
“And so do I,” cried voices. “I too think it would make our proceedings more in order,” confirmed Virginsky.
“To the vote then,” said his wife. “Lyamshin, please sit down to the piano; you can give your vote from there when the voting begins.”
“Again!” cried Lyamshin. “I’ve strummed enough for you.”
“I beg you most particularly, sit down and play. Don’t you care to do anything for the cause?”
“But I assure you, Arina Prohorovna, nobody is eavesdropping. It’s only your fancy. Besides, the windows are high, and people would not understand if they did hear.”
“We don’t understand ourselves,” some one muttered. “But I tell you one must always be on one’s guard. I mean in case there should be spies,” she explained to Verhovensky. “Let them hear from the street that we have music and a name-day party.”
“Hang it all!” Lyamshin swore, and sitting down to the piano, began strumming a valse, banging on the keys almost with his fists, at random.
“I propose that those who want it to be a meeting should put up their right hands,” Madame Virginsky proposed.
Some put them up, others did not. Some held them up and then put them down again and then held them up again. “Poo! I don’t understand it at all,” one officer shouted. “I don’t either,” cried the other.
“Oh, I understand,” cried a third. “If it’s yes, you hold your hand up.”
“But what does ‘yes’ mean?”
“Means a meeting.”
“No, it means not a meeting.”
“I voted for a meeting,” cried the schoolboy to Madame Virginsky.
“Then why didn’t you hold up your hand?”
“I was looking at you. You didn’t hold up yours, so I didn’t hold up mine.”
“How stupid! I didn’t hold up my hand because I proposed it. Gentlemen, now I propose the contrary. Those who want a meeting, sit still and do nothing; those who don’t, hold up their right hands.”
“Those who don’t want it?” inquired the schoolboy. “Are you doing it on purpose?” cried Madame Virginsky wrathfully.
“No. Excuse me, those who want it, or those who don’t want it? For one must know that definitely,” cried two or three voices.
“Those who don’t want it — those who don’t want it.”
“Yes, tat what is one to do, hold up one’s hand or not hold it up if one doesn’t want it?” cried an officer.
“Ech, we are not accustomed to constitutional methods yet!” remarked the major.
“Mr. Lyamshin, excuse me, but you are thumping so that no one can hear anything,” observed the lame teacher.
“But, upon my word, Arina Prohorovna, nobody is listening, really!” cried Lyamshin, jumping up. “I won’t play! I’ve come to you as a visitor, not as a drummer!”
“Gentlemen,” Virginsky went on, “answer verbally, are we a meeting or not?”
“We are! We are!” was heard on all sides. “If so, there’s no need to vote, that’s enough. Are you satisfied, gentlemen? Is there any need to put it to the vote?”
“No need — no need, we understand.”
“Perhaps some one doesn’t want it to be a meeting?”
“No, no; we all want it.”
“But what does ‘meeting’ mean?” cried a voice. No one answered.
“We must choose a chairman,” people cried from different parts of the room.
“Our host, of course, our host!”
“Gentlemen, if so,” Virginsky, the chosen chairman, began, “I propose my original motion. If anyone wants to say anything more relevant to the subject, or has some statement to make, let him bring it forward without loss of time.”
There was a general silence. The eyes of all were turned again on Verhovensky and Stavrogin.
“Verhovensky, have you no statement to make?” Madame Virginsky asked him directly.
“Nothing whatever,” he answered, yawning and stretching on his chair. “But I should like a glass of brandy.”
“Stavrogin, don’t you want to?”
“Thank you, I don’t drink.”
“I mean don’t you want to speak, not don’t you want brandy.”
“To speak, what about? No, I don’t want to.”
“They’ll bring you some brandy,” she answered Verhovensky, The girl-student got up. She had darted up several times
already.
“I have come to make a statement about the sufferings of poor students and the means of rousing them to protest.”
But she broke off. At the other end of the table a rival had risen, and all eyes turned to him. Shigalov, the man with the long ears, slowly rose from his seat with a gloomy and sullen air and mournfully laid on the table a thick notebook filled with extremely small handwriting. He remained standing in silence. Many people looked at the notebook in consternation, but Liputin, Virginsky, and the lame teacher seemed pleased.
“I ask leave to address the meeting,” Shigalov pronounced sullenly but resolutely.
“You have leave.” Virginsky gave his sanction.
The orator sat down, was silent for half a minute, and pronounced in a solemn voice,
“Gentlemen!”
“Here’s the brandy,” the sister who had been pouring out tea and had
gone to fetch brandy rapped out, contemptuously and disdainfully putting the bottle before Verhovensky, together with the wineglass which she brought in her fingers without a tray or a plate.
The interrupted orator made a dignified pause.
“Never mind, go on, I am not listening,” cried Verhovensky, pouring himself out a glass.
“Gentlemen, asking your attention and, as you will see later, soliciting your aid in a matter of the first importance,” Shigalov began again, “I must make some prefatory remarks.”
“Arina Prohorovna, haven’t you some scissors?” Pyotr Stepanovitch asked suddenly.
“What do you want scissors for?” she asked, with wide-open eyes.
“I’ve forgotten to cut my nails; I’ve been meaning to for the last three days,” he observed, scrutinising his long and dirty nails with unruffled composure.
Arina Prohorovna crimsoned, but Miss Virginsky seemed pleased.
“I believe I saw them just now on the window.” She got up from the table, went and found the scissors, and at once brought them. Pyotr Stepanovitch did not even look at her, took the scissors, and set to work with them. Arina Prohorovna grasped that these were realistic manners, and was ashamed of her sensitiveness. People looked at one another in silence. The lame teacher looked vindictively and enviously at Verhovensky. Shigalov went on.
“Dedicating my energies to the study of the social organisation which is in the future to replace the present condition of things, I’ve come to the conviction that all makers of social systems from ancient times up to the present year, 187-, have been dreamers, tellers of fairy-tales, fools who contradicted themselves, who understood nothing of natural science and the strange animal called man. Plato, Rousseau, Fourier, columns of aluminium, are only fit for sparrows and not for human society. But, now that we are all at last preparing to act, a new form of social organisation is essential. In order to avoid further uncertainty, I propose my own system of world-organisation. Here it is.” He tapped the notebook. “I wanted to expound my views to the meeting in the most concise form possible, but I see that I should need to add a great many verbal explanations, and so the whole exposition would occupy at least ten evenings, one for each of my chapters.” (There was the sound of laughter.) “I must add, besides, that my system is not yet complete.” (Laughter again.) “I am perplexed by my own data and my conclusion is a direct contradiction of the original idea with which I start. Starting from unlimited freedom, I arrive at unlimited despotism. I will add, however, that there can be no solution of the social problem but mine.”
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 401