“But no, gentlemen! Our scions do not reason that way. No matter how the lawyer presented the young man, saying that he had undertaken to solicit for him solely out of friendship and almost against his will, almost by force, no matter how he pictured for him the duties of honor, nobility, justice, and even simple calculation, the Swiss ward remained inflexible, and what then? All that would be nothing, but here is what was indeed unforgivable and inexcusable by any interesting illness: this millionaire, barely out of his professor’s gaiters, could not even grasp that it was not charity or assistance that the young man’s noble character, killing himself with lessons, asked of him, but his right and his due, though not juridically so, and he was not even asking, but his friends were merely soliciting for him. With a majestic air, intoxicated by the opportunity offered him to crush people with impunity by his millions, our scion takes out a fifty-rouble note and sends it to the noble young man in the guise of insolent charity. You do not believe it, gentlemen? You are indignant, you are insulted, a cry of resentment bursts from you; and yet he did do it! Naturally, the money was returned to him at once, was, so to speak, thrown in his face. What are we left with to resolve this case! The case is not a juridical one, all that is left is publicity! We convey this anecdote to the public, vouching for its veracity. They say one of our best-known humorists produced a delightful epigram on this occasion, worthy of a place not only in provincial but also in metropolitan articles on our morals:
“Little Lyova five years long
In Schneider’s overcoat did play,
And the usual dance and song
Filled his every day.
Comes home in gaiters, foreign-fashion,
A million on his plate does find,
So now he prays to God in Russian
And robs all student-kind.”38
When Kolya finished, he quickly handed the newspaper to the prince and, without saying a word, rushed to a corner, huddled tightly into it, and covered his face with his hands. He was unbearably ashamed, and his child’s impressionability, which had not yet had time to become accustomed to filth, was upset even beyond measure. It seemed to him that something extraordinary had happened, which had destroyed everything all at once, and that he himself had almost been the cause of it by the mere fact of this reading aloud.
But it seemed they all felt something similar.
The girls felt very awkward and ashamed. Lizaveta Prokofyevna held back her extreme wrath and also, perhaps, bitterly regretted having interfered in the affair; she was now silent. What occurred with the prince was what often happens with very shy people on such occasions: he was so abashed by what others had done, he felt so ashamed for his visitors, that he was afraid at first even to look at them. Ptitsyn, Varya, Ganya, even Lebedev—they all seemed to have a somewhat embarrassed look. The strangest thing was that Ippolit and “Pavlishchev’s son” were also as if amazed at something; Lebedev’s nephew was also visibly displeased. Only the boxer sat perfectly calm, twirling his moustaches, with an air of importance and his eyes slightly lowered, not from embarrassment, but, on the contrary, it seemed, as if out of noble modesty and all-too-obvious triumph. Everything indicated that he liked the article very much.
“This is the devil knows what,” Ivan Fyodorovich grumbled in a half-whisper, “as if fifty lackeys got together to write it and wrote it.”
“But al-low me to ask, my dear sir, how can you insult people with such suggestions?” Ippolit declared and trembled all over.
“That, that, that … for a noble man … you yourself must agree, General, if he’s a noble man, that is insulting!” grumbled the boxer, also suddenly rousing himself, twirling his moustache and twitching his shoulders and body.
“First of all, I am not ‘my dear sir’ to you, and second, I have no intention of giving you any explanation,” Ivan Fyodorovich, terribly worked up, answered sharply, rose from his place and, without saying a word, went to the door of the terrace and stood on the top step, his back to the public, in the greatest indignation at Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who even now did not think of budging from her place.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak, finally, gentlemen,” the prince exclaimed in anguish and agitation. “And do me a favor, let’s talk so that we can understand each other. I don’t mind the article, gentlemen, let it be; only the thing is, gentlemen, that it’s all untrue, what’s written in the article: I say that because you know it yourselves; it’s even shameful. So that I’m decidedly amazed if it was any one of you who wrote it.”
“I knew nothing about this article till this very moment,” Ippolit declared. “I don’t approve of this article.”
“I did know the article had been written, but … I also would have advised against publishing it, because it’s too early,” Lebedev’s nephew added.
“I knew, but I have the right … I …” muttered “Pavlishchev’s son.”
“What! You made it all up by yourself?” asked the prince, looking at Burdovsky with curiosity. “It’s not possible!”
“It is possible, however, not to acknowledge your right to ask such questions,” Lebedev’s nephew stepped in.
“I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky had managed to … but … I mean to say that, since you’ve already made this affair public, why were you so offended earlier when I began speaking with my friends about this same affair?”
“Finally!” Lizaveta Prokofyevna muttered in indignation.
“And you’ve even forgotten, if you please, Prince,” Lebedev, unable to contain himself, suddenly slipped between the chairs, almost in a fever, “you’ve forgotten, if you please, sir, that it’s only out of your own good will and the incomparable goodness of your heart that you have received them and are listening to them, and that they have no right to make their demands, especially since you’ve already entrusted Gavrila Ardalionovich with this affair, and that, too, you did in your exceeding goodness, and that now, illustrious Prince, being amongst your chosen friends, you cannot sacrifice such company for these gentlemen and could show all these gentlemen, so to speak, off the premises this very moment, sir, so that I, in the quality of landlord, even with extreme pleasure …”
“Quite right!” General Ivolgin suddenly thundered from the depths of the room.
“Enough, Lebedev, enough, enough …” the prince began, but a whole burst of indignation drowned out his words.
“No, excuse us, Prince, excuse us, but now it is not enough!” Lebedev’s nephew nearly outshouted them all. “Now this affair must be stated clearly and firmly, because it’s obviously misunderstood. Juridical pettifoggery got mixed into it, and on the basis of this pettifoggery we are threatened with being chucked off the premises! But is it possible, Prince, that you consider us fools to such a degree that we ourselves do not understand to what degree our affair is not a juridical one, and that if we consider it juridically, we cannot demand even a single rouble from you according to the law? But we precisely do understand that, if there is no juridical right here, there is on the other hand a human, natural one; the right of common sense and the voice of conscience, and even if our right is not written in any rotten human code, still, a noble and honest man, that is to say, a man of common sense, must remain a noble and honest man even on points that are not written down in codes. That is why we came in here, not fearing that we would be thrown off the premises (as you just threatened) for the mere reason that we do not ask but demand, and as for the impropriety of a visit at this late hour (though we did not come at a late hour, it was you who made us wait in the lackeys’ quarters), that is why, I say, we came, not fearing anything, because we supposed you were precisely a man of common sense, that is, of honor and conscience. Yes, it’s true, we did not come humbly, not like your spongers and fawners, but with our heads high, like free people, and by no means asking, but freely and proudly demanding (do you hear, not asking, but demanding, mark that!). Directly and with dignity, we put before you a question: do you acknowledge yourself as in the right or i
n the wrong in the Burdovsky affair? Do you acknowledge that Pavlishchev was your benefactor and perhaps even saved you from death? If you do (which is obvious), then do you intend, or do you find it right in all conscience, having obtained millions in your turn, to reward Pavlishchev’s needy son, even though he bears the name of Burdovsky? Yes or no? If yes, that is, in other words, if there is in you that which you, in your language, call honor and conscience, and which we designate more precisely with the name of common sense, satisfy us and that will be the end of it. Satisfy us without any requests or gratitudes on our part, do not expect them from us, because you are not doing it for us, but for the sake of justice. But if you do not want to satisfy us, that is, if your reply is no, we will leave at once, and the affair ceases; but we tell you to your face, in front of all your witnesses, that you are a man of coarse mind and low development; that you dare not and henceforth have no right to call yourself a man of honor and conscience, that you want to buy that right too cheaply. I have finished. I have stated the question. Chase us off the premises now, if you dare. You can do it, you have the power. But remember that all the same we demand, and do not ask. Demand, and do not ask!”
Lebedev’s nephew, who had become very excited, stopped.
“Demand, demand, demand, and do not ask!…” Burdovsky babbled and turned red as a lobster.
After Lebedev’s nephew’s words there followed a certain general stir and a murmur even arose, though the whole company had clearly avoided mixing into the affair, with the sole exception of Lebedev, who was as if in a fever. (Strange thing: Lebedev, who was obviously on the prince’s side, now seemed to feel a certain satisfaction of family pride after his nephew’s speech; at least he looked around at all the public with a certain special air of satisfaction.)
“In my opinion,” the prince began rather quietly, “in my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko, half of all you have just said is completely right, and I even agree that it is the greater half, and I would be in complete agreement with you, if you hadn’t left something out in your words. Precisely what you left out, I’m not able and am not in a position to say exactly, but something is certainly missing that keeps your words from being wholly fair. But better let us turn to business, gentlemen. Tell me, why did you publish this article? Every word of it is slander; therefore, in my opinion, you have done something base.”
“Excuse me!…”
“My dear sir!…”
“That … that … that …” came at once from the agitated visitors’ side.
“Concerning the article,” Ippolit picked up shrilly, “concerning this article, I’ve already told you that I and the others disapprove of it! It was he who wrote it” (he pointed to the boxer, who was sitting next to him), “wrote it indecently, I agree, wrote it illiterately and in the style in which retired officers like him write. He is stupid and, on top of that, a speculator, I agree, I tell him that right to his face every day, but all the same he was half in his rights: publicity is everyone’s lawful right, and therefore also Burdovsky’s. Let him answer for his own absurdities. As for the fact that I protested earlier on behalf of all concerning the presence of your friends, I consider it necessary, my dear sirs, to explain to you that I protested solely in order to claim our right, but that, in fact, we even welcome witnesses, and earlier, before we came in here, the four of us agreed on that. Whoever your witnesses may be, even if they’re your friends, but since they cannot disagree with Burdovsky’s right (because it’s obvious, mathematical), it’s even better if these witnesses are your friends; the truth will be manifested still more obviously.”
“That’s true, we agreed on that,” Lebedev’s nephew confirmed.
“Then why was there such noise and shouting earlier from the very first word, if you wanted it that way!” the prince was astonished.
“And concerning the article, Prince,” the boxer put in, terribly anxious to stick in something of his own and feeling pleasantly lively (one might suspect that the presence of the ladies had a visible and strong effect on him), “concerning the article, I confess that I am indeed the author, though my ailing friend, whom I am accustomed to forgive because of his weakness, has just criticized it. But I did write it and published it in my good friend’s magazine, as correspondence. Only the verses are actually not mine, and actually came from the pen of a famous humorist. The only one I read it to was Burdovsky, and not all of it at that, and I at once got his agreement to publish it, though you must agree that I could have published it even without his agreement. Publicity is a universal right, noble and beneficial. I hope that you yourself, Prince, are progressive enough not to deny that …”
“I won’t deny anything, but you must agree that in your article …”
“Sharp, you want to say? But it’s a question, so to speak, of the benefit of society, you must agree, and, finally, was it possible to miss such a provocative occasion? So much the worse for the guilty ones, but the benefit of society comes before all else. As for certain imprecisions, hyperboles, so to speak, you must also agree that the initiative is important before all else, the goal and intention before all else; what’s important is the beneficent example, and after that we can analyze particular cases, and, finally, it’s a question of style, a question, so to speak, of a humoristic task, and, finally—everybody writes like that, you must agree! Ha, ha!”
“But you’re on a completely false track! I assure you, gentlemen,” the prince cried, “you published your article on the assumption that I would never agree to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky, and so you wanted to frighten me for that and be revenged somehow. But how do you know: maybe I’ve decided to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. I tell you directly now, in front of everyone, that I will satisfy …”
“Here at last is an intelligent and noble word from an intelligent and most noble man!” the boxer proclaimed.
“Lord!” escaped from Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
“This is unbearable!” muttered the general.
“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me, I will explain the matter,” the prince entreated. “About five weeks ago, Mr. Burdovsky, your agent and solicitor, Chebarov, came to see me in Z—–. You describe him very flatteringly in your article, Mr. Keller,” the prince, laughing suddenly, turned to the boxer, “but I didn’t like him at all. I only understood from the first that this Chebarov was the chief thing and that it may have been he who prompted you to start all this, Mr. Burdovsky, taking advantage of your simplicity, if I may speak frankly.”
“You have no right … I … not simple … that …” Burdovsky babbled in agitation.
“You have no right to make such assumptions,” Lebedev’s nephew intervened didactically.
“That is highly insulting!” shrieked Ippolit. “It’s an insulting, false, and inappropriate assumption!”
“Sorry, gentlemen, sorry,” the prince hastily apologized, “please forgive me; it’s because I thought it would be better for us to be completely sincere with each other; but let it be as you will. I told Chebarov that, as I was not in Petersburg, I would immediately entrust a friend of mine with the conduct of this affair, and you, Mr. Burdovsky, will be informed of that. I’ll tell you directly, gentlemen, that this seemed to me a most crooked affair, precisely because of Chebarov … Ah, don’t be offended, gentlemen! For God’s sake, don’t be offended!” the prince cried fearfully, again seeing expressions of offended confusion in Burdovsky, of agitation and protest in his friends. “It cannot concern you personally if I say that I considered this a crooked affair! I didn’t know any of you personally then, and didn’t know your last names; I judged only by Chebarov. I’m speaking in general, because … if you only knew how terribly people have deceived me since I got my inheritance!”
“You’re terribly naïve, Prince,” Lebedev’s nephew observed mockingly.
“And with all that—a prince and a millionaire! With your maybe indeed kind and somewhat simple heart, you are, of course, still unable to avoid the general law,” Ippolit proclaimed.
“That
may be, that very well may be, gentlemen,” the prince hurried, “though I don’t understand what general law you’re talking about; but I’ll continue, only don’t get offended for nothing; I swear I haven’t the slightest wish to offend you. And what in fact is this, gentlemen: it’s impossible to say a single sincere word, or you get offended at once! But, first of all, I was terribly struck that ‘Pavlishchev’s son’ existed, and existed in such terrible conditions as Chebarov explained to me. Pavlishchev was my benefactor and my father’s friend. (Ah, what made you write such an untruth about my father in your article, Mr. Keller? There was no embezzlement of company funds, nor any offending of subordinates—I’m positively sure of that, and how could you raise your hand to write such slander?) And what you wrote about Pavlishchev is absolutely unbearable: you call that noblest of men lascivious and frivolous, so boldly, so positively, as if you were indeed telling the truth, and yet he was the most chaste man in the world! He was even a remarkable scholar; he corresponded with many respected men of science and contributed a great deal of money to science. As for his heart, his good deeds, oh, of course, you have correctly written that I was almost an idiot at that time and could understand nothing (though I did speak Russian and could understand it), but I can well appreciate all that I now remember …”
“Excuse me,” shrieked Ippolit, “but isn’t this a bit too sentimental? We’re not children. You wanted to get straight to business, it’s past nine, remember that.”
“If you please, if you please, gentlemen,” the prince agreed at once. “After my initial distrust, I decided that I might be mistaken and that Pavlishchev might actually have a son. But I was terribly struck that this son should so easily, that is, I mean to say, so publicly reveal the secret of his birth and, above all, disgrace his mother. Because Chebarov had already frightened me with publicity then …”
The Idiot Page 35